Keaton School 01: Escape Theory

by Margaux Froley

  Devon laughed. “Good one. What about, All Quiet on the Western Slut?”

  Presley smiled and almost choked on her Sloppy Joe. Devon stiffened, glimpsing Matt as he entered the dining hall. He went straight to the soda machine and poured himself a Coke. Maybe he had an idea of girls that Hutch was hanging out with.

  Devon stood up and grabbed her tray. “I gotta go. See ya back in Bay.”

  “What?” Presley frowned. “You’re gonna leave me with the Freshman 15 over here? Whatever, I’ll catch you later, Moby Slut.”

  “That one sucked,” Devon said over her shoulder.

  “Oh, there’s more where that came from, John Malko-bitch.” Presley yelled across the dining hall.

  “Jennifer Ho-Pez!” Devon dumped her tray through the window to the dishwashing station and dodged the steam escaping from the industrial sink. She hurried past the teacher’s table toward Matt, but she stopped in her tracks when she saw Sasha sidle up next to Matt at the soda machine. Sasha also poured herself a Coke. Seems like a lot of sugar for an abs-obsessed star athlete, Devon thought. She pretended to analyze the fruit bowl instead as she eavesdropped. “Hey, Matt. How’s your class load?” Sasha asked.

  “Maybe you wanna help me with that AP Bio test next week?” Matt said back.

  Devon glanced at them, and caught a glimpse of Sasha slipping a folded piece of green paper in the pocket of Matt’s hoodie.

  “Let’s meet up after study hours. I should have my questions ready for you by then,” Matt said. He turned and walked away, sipping his Coke. Sasha dumped her soda in the nearby drain and walked out the side door to the dining hall.

  Devon suddenly realized that someone was staring at her. Right on the other side of the fruit bowl. Deep green eyes on a tanned, freckled face. A girl with black hair in a nest of braids and knots. Could it be the rat’s nest Cleo had mentioned? Raven, the pharmacist’s sister? She was practically glaring at Devon. Devon opened her mouth to say, “Can I help you?” when—

  “You know what they say, an apple a day.…” Two hands reached around and squeezed Devon’s waist. She jumped and spun around.

  “Oh hey.”

  Grant smiled at her, his eyes twinkling.

  “I haven’t seen you all day. Where you been? I’ll walk you back to Bay. Come on.” He held out an elbow and Devon took it. She turned back, but the girl was already gone.

  It was still light out, but a peachy-pink shade filled the air as the sun set over the Pacific. They walked across Raiter Lawn in silence, Devon’s head falling against Grant’s shoulder. It wasn’t as pillowy as it was last year, but was that a bad thing? It still comforted. Anyone else would have filled the silence with small talk. Grant knew better.

  “There’s still a bit of visiting hours left. Want to come up?” Devon asked.

  “I thought you’d never ask.” Grant winked as he led the way inside.

  Was that a loaded question? It hadn’t been until now; she’d asked Grant the exact same thing dozens of times. She could almost hear Presley beside her, egging her on. As Grant signed his name in the dorm ledger of visitors, Devon snuck a peek at his tanned neck, the perfect line of bicep poking below his sleeve. Maybe I should just go for it.

  Devon opened the door to her room. Weird: The light was already on. Then she froze. An old man was lying on her bed. She tried to process what she saw. Phrases like ‘Who are you,’ ‘What are you doing?’ and ‘Get off my bed’ rattled through her brain. Instead Devon just cowered against Grant and let out a scream that devolved into “Ahhhhwhatmyroom?”

  The old man sat up and slowly pushed himself off the bed. He held a cowboy hat in his hands and extended a wrinkled hand out toward Devon.

  Grant immediately sequestered Devon behind him. “Go call someone, Dev. I got this.”

  “Wait!” The old man barked.

  His brown eyes were milky, his skin weathered behind a gray scruffy beard. A homeless man who wandered up the hillside and randomly into Devon’s room? Except that Devon had never known homeless people to tuck in their shirts and wear cowboy boots. He had a large silver belt buckle: three trees. Somewhere deep in Devon’s memory, that logo looked familiar, but she couldn’t be sure.

