Presley turned to her. Her blue eyes softened for a second. “Sweetie, the Hutch situation totally sucks. But that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to have a little fun.” Presley smelled her hands. “Mmmm, lemon. I like that one. You should get more of that.”
Devon had to laugh again. “How are you not more, like, in shock about all this? You and Hutch were on the newspaper together.”
“Look, I’m not like some heartless jerk. I get it.” Presley applied some of Devon’s mascara as she spoke, her mouth curled into an ‘O’ as she forced her eyes open. “But listen: The whole school moping around isn’t going to change the fact that Hutch is dead and gone, and that it was his decision. I mean, I feel bad for his family and all, but writing poems in my journal or contemplating life over tacos isn’t going to change anything. Hutch was clearly in a shitty place. I just hope he’s happier now. You need more mascara.”
Devon blinked. She felt like she was being counseled now. Hearing these cliché condolences wasn’t helpful; it was just annoying—even coming from Presley, whom Devon loved precisely because she never, ever engaged in bullshit. But the fact remained: Devon didn’t believe Hutch really meant to kill himself. Now she understood Isla’s irritation at everyone’s fake frowns and false hugs. They all felt like futile attempts to remedy something that could never be fixed. No matter what anyone said, Hutch was gone. The emptiness left behind sucked up each stupid platitude (“He will be missed.”) like a vacuum, leaving behind what you started with. Nothing.
“Oh come on, is this counseling thing going to make you a downer all year? Cause, if I gotta find a new best friend who actually likes to have fun, tell me now.” Presley had a goofy grin on her face. She waited for Devon to pick up the cue.
“So … Grant.” Devon said, without much enthusiasm.
“Grant,” Presley said back. She plunked down in Devon’s chair.
“He did come to visit me, and not during visiting hours. You think.…”
“I totally think. If he dropped by unannounced during the first week, you know what that means. He was thinking about you this summer.” Presley drew out the last sentence as if she’d just cracked the Da Vinci Code.
“Ya think?” Devon doubted it. Guys didn’t exactly seek her out. Presley usually acted as Devon’s hook-up guru, pushing her together with whatever wingman was attached with Presley’s current boyfriend. Their system had yielded precisely 2.5 hook-ups for Devon in the last two years. The half was when Presley was hooking up with a local surfer in Monte Vista. Presley and her surfer made out on the beach while Devon and the surfer’s friend, Whateverhisnamewas, huddled in his crappy van for warmth. He smoked joint after joint until just before passing out he said to Devon, “You’re totally bang-able. You can go down on me, if you want.” A true charmer. The ever optimistic Presley had insisted that if Whateverhisnamewas hadn’t passed out, he would obviously have hooked up with Devon—thus the half point.
“Yeah, I think. Someone’s gonna get la-aaaa-id.” Presley sang again.
“I don’t know.” Devon flopped onto her back. The glossy white ceiling reflected her room in rippling waves, Presley’s blurry head of yellow hair and blue pants, and Devon, a wavy white form on her colorful bed. “Hey, did you know Hutch was dealing pharmaceuticals last year?” Devon asked the ceiling.
Presley plucked a lip gloss from Devon’s table and tried it on. “Yeah, I scored some Adderall off him last year for finals. Way to change the subject, President Ho-bama.”
Devon rolled over. “Whatever, Former Vice President Al Whore.” Her smile faded. “Jesus, am I the only one that didn’t know what Hutch was doing?”
“Probably,” Presley said.
“Do people think it’s weird that Hutch OD’d on the one kind of pill he didn’t sell?” Devon was beginning to feel like the only one at Keaton who was left out of the Hutch party. First she doesn’t make the list for his suicide text. Now she discovers that everyone but her knew he was running a pharm ring at school. Yes, it was petty, but why not her? Not that she was waiting around to buy pills from him, but it felt unfair that Hutch kept a huge piece of himself hidden. Weren’t they closer than that?
“I wouldn’t say weird.” Presley’s voice broke into her thoughts. “More like, ‘not totally surprised.’ But you’re right: Hutch never had Oxy. It was like a rule of his. Wouldn’t give out the hard stuff. Strictly performance enhancers. He said it was something about messing with the system. Fighting the Man, all that. Like, I heard he even hooked up Jin Soo with prescription strength Rogaine because Jin was freaking out about losing his hair early.”
