Keaton School 01: Escape Theory

by Margaux Froley

  “Touché.” He finally glanced up.

  Devon wasn’t supposed to give advice. That would ruin the whole counselor/peer dynamic. Nor was she supposed to accuse a subject of anything. But something was off with Matt. It all came down to how she found out. This could take a wrong turn very easily, but all her instincts told her this was the conversation she should be having. So what if she told a slight lie to get to the point.‡ Screw it. She’d already lied. She’d blown it already.

  “Since the Oxy Hutch took wasn’t registered with the Health Center, I’m supposed to double check if there’s anything you’re taking that Nurse Reilly should know about. What did you have a prescription for again? Adderall? Anything else?” Devon kept her voice light and curious, careful to avoid sounding like she was accusing him of anything.

  Matt sighed loudly. “Gee, doc, let me think. Of course the Oxy wasn’t registered. It wasn’t his. He didn’t take the stuff.”

  “Okay, well, what about you? Anything potentially dangerous?”

  Matt leveled his dark green eyes at her, his sun-bleached eyebrows narrowed together. “This is total Amateur Hour, Devon. You’re not my shrink and you’re definitely not a doctor. You’re a sixteen-year-old that took a class or two this summer and you wanna talk about Adderall? You’re in over your head.”

  It was too late to retreat now. “Matt, come on, everyone knows you live on the stuff. And with the way Hutch—”

  “It’s got nothing to do with Hutch,” Matt interrupted, his voice thick. “It’s got nothing to do with Hutch, okay? Trust me. It doesn’t matter how he.… Isla’s the one with the problem, not Hutch. Why do you think they broke up? Hutch had like some awakening this summer. The guy freakin’ started meditating every morning. Suicide was not on his radar, I’m telling you.” For the first time since he’d sat down, his expression pleaded with her to believe him. “It doesn’t make sense. I saw him right before.…” He buried his head in his hands.

  Devon leaned forward but stopped herself. She wanted to hold his hand, hug him, anything to comfort him, but that wasn’t appropriate. Matt Dolgens, a guy she’d known for two years, was crying over his best friend in front of her—and all she was allowed to do was ask questions and take notes.

  “When was the last time you saw him?” she managed. “It might help to get that off your chest if you tell me.”

  Matt exhaled long and slow. “Tuesday night. He was in my room. We were checking the surf report for Wednesday and he got a call. It pissed him off, I don’t know why, but he said he had to deal with it. Then a ‘good night’ and that was it. I heard him talking on his cell in his room and then he put on some music. He must have snuck out to the Palace after curfew, but I didn’t hear it. And then I saw that text the next morning, but it was too late.” He drummed his fingers on his knees again.

  “I’m listening.” Devon whispered.

  “We were supposed to be friends from here on out, ya know?” Matt stared at the window. “We had plans. Boulder for college, live in San Francisco after. Surf Maverick’s on weekends. I always thought he’d be there. That’s the whole Keaton promise, isn’t it? Make friends for life. Well, I did that, and he reneged. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “You’re right, it doesn’t make sense,” she agreed.

  “And the mess he left me with.” Matt shook his head and rubbed his wet cheeks with the back of his palm. “Like I said, you’re in over your head, Devon.”

  “How am I in over my head? I’m here to help you, Matt. Whatever you need to tell me, please tell me. I can help you solve it. What was Hutch in to?”

  He stood. “I can tell you this,” he offered in a hoarse voice. “Hutch was going to ask you to prom next year. He said, no matter what happened, or who either of you were with, you two were going to prom together senior year.” Matt looked back at her, gauging her reaction. There was the slightest hint of a crooked smile on his lips, as if he knew he was pushing one of her buttons. “Random, right?”

  Devon brushed her bangs out of her eyes again. She wouldn’t cry in front of Matt. No way. “Yeah, random,” she replied.

  The alarm on her cell phone chimed. Thank God.

  “Our time is up,” she said.

  Matt nodded. He hesitated for a second. “Well. Guess it’s a good thing I was already on my way out.”

  She kept her eyes glued to her notebook.

  The door slammed behind him. She forced another trembling scrawl.

  Hutch = It doesn’t make sense.