  “You can’t be here,” Grant stated. “This is private property. I’ll count to three for you to get out of here or I’m forcing you, okay?”

  Devon whirled and ran off to find any teacher. Anyone.

  “Devon!” the old man croaked. “I’m here for you.”

  How did he know her name? He must have seen something in her room with her name on it. Devon ran down the stairs and found her dorm head, Mrs. Sosa, already running toward the screams.

  “There’s a stranger—strange man.…” Devon stammered.

  Mrs. Sosa ran to Devon’s room with Devon close behind. The sliding door was open and Grant was on the patio. The man was already gone.

  “Where’d he go?” Devon asked.

  “Took off down the hill. He looked like he was about to pass out at the end there. Must have wandered up here off some back roads.” Grant squinted toward the trees at the edge of the school property.

  Mrs. Sosa gently placed a maternal arm around Devon. “You okay?” she asked, with the trace of a Spanish accent. Her long black hair was tied into a braid down her back, and she wore jeans and a flowing peasant blouse. She was in her early thirties, teaching at Keaton this year through a teacher’s exchange program.

  “I think so,” Devon said automatically.

  “I’ll tell security and we’ll keep the doors locked tonight, mmm?” Mrs. Sosa asked.

  Devon nodded in agreement. The bell rang for the end of visiting hours. Mrs. Sosa nodded at Grant but left the two alone to say their goodbyes. Devon leaned against her door.

  Grant put a hand on both shoulders. “You’re going to be okay. That was just a totally freakish random thing.”

  “If you weren’t here. What do you think …?” Devon didn’t want to think about it. What was the old man capable of? He said he came here for her. To kill her? To rape her? To help with her calculus homework? Did he really know who she was?

  “Hey, I can see the wheels turning in there.” Grant ran a finger down her jawline, stopping at her chin. Suddenly his lips were on hers. The thoughts in Devon’s head stopped in their tracks and redirected everything to her lips. What was happening? She was kissing Grant. His lips were soft and strong at the same time. His hands moved down her back and pulled her closer to him. His chest heaved into hers, and she felt herself breathing in rhythm with him so as his chest swelled, hers condensed.

  “Who’s got AP bio?” someone shouted down the hallway, bringing her back.

  She pulled away.

  “You have to go.” At least that’s what she hoped she said. What she was thinking was, Don’t go.

  “I’ll come by after study hours, okay?” Grant brushed Devon’s bangs to the side. His eyes moved, taking in every inch of Devon’s face. A smile twitched on his lips.

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  He squeezed her hand, then hurried out the door. No doubt he would have to explain his tardiness to his dorm head, but his excuse would be campus-wide news in minutes over texts and emails. Strangers wandering onto their hill? In three years at Keaton, a few random townspeople had heckled students, but always outside the gates.

  She went to the door, just to make sure Grant was safe on his way home. Her eyes fell to the guest sign-in ledger. Grant’s name was at the top, but below it a large swirling signature she hadn’t seen before. And Devon’s name was written next to the signature. She stepped closer. The old man had signed into her room. How did he know to do that? The name made the blood drain from her cheeks, Reed Hutchins.

  NIGHT HAD LONG SINCE fallen, but Devon was still wide awake. She lay in bed, staring at the shadowy ceiling. Reed Hutchins. Somehow the old man was related to Hutch. His grandfather maybe? The name was definitely familiar; she’d heard it around campus. She closed her eyes, trying to calm the o
ut-of-tune orchestra playing in her head. Her thoughts wandered to Grant’s kiss. What did this mean now? Was he officially out of the Friend Zone? And then Cleo’s story about Hutch and the pregnancy test surged back to the forefront of her mind.

  Her eyes flew open. The shelf above her bed, like every other shelf at Keaton, was carved with etchings from the past: “Misha was here” and “Class of 2002 rulz,” dug into the wood. A newer carving stuck out, darker than the rest, even in the shadows. Devon ran her fingers over the scratched words, “We’re half-awake in a fake empire. —K. Bell.”

  Devon remembered a senior had this room last year. Kaylyn Bell. Not a stand-out student. No awards as a senior, not a sports or academic star, and she got into some middle grade university. Something good, but not flashy; nothing her parents were probably bragging about. But Kaylyn had left her mark regardless. Everyone left a mark.

