Escape Theory

CHAPTER 9




Name: Devon Mackintosh

Session Date: Sept. 24

Session #2



Mr. Robins was already writing notes in his notebook when Devon sat down.

“Devon, right on time. Have a seat,” he nodded in the direction of the chair across from his desk. Devon sat down and pulled out her own notebook. Her Mont Blanc pen wasn’t in the pocket she left it in. Damn, Cleo strikes again! This game was getting old. Devon reminded herself to get her pen back during Cleo’s next session. “So? How’s it going this week?” He scrunched his nose, pushing his glasses further up.

“Good, I think. I mean, I guess it’s normal counseling stuff, two steps forward, one step back.” She smiled politely and sat up straighter. The more committed and serious she could seem the less he would question her, was the hope.

“Glad to hear it. But, I’ve got to admit, I have some concerns with the work we’re doing.” He folded his hands and leaned on his desk. Uh-oh. “It’s Matt Dolgens. Apparently he’s been skipping a lot of classes the last week or so. I’m thinking I should take over working with him. He might be a little more than you’re ready for.”

Devon arranged a smile on her face, but it felt plastic and crooked. “That’s an interesting idea.” If Matt suddenly had to stop seeing Devon and start seeing an actual faculty member, she’d come off like the enemy he’d been trying to make her out to be. “But, isn’t missing a few classes here and there somewhat expected given what he’s been going through? Hutch was his best friend.”

“We’ve been told that Matt has been seen talking with Bodhi Elliot in Monte Vista lately. I’m not sure if you know him, but Bodhi is an alum with a troubled past. The concern is that if Matt gets in with the wrong element, his behavior could take a turn for the worse. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how vulnerable he is right now.”

Images of Matt and Bodhi—smoking a joint behind the pharmacy, fighting on the beach—flashed through Devon’s mind. Exactly which one of them was the wrong element was difficult to discern. She kept her head down, studying her fingernails. Next question. Next question.

“I take it from your silence you know something about this,” Mr. Robins said, leaning back in chair. Devon wanted to tell him to lose the smug grin; he didn’t know a fraction of what he thought he did.

“I’ve met Raven, Bodhi’s sister. As far as I can tell, she’s a smart girl and excited to be at Keaton. I’ve never met Bodhi, so I can’t really say much about him.”

“I’m not at liberty to go into details, but Bodhi didn’t leave Keaton with the best reputation, and we weren’t exactly happy to see him back in Monte Vista.”

“But that doesn’t mean anything about Matt. Maybe they just surf together or something?”

Mr. Robins took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Devon, we’ve got to watch out for peer sympathy getting in the way of you making informed decisions. That’s an inherit blind spot with this program.”

“But I’m not.…” Devon stopped herself. Getting too defensive right now would only confirm Mr. Robins’ theory. “I understand the concern. It’s just that I feel like Matt is finally starting to trust me, and to open up, and to make some progress in working through his grief. I’d really hate to cut that off now. You mentioned in your training how important it was so establish a good rapport with your subject. Can I try one more session with Matt? See if I can help with this attendance thing?”

Mr. Robins glanced at his watch. He pulled a handful of pages from the back of his notebook. “Fine. But if we see any other red flag behavior from him, I’ll be meeting with Matt personally.”

“Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Now, if we could take a minute to review your notes.” He stole a glance at the clock on the wall behind Devon. What’s he waiting for? “Everything looks good. You say Matt presented with anger and disbelief about Jason’s suicide, all perfectly normal.” He flipped to the next page. “Isla with feelings of guilt, and Cleo ashamed of her behavior in Monte Vista. Everything sounds good.” He scrunched his glasses up his nose again. “On paper.”

She swallowed, her heart picking up a beat. “Great. Glad you think so.”

“But there’s more than what you’re telling me, isn’t there?”

“What?” Play dumb. Play dumb. Devon tried to force herself not to blush. He knows you’re lying.

“Matt’s absences indicate that he’s going through more than anger and disbelief. And I think you know what it is.” He let the words hang in the air while Devon’s insides squirmed.

“Really, I’m not sure—”

“Devon, if you and Matt are dating, I need to know about that,” he interrupted. “I realize counseling can often bring people closer together, so if you two have.…” He waited for her to fill in the rest. Ha! Devon: 1; Mr. Robins: 0! He has no idea.

“Mr. Robins, that’s not what’s happening. Matt and I, we really don’t see each other outside of our sessions.”

There was a knock on the door. Headmaster Wyler walked into the room without waiting for an answer. “This still a good time?” he asked.

Mr. Robins pulled a chair for the Headmaster. “Yes, glad you could make it.”

What is he doing here? In his ever-present khakis and sweater vest and perfectly cropped salt-and-pepper hair, Devon wondered if Wyler looked the same as a Keaton student years ago. She pictured a seventeen-year-old version: soccer legend, bio whiz, and sweater vest collector. And now living back at the school he attended three decades ago. I’ll bet the outside world wasn’t all that kind to the Sweater Vest King.