  AS QUIETLY AS SHE could, Devon shut herself in her dorm room. The Bay House doors were heavy and tended to slam. Everyone always jumped at the chance to pin the loud bang on something deliberate and PMS-y. Devon didn’t need to draw any attention to herself right now. What she needed was a little quiet time.

  Bay House, one of the oldest dorms on campus, was far less prison-like than Spring House. Here she had cream-colored plaster walls with dark wood trim. A sliding door still opened to the outside view of the Monte Vista hills below. Her windows faced west, giving her the best views of the sunsets over the Pacific.

  After two years in the jail cells of Spring House, she’d earned those views—right?

  Outside, junior and senior girls were spilled across the lawn, soaking in the September sun in bikinis. Soon enough everyone would be stuck inside studying, but this was the last remnant of summer. Classes had been cancelled today; still, everyone was already bombarded with homework. The girls’ beach towels were covered with suntan lotion bottles, biology books, dog-eared Hamlet editions and portable translators for the international students.

  Someone dies and they break out the bikinis. Amazing.

  On the other hand, what the hell else did she expect? Black shrouds?

  Devon slumped in her favorite chair, warmed by the sunlight through her doors. The wooden armrests were chipped, but worn smooth. The cushions were just cozy enough she could pull her legs up and let her head drop onto the oversized headrest. She absentmindedly wove her brown hair into a braid. In training she’d learned some techniques to keep the emotions in therapy from going home with her. But this wasn’t training anymore. And she couldn’t get the image of Matt crying out of her head.

  She tried to make sense of all the puzzle pieces. Hutch was found at the Palace by a faculty dog. Probably the English teacher, Mrs. Freeman: she loved walking her Golden Retrievers, Franny and Zooey, at ridiculously early hours. Even though the Palace wasn’t technically Keaton property, it was on the no-man’s land hillside leading down to town—a hillside that belonged to Keaton in all but name. It wasn’t hard to imagine Hutch at the Palace: an old rundown military bunker carved into the mountainside. Built to spot incoming enemies during World War II, it offered a perfect defensive view of the mountains and Pacific Ocean below school.

  Of course, Keaton students had converted the cement shelter into a hub for illicit activities. Brokedown Palace was painted on a wall, in honor of an ancient Grateful Dead song, and signed by Class of ’74. Even though the paint was chipped and weather-beaten, a certain breed of Keaton students considered it their sacred duty to repaint the name and song lyrics every year … year after year after year. Every class added their signature, as well as piles of cigarette butts, bottles of booze, and creatively engineered bongs—the most renowned being a ceramic “four-puller” in the shape of Mount Rushmore.

  Sucking smoke from Lincoln’s head had never really appealed to Devon. She had only been to the Palace once as a freshman, and only because her friend, Presley, had forced her to check it out. (“Some of the stoner guys are hot,” Presley had promised.) But when they arrived, it was deserted. The noises in the dark woods below freaked them out and they ended up running back to their dorm rooms. Devon hadn’t had a reason to go back since.

  Hutch had probably snuck a drink down there as an underclassman or brought Isla down there last year for some privacy. But what was he doing out there on the second day of the school year? And wasn’t it true that peopl
e who committed suicide wanted to be found? The Palace was so remote. And why go out there to take pills? Was he trying to send some kind of message about Keaton? The thought of his body lying among the dirt and broken bottles made her eyes sting. He was better than that.

  Devon closed her lids, remembering the last time she’d seen him. Just three days ago, in a world with Hutch, as opposed to this new world without. He was pulling an army-style duffle bag out of a dirt-covered, black Range Rover. He looked tan, relaxed, his hair curly and wild; and as usual, he wore his white V-Neck and faded cargo shorts—which finally fit. She was walking across Raiter Lawn to get an early lunch in the Dining Hall.

  Hutch yelled across the parking lot, “Mackintosh!” and she yelled back, “Hutchins!” He pulled off his sunglasses. “Whatdya say to some pancakes?” He punctuated the question with a smile she could see from a hundred yards away. Devon laughed a little and shouted, “Maybe later!” And that was it.