“Jin is losing his hair?”
“Not anymore.” Presley flashed a smile. “Look, dork, it’s almost nine thirty P.M. Pete’s coming over and we’re getting the language lab before anyone else. Seriously, who told these freshman all the hook-up spots? It’s not cool. Not cool at all.”
Devon mustered a smile in return and sat up in bed. “Wait, I’m seriously behind on the intel. I thought you and Pete broke up?”
“We did. He apologized yesterday. Bought me flowers, and this necklace. See?” Presley leaned over to Devon. She could smell the lemon hand cream. “It’s a compass. He said I’m his True North. Isn’t that cute?”
“I wonder if Hutch and Isla—”
“Dev?” Presley interrupted. “You’re going to have to ease up on the Hutch talk, okay? You’re kind of obsessing.”
“Humor me. The Hawk met already this year, didn’t you guys? Did Hutch go? Did you notice anything weird about him?”
“I don’t know. Hutch was going to do the arts roundup. Profile rising art stars at Keaton and all that.” Presley burped and grinned at Devon in the mirror. “Damn, excuse me. That was gross.”
Devon rolled her eyes. “Look, I’m not the expert, but do people who are going to kill themselves the next day plan on writing articles that month? It doesn’t add up.…” She suddenly noticed sweat glistening on Presley’s forehead. “Are you okay?”
“Fine, whatever. And no, it doesn’t add up. But.…” Presley burped again. She steadied herself against the wall. “It never adds up. That’s the thing about suicide. You can’t.…” Another burp. Her moist skin suddenly went white. “Shit, not again.” Presley grabbed Devon’s trash can and vomited.
“Jesus, Pres.” Devon jumped off the bed and pulled Presley’s hair back while Presley caught her breath. “What’s wrong?”
“Ah, man. This is beyond mystery meat. I think I’m sick.” Presley held onto the school-issued rubber can. She blinked apologetically at Devon, wiping her mouth. Her lips trembled. “I’ll clean this up for you.”
The school bell rang: 9:30 PM. Study hours were over. One hour of free roaming around campus before everyone had to be in their rooms.
Presley grabbed the garbage can. “Damn. Pete will be here in a second. Tell him to hold on if I’m not back. I gotta brush my teeth.” She hurried out of Devon’s room, can in tow.
Devon opened her sliding door to welcome in some fresh air before the vomit stench could set in. The rest of Presley’s evening was Presley’s business.
She pulled her notebook from under her pillow. She had just finished describing Isla’s decaying body, the scratches, her skeletal frame. Should she write about Isla using an alias for her prescription? Mr. Robins had promised Devon that students couldn’t get in trouble for whatever they discussed in their sessions. In turn, Devon had promised to share her session notes with him to better help him oversee her. It seemed like a good plan, but that was before Devon started counseling. Her notes wouldn’t reveal a small infraction like vodka stored in water bottles or a new hideout on campus for smokers; most of the school was either using or complicit in an illegal drug ring. If Mr. Robins read them he would have no choice but to show Headmaster Wyler. Given the climate at Keaton post-Hutch, the school would go into lockdown. Rooms would be searched. Weekends would be restricted. And no doubt, Devon would be scapegoated. Isla and Matt were too smart; they
’d figure out who’d ratted out Hutch, in spite of Devon’s promises to them. No, there was no way Mr. Robins could see these. For now they were for Devon’s eyes only. She would write down everything she could if it meant she was helping her subjects. She’d deal with Mr. Robins later.
Someone banged on the window next to Devon’s room. “Pres! You in there?”
Devon sighed and put the notes away again. She poked her head outside. Pete stood with a quilt draped over his shoulder.
His dark hair was cut short, an effort to control his ‘Jew Fro’ as he called it. He wore a short sleeve shirt and even in the dim outside lights Devon could see the black hairs blanketing his arms. “Presley’s coming. She’s been kinda sick.”
“Thanks. That sucks.” He checked his watch and pulled the quilt off his shoulders with a big sigh. It hung in his hand, limp.
“Yeah, you probably won’t be needing that,” Devon said. Quilts, blankets, even sheets at this hour were for one thing only. On the grass behind a dorm, on the carpet of a music room, even between the bleachers in the basketball court, carrying a blanket at this time of night was a badge of honor. No doubt Pete made a point for his dormmates to see. “Congrats, by the way, on you two getting back together. I didn’t think she’d take you back after … well, you don’t need me to tell you what you did.”