  Devon drifted back to her session with Cleo. Hutch had left much more than a song quote behind; he’d left a girl pregnant. A piece of Hutch was still out there. Maybe Devon could help this girl. That’s what Hutch was attempting to do by stealing the pregnancy test, wasn’t it? Make sure you’re looking at what’s really there, not what you want to see. At this point Hutch was a drug-dealing, girl-knocker-upper, whether she wanted to see it or not. But underneath the secrets he kept, Devon was still certain that she knew who he was. The drugs, this pregnancy, his suicide, they wouldn’t be his legacy. Couldn’t be. Hutch was more than his mistakes.

  Devon grabbed a pen out of her bedside table and wrote the words above her, digging them into the soft wooden shelf. Tracing and re-tracing each letter.

  Hutch was here.

  * “At the beginning of sessions, it’s important that the Counselor has a look of expectancy, inviting the subject to talk.” —Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide by Henry Robins, MFT

  † Section V: Self-Awareness. “The Peer Counselor should always strive to keep his/her own emotions and motivations at bay during a session.”—Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide by Henry Robins, MFT

  ‡ “Try to end every session with a positive affirmation of the work you’ve done together.”

  —Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide by Henry Robins, MFT

  CHAPTER 4

  Name: Devon Mackintosh

  Session Date: Sept. 15

  Referred by: Mr. Robins

  Reason for Session: Peer Counselor Review

  “We just want to make sure this doesn’t escalate from here,” Mr. Robins said. He used his teeth to rip off the top of a disposable lens wipe packet. The silver wrapping crinkled, and the alcohol-soaked paper instantly assaulted Devon’s nose. She squeezed her nose to stifle the rising sneeze. “Suicide clusters tend to happen in smaller communities. And when you add a personality like Jason’s, well, we just want to make sure no one follows in his footsteps.” Devon nodded.

  Mr. Robins took off his glasses and wiped them down. In four precise moves his glasses were clean and back on his face. “So? How do you think we’re doing?” He looked up at her.

  “Um.…” Devon couldn’t get past “suicide clusters.” Really? That’s what was worrying Mr. Robins? The huge amount of prescription pill abuse, rampant under the faculty’s nose, was maybe a better place to start. But Devon couldn’t tell him that. Suicide Clusters? It sounded so serious, so blown out of proportion. And when things were blown out of proportion that meant one thing at Keaton: parents. Of course. The parents must have been calling in droves, panicked that whatever had happened to Hutch could happen to their kid.

  “I think we’re doing well,” she finally said. “Matt and Isla were the closest to Hutch, and I don’t think suicide is in their immediate plans.” Devon wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans. What if she was wrong? Could she be sure Isla wasn’t going to take a handful of pills? I hope not. Was that really enough to rely on right now? “I’m not seeing any red flag behavior.”*

  “How is Isla doing? She was quite visibly upset the other day.”

  “Isla’s okay. She’s sad, of course, but I’m checking in with her a lot. She had a bit of an anxiety attack before our first session, but I, um.…” Devon’s thoughts drowned out her voice. Isla had all those pills. The alias to get more pills. Devon could turn her over to Mr. Robins right now and let him worry about her. But she knew that Isla trusted her.

  “But you?” He opened his notebook and scribbled something Devon couldn’t see.

  “Huh? Oh, but, she and Hutch already broke up over the summer so she wasn’t technically his girlfriend when he died. Just in case that mattered for your notes.” Devon took a deep breath and opened her own notebook. “I was wondering, do you have any suggestions for what to say when anyone asks about how much training I’ve had? That one’s been a little tough to answer.”

  “Well, that’s part of this experiment. You’re their peer, you’re not meant to be a professional. They can come to me if they want a professional. That’s why I have the MFT after my name, see?” He pulled a business card from his blazer to prove the obvious point. Again, Devon contained the urge to roll her eyes. “When they ask I would say it’s fair to tell them that you are a concerned peer. You’ve been taught everything required to give them adequate support.”