  Sitting here now, by herself, it struck Devon that she and Hutch had never talked about that night. Not out loud. It was an inside joke so fragile that even mentioning it would shatter it beyond repair. But no … it was more than an inside joke. Wasn’t it? Wasn’t that what Matt had hinted at in his session, that she and Hutch shared a secret bond nobody but the two of them understood? And suddenly, two years later, he brought it up like no time had passed. Why didn’t she stop and talk to him? Ask him how his summer was, or which APs he was taking that year?

  She knew why. It seemed like the trivial BS Hutch hated. They didn’t share small talk; they were deeper than that. That’s what she’d been telling herself anyways. That’s what she’d been telling herself since that night, basically. So she’d kept walking. But what if he’d wanted to tell her something?

  There was a knock at the glass door.

  Devon flinched, and broke into a shaky smile at the sight of Grant Kerrington, his signature white Keaton LAX hat pulled low over his eyes. She exhaled. She didn’t want solitude at all, she realized. She wanted some good old-fashioned fun, Southern-style. She wanted to be a regular junior, seeing an old friend.

  “What’s going on, Miss Mackintosh?” Grant asked in his slight Georgia twang. “You need to get out of that room and come hang out with me.”

  Before she could protest, he pulled her outside. The warm brick patio felt good under her bare feet. She breathed in the salty air.

  “How you holding up?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. She leaned into his chest and closed her eyes. Funny how soothing the menthol-y smell of men’s deodorant could be. “That well, huh?” he murmured.

  Devon pulled back. “I am in serious need of a distraction.”

  Grant smiled down at her with that toothpaste-commercial-perfect smile of his.

  Wait. Had he changed over the summer? He’d always been soft and round—easy to hug—but now there was the slightest ripple of a bicep muscle. Was Grant hot now? The thought left Devon’s mind as quickly as it had come. This was Grant. Always there for a laugh and a piggy backride. On the other hand.…

  Without warning, Grant grabbed her and swung her by her armpits, swinging her in a circle on the narrow balcony. “Woo-hoo!” he hollered. “How’s this for distraction, sugar?”

  Devon giggled, part shock, part release.

  She squeezed her eyes shut.

  Let Matt go. Let the session go.

  Peer counseling was supposed to be a mechanism, a service. That was all. Her feelings should never make a difference. A few books, a few days of in-person training, a couple hours a week during the year talking with homesick freshmen, or stoner sophomores … and she’d be right on her way for applying for a psychology major at Stanford.

  But with Hutch those assumptions had flown out the window. She wished she had someone other than Mr. Robins to talk to about all this. The only other Peer Counselor, Tamsin Stitch, had dropped out of the program over the summer to go to soccer camp instead. And with this being a pilot program, Devon was determined not to let Mr. Robins down by quitting too.

  Right then and there, dizzy in Grant’s arms, Devon made a deal with herself.

  If she was going to be polite, helpful, by-the-book, and still take the abuse from anyone she tried to help (natural under the tragic circumstances), it was okay to take a small break and let Grant distract her. It would only help her keep her overly analytical thoughts from winning out, and would make her a better therapist to her subjects. And if it was all in the spirit of helping others, why not?

  “Fell House thought we’d play a pick-up game of flag football, you know, get people smiling again,” he said, setting her down. “And your services are needed. Whatdya say?”

  “You mean my totally unskilled-at-flag-football services?” she gasped, her head still spinning.

  “You’re the element of surprise. Small, quick, no one will see you coming. Come on, there’s a big dare on the table for the losers. I’ve already volunteered you, so unless you want to sing ‘Dick in a Box’ at assembly tomorrow, you’re coming with me.”

  Devon laughed, leading him back into her room. “I’ll never sing ‘Dick in a Box.’ ” She turned to close the sliding door—and froze.

  A girl with stringy blonde hair had appeared before them, her eyes puffy with tears. Her skinny arms hung limp against her frayed cut-offs. She clutched an orange prescription bottle in one shaky hand.

  Devon didn’t even recognize her at first. “Isla?” she whispered.

  It was the hair that threw her. Isla had always been a perfect blonde, as if she’d just stepped out of a shampoo commercial. Now it looked as if she’d stepped out of an airplane crash.