Pete’s wide forehead wrinkled. “No, but you like reminding me.”
“That’s probably your guilt reminding you, actually. Me? I’m just looking out for Presley.” Devon crossed her arms and leaned against her open door.
“Hiiiiiii, baby!” Presley sang as she stepped out of her room.
Pete leaned in for a kiss.
“Better not, I’m sick,” Presley croaked.
Devon watched as they disappeared into the dark behind the dorm. She envied Presley’s ability to neatly compartmentalize. Presley had been on the newspaper staff with Hutch the past two years. They’d been friends. She was within her right to be publically upset about Hutch. But Devon? No one, not even Presley knew about her night with Hutch. Devon had just been locked in a kitchen with him for one night. One night, two years ago. Maybe she didn’t have a public claim on being his friend, to being more upset than anyone else, but she couldn’t shake the voice in her head, You were more than friends.
She pushed the thought away. Instead, she headed down the deserted hallway—back to Isla’s empty room and her lonely pile of clothes.
A WIND CHIME MADE of seashells clinked when Devon walked in. She flicked on the light to avoid feeling like she was sneaking around in Isla’s room. Bright lights equaled purpose. She reached for the top of Isla’s clothing pile and started folding.
A white V-neck. Folded. Plaid long-sleeve shirt. Folded. Devon glanced around as she worked. Aside from a large purple and brown tapestry with swirls of elephants and ‘ohm’ symbols, there were no pictures on Isla’s wall. Her iPod dock was stickered with Vegetarians Taste Better. On her bedside table lay a piece of driftwood with jewelry draped across it. Devon moved onto a pair of black sweatpants. One leg flicked the driftwood, sending an earring into the open top drawer. When Devon reached inside to retrieve it, another pill bottle rolled out.
Adderall, 10 mg. The prescription was for ‘Isla Mayfair.’ The bottle was pretty full. Devon dumped what looked like twenty blue pills into the palm of her hand. Instinctively she made sure Isla’s door was closed. This would be a hard one to explain to a teacher passing by. Isla must have thought these pills weren’t that big a deal if she hadn’t mentioned them. But Devon knew if she took the bottle Isla would notice. She poured half the pills back in the bottle and tucked the remaining pills in her pocket. At least she could limit how much Isla was taking.
The bottle rolled to the back of the drawer and Devon spotted a familiar head of brown hair: a photograph of Hutch and Isla on the beach. Isla was smiling at the camera, her cheeks fuller and brighter, her smile wide and real. Hutch was kissing her cheek, his eyes closed. Under the picture was an index card wrapped with a hemp necklace. Two nickel-sized shells were threaded through the hemp. On the back of the card was handwritten, “Love, H.”
Even though it was wrong, even though this wasn’t hers, Devon unwrapped the necklace. She stood in front of Isla’s mirror and hung it around her neck. The iridescent white and pink of the shells caught the light, as if they were showing off.
“Love, H,” Devon said to herself.
But this wasn’t hers to take. Hutch and Isla had created this. Devon wrapped the necklace back around the card, her hands shaking. She shoved it behind the photo. Devon hadn’t even been in Hutch’s phone to receive his suicide text. Isla—the Keaton Prize Girlfriend for whom Hutch had made a necklace, for whom Hutch had texted “I’m sorry”—must have had other Hutch pictures around. Devon tucked the photo in her back pocket. She deserved some little memento, didn’t she?
Devon felt her cheeks getting hot. This was bad. She couldn’t hate them: Isla, Matt … even Presley, any of them. She was just as guilty of turning away from Hutch. They needed her help. She had to help them. It’s what Hutch would have done.
Before leaving, Devon shook out the clothes she had folded and tossed them back on Isla’s pile.
* “Is Your Subject Suicidal?: A Checklist.” —Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide by Henry Robins, MFT
† “Egan’s Model of Effective Listening: S.O.L.A.R.,” R: Be a Relaxed Helper —Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide by Henry Robins, MFT
‡ Whenever possible, keep the subject focused on the topic at hand. —Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide by Henry Robins, MFT
CHAPTER 3
Name: Cleo Lambert
Session Date: Sept. 10
Referred by: Headmaster Wyler
Reason for Session: Caught shoplifting at
Monte Vista Pharmacy
“This is my punishment? Trés magnifique,” Cleo tucked her black bob behind her ears. Her bright-yellow-painted nails tapped on the wooden armrest.