  “Thanks, I’ll try that.” Yeah, like that will work when Cleo Lambert is staring me down. It was like Mr. Robins didn’t speak Human properly. Or maybe he just failed in Teenager.

  “Sounds good so far,” he said. “We’ll keep a close eye on Miss Martin, make sure she works through the grief process properly. And I’ll review your notes before your next session with Matt.” Mr. Robins wrote a few more things in his notebook. Devon couldn’t read upside down, his writing was messy and loose across the page. She did see her and Isla’s names written a few times.

  “My notes?” Devon played dumb.

  “Well, yes, your records are our records. This is a trial program, remember.” Mr. Robins scrunched his nose to adjust his glasses. He leveled his eyes at her to drive home the point.

  “Right, yeah, of course. Except, the thing is, my notes are really sloppy right now. You know how it is when you’re writing fast. Let me just type them up for you so it’s easier to read.”

  “All right. I’ll expect them next week.” He turned the page in his notebook and kept writing. “I hope you’re keeping your clinical distance, Devon.”

  “Of course. I know that’s important. Being impartial helps me see their overall picture better.”†

  “Good, I glad you remembered that. That’s good for today, unless there’s anything else you want to discuss?” He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. She chewed her lip. Mr. Robins was acting as a mentor, so maybe he would come through for her now. She had to find out more than the student rumor mill knew.

  “I guess I can’t stop thinking about it. Hutch. Are they really sure it was suicide? I was researching OxyContin and the possibility for an accidental overdose is pretty high. And Hutch didn’t fit the profile. He wasn’t depressed, he wasn’t an outcast.… I guess I’m still having a hard time accepting it. I know that’s just another stage in the grief process, but I’m not sure this should pass. Shouldn’t we find out more? Isn’t someone looking into it? They should be, you know.”

  Mr. Robins cleared his throat. “I know this isn’t easy. One of the hardest things about becoming an adult is accepting that we can’t change the past. All we can do is focus on what’s in front of us, having learned what we should learn. The grief will pass, I promise.”‡

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Jason Hutchins had his own troubles,” he interrupted in a clipped voice. “We all have to accept that.”

  “I’m not in denial, if that’s what you’re thinking. I want to know more, that’s all. It’s a little tough calming people down when I don’t have any information to back up my position. Isn’t there something more you can tell me? Was there an autopsy?”

  He sighed. “Devon, this isn’t a crime
show or case that needs to be solved. Especially not by a student. It’s done. Now, tomorrow the Hutchins family will be on campus for Jason’s memorial service. I expect you to continue to counsel your fellow students, be respectful of what this family is going through, and to drop any theories you might have. Am I understood?” Mr. Robins pushed his glasses up his nose again and leveled his eyes at Devon.

  “Understood.”

  “I think that’s good for today.” Mr. Robins stood up and Devon followed suit. “I know Stanford is going to love seeing all your success with this program on your application next year. Keep up the good work.” He gave Devon a thin-lipped smile.

  “Thanks,” Devon said, smiling tightly in return. She understood completely.

  BROWN OXFORDS STUCK OUT from underneath the stall door—the only one closed, at the end of the row. Devon noticed that they were attached to small feet and tan legs. The gagging sound was quickly followed by the contents of someone’s stomach filling the toilet.

  Devon finished drying her wet hands.

  After a few seconds, a flush; a minute after that, Maya emerged. She looked like she’d just been washed up ashore after a shipwreck. Her face was pale, sweaty, and strands of her hair stuck to her cheeks and forehead.

  “Presley had the same thing,” Devon said as gently as she could. She pretended to look at herself in the mirror. “I’m going into town. Want me to get you anything? Ginger ale? Saltines? Nyquil?”

  Maya leaned over the sink next to Devon. She smoothed her hair into a slick ponytail and fished a tube of lipstick from the pocket of her purse. She drew the coral red onto her lips. Devon realized she was staring at Maya’s reflection.

  “Thanks. I was going to go later.” Maya spoke to Devon’s reflection with a tired smile. She turned on the faucet and used some water to tame her flyaway hairs. Devon took another look at her own hair. It was still in the braid she slept in. Behind her, Maya burped, loudly and very unladylike. She steadied herself over the sink while the wave of nausea passed.