  “Devon, I need your help.”

  * “If the subject is experiencing stress, the peer counselor should use a combination of Restating the subject’s words, while adding a Continuer, such as “I see,” or “Mmm,” or “Go on.” —Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide by Henry Robins, MFT

  † “The first stage of Egan’s Skilled Helper Model: Help the helpee clarify their problem and situation.” —Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide by Henry Robins, MFT

  ‡ “Section IV: Personal Ethics: Although it might be tempting, never lie to your helpee.” —Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide by Henry Robins, MFT

  CHAPTER 2

  Name: Isla Martin

  Session Date: Sept. 7

  Referred by: Mr. Robins

  Reason for Session: Hutch’s girlfriend

  “You’re such a sweetheart,” Isla said in a soft, high-pitched voice. She was lying on her side in bed, one arm tucked under her head. Her other arm was extended, fingers wagging like jazz hands that had lost most of their jazz. She beckoned Devon to her with a limp flick of her wrist. “Lemme see,” she whispered.

  Devon placed the green sweatpants and sweatshirt on the edge of Isla’s bed in a neat pile. “I just grabbed the first stuff I saw, hope it’s okay.”

  That wasn’t exactly true. When Nurse Reilly sent Devon to grab overnight clothes for Isla in the Health Center, Devon found most of them in a massive pile on Isla’s floor. Funny: it had reminded Devon of the piles of leaves her mom would pay her to rake up in their yard every fall. Five dollars for the whole yard. She’d always have to fight the urge to leap and belly-flop onto the middle of the pile. It was worth an extra half hour of raking for one chance to fly into the air and land in the soft cushion of leaves, sending them flying up around her in a whoosh!, as if the pile was exhaling an excited burst of leaf breath. She would slowly sink closer to the ground as the leaves crunched beneath her.

  Isla’s laundry pile was limp and sad in comparison: a miserable support group for lost and found items. If Devon tried to belly-flop on the clothes, they would probably just sag and give in to her weight, a frail moan in response. She had found the sweats and sweatshirt by picking the first two colors that seemed to match. She also made a mental note to
return to the room later, to fold and put away the rest of Isla’s clothes. That way when Isla left the Health Center she could return to a clean room.

  Not like Isla would ever do the same for Devon, but that was the power of Isla. She was always getting people to do nice things for her. Devon was used to being an audience member of The Isla Martin Show. Isla’s flowing skirts, wavy-blonde hair and glittering blue eyes swept everyone under her spell—and the only acceptable responses would be, “of course,” “here you go,” and “do you need anything else?” And when she and Hutch were together it seemed that the combination of their beauty and charm could power the entire school.

  Now she seemed … small.

  “These are great. I just want to be cozy, you know.” Isla sat up in bed and stretched her arms to the ceiling in a long, luxurious yawn. If she hadn’t been such a mess, the gesture might have been sexy: a lean cat just waking up from a nap. But all Devon could think was: This girl is way too skinny. And she needs a shower.

  The afternoon had been a blur, mostly a fight to get Isla to the Health Center, in spite of her shaking and sweating and incoherent mumbling. The prescription bottle was for OxyContin. There were still a few pills inside. Devon’s peer counselor mode took over. Her first priority had been to get Isla to the Health Center to make sure she was physically okay. Devon deliberately avoided explaining the Oxy to Nurse Reilly when they got there. It would have escalated the situation from “distraught girl” to “drug addict,” which could have brought with it a whole army of unwanted faculty.

  Devon needed a chance to figure out how to approach this one first. Isla was more than a bereaved girlfriend: she could be suicidal, or she could have been Hutch’s pill supplier, or both. Being in possession of the pills alone could get her expelled. But there was too much Devon still wanted to know about Hutch’s death; she couldn’t turn Isla over to the faculty just yet. It wasn’t selfish, Devon reasoned, as a peer counselor she was looking out for Isla’s best interests, and maybe there’d be helpful insight into Hutch. They’d discuss it in session together and Devon could ascertain if Isla really was a suicide risk.* She’d get Mr. Robins involved if she needed to, but only in a worst-case scenario. That’s what a good counselor would do, right?