“Does that mean good or bad?” Devon asked. She opened her notebook to a new page and took the lid off her pen. “Maybe, for the sake of clarity, let’s stick to English.”
“C’est bien. It’s better than getting kicked out, right?” Cleo let out a hollow laugh.
Devon smiled back. “Good point. So, do you want to start with what happened in Monte Vista?” Devon made a point to keep her face blank, eager to hear Cleo’s answer.*
Cleo checked her watch, even though she’d arrived right on time. Rose gold, chunky, men’s watch. Devon couldn’t see the brand but the diamonds on each number made a clear statement: You can’t afford this. Cleo’s uniform of black biker boots, skinny jeans, oversized black sweater, thick black eyeliner—it was straight out of a fashion spread in Vogue. Black is the new black! Her eyes wandered around the room, deliberately bored. “I’m tired of the Monte Vista story. Wouldn’t it be easier for you if I sat here and cried about Hutch being gone and contemplated the meaning of suicide or something to that effect?”
She bit her bottom lip and eyed Devon up and down, no doubt noticing the grass stain on Devon’s jeans. Devon crossed her legs again in a feeble attempt to hide it. Maybe she would try to wear a better choice of clothes for Cleo’s next session. Anything that Cleo couldn’t mentally rip to shreds.
“This isn’t about making anything easier on me. This is about you and whatever happened in Monte Vista.” Devon quickly added, “But, we could talk about Hutch if you want, if you have something you want to talk about, about Hutch.…”
“I saw him in Monte Vista. On his last day, you know, alive.” Cleo let her sentence hang in the air. She clearly enjoyed the suspense it created.
“Okay. What happened?”
“It’s not like I couldn’t pay for the nail polish, you know. It was just so easy to take it. So I did. Tucked it up my sleeve. But the trick is not to leave right away; that’s too obvious. You gotta walk around, like you’re still shopping. Look like you h
aven’t found what you’re looking for. D’accord? So I go into the tampon products. Always a safe place; no one wants to talk to a girl surrounded by pads and plugs. And there he is, the man of the hour. Jason Hutchins. In the tampon aisle. He doesn’t see me see him, but he grabbed a pregnancy test. One of those Early Response things. Shoved it in a pocket in his cargos. You know the ones he always wore. The Hutch uniform of sorts. You okay?”
“Huh? Oh.…” Devon realized her mouth was hanging open. “Of course.” She exhaled and sat up straighter in her chair. “So, you were saying Hutch bought a pregnancy test?”
“Stole. Hutch stole a pregnancy test. Aren’t you listening? Anyways, he puts the box in his pants just as he turns and sees me. He knows I know. And classic Hutch, he winks at me and walks right out of the store.” Cleo tucked her hair behind her ears again. She leaned back in her chair and looked at Devon like she was waiting for a prize.
“He walked right out? He didn’t get busted?”
Cleo laughed. “Oh no, the alarm went off. The store manager grabbed him the second he tried to walk out. And then the manager, connard, grabbed my arm too. Walked me and Hutch to his little back office. You know, it’s sad. A man his age with an office that size. Kinda pathetic he has to get off busting teenagers. But c’est la vie, right?”
Devon stared back down at her notebook. Cleo’s French-isms were crossing the wires in her head. Did Cleo always talk like this? Maybe they’d never had that long of a conversation before. How could she without pulling her hair out or craving a croissant? “Wait, sorry, I’m confused. Hutch also got caught shoplifting? Why didn’t the school know about it?”
Cleo leaned forward and her voice dropped to just above a whisper. “Dig this. So Hutch and I are sitting there in this guy’s office. I’m sweating it a little. I mean, if the store complains to Keaton I could get expelled, and that involves dealing with my parents, non merci, if you know what I mean. But, Hutch, he’s whistling. Literally whistling in his chair. Not a care in the world. It’s almost infectious, you know Hutch. So I try to joke with him about that pregnancy test because, come on, I want to know who it’s for considering he and Isla broke up over the summer.”
Keaton School 01: Escape Theory Page 6