“Devon, I’m glad I didn’t miss you,” he said, scooting his chair around to face her.

She nodded and half-stood up from her chair. “Headmaster Wyler. Good morning.”

“Have a seat, please.”

Devon realized both men were now staring at her. This wasn’t an impromptu interruption, was it? They had planned this, whatever this was. She braced herself.

“Devon, I wanted to be here along with Mr. Robins to thank you for your hard work serving our student body. Your commitment to this program has not gone unnoticed.”

She breathed a little easier. Okay, that’s not bad news. “Thanks. It’s been a good experience so far.”

“Because this program is the first of its kind for Keaton, or for California for that matter, it’s important that we can really quantify our results. After all, if this proves successful for our students, hopefully the state will allow more programs like this in other schools. What this could do for bullying, depression, substance abuse—the possibilities are really inspiring.” Headmaster Wyler used his hands in a practiced, political way. He must rehearse in front of a mirror, Devon thought. “Which is why we’re installing a camera in your ‘office.’ ”

Putting her “office” in finger quotes was immediately annoying, a paper-cut kind of annoying. But the video camera was a nearly-slicing-a-finger-off beyond annoying. It enraged her. Everything Devon had promised Matt, Isla, and Cleo about protecting their secrets, about creating a safe place, would be ruined. They’d become characters for Mr. Robins and Wyler to take to their School Board meetings: a twisted Show and Tell. She could almost make it work by typing up fake notes for Mr. Robins, but now the evidence would be impossible to deny. Devon felt her neck getting hot. Her palms started to sweat at the thought of Matt being exposed, of Isla’s twitches and ticks and tears being used as textbook material, of Cleo being labeled as a liar.

“I don’t get it. Why do you have to do that?” Devon asked.

“We don’t need to go into all the boring details, but suffice it to say, boarding school students are legally under the guardianship of the school. In loco parentis, as they say. Because this is all new and untested thus far, our insurance would prefer if we handled the program this way going forward. I’m sure you understand.” Headmaster Wyler nodded his head at Devon, as if confident she would not push back.

“We’re going to tell them we’re filming the sessions, though, right?” She asked the question in a way that didn’t make it sound like a question, but an assumption.

Headmaster Wyler shot a look at Mr. Robins, who sat up straighter in his chair and cleared his throat.

“For the moment, we’d like you to say nothing. These sessions are going to be used for research purposes only, so there’s no real need to alert your subjects. Not to mention, we’d hate to tamper with our results by alerting them to the presence of a camera. Getting authentic emotions is imperative. Otherwise, how can we gauge our success levels? You understand, don’t you? It’s for the good of the program.”

“But.…” Both Wyler and Mr. Robins were watching her closely. Devon realized that this wasn’t a discussion. What she thought didn’t matter. The fact that they’d even told her about the cameras was lucky. She could have been filmed this whole time and these two wouldn’t have had the conscience to tell her. But, no … they told her as a warning that they were now watching her as closely as her subjects.

First they’d needed her to sit in that chair and get her peers talking. The scale of power was tipped ever so slightly in Devon’s favor. Wyler and Robins could take away her status in a second, but they knew students would talk to a peer in one way, and an authority figure in another. For all the backlash and attitude she got from Matt, Isla, and Cleo, they were still talking to her. The same might not be true if Mr. Robins sat in her chair, and he and Wyler knew it. She had to be smart with her ounce of power.

“Whatever you think is best for the program,” she said with a warm smile.

CHEMISTRY WAS KILLING HER. Devon let her pencil drop to her desk and rubbed her eyes. One more molecular equation might cause blindness. She stood up and stretched her back out. Her eyes drifted to the single rose resting in a water bottle near her bed. Yellow petals with blood red tips. The makeshift card that came with it; a piece of green Keaton paper scrawled with “I’m sorry. Let’s start over. —G” in one line across the bottom.

When Devon had returned to her room from classes, she found the rose and note lying on her pillow. Grant was trying to make peace with her. Devon knew she should accept it. He had gotten mad when she asked him about knowing Eric Hutchins. Who could blame him? Hutch’s death affected everyone here, and in a million different ways. She had to stop treating all her friends like they were subjects ready to be dissected. Grant was just trying to be supportive. Maybe she should have been the one delivering apologies.

“Hey, George Whore-well,” Presley called out, throwing herself on Devon’s bed. “How was your weekend?”

Devon slumped in her armchair. “The Queen returns,” she said, relieved at the distraction. “My weekend was blah, I want to hear about yours. I’m sure it was much more interesting.”

“It was. Pete’s parents were great. They took us out for dinner. His mom and I played tennis.”

“Blah, blah, boring. What aren’t you telling me?”

“Let’s just say there are two kinds of people in this world, the ones who are on the pill, and the ones who aren’t. And some are having way more fuuuu-n.”

But Devon’s hearing was stuck on ‘two kinds of people in this world.’ The supposed-tos and the not-supposed-tos. The ones who like peanut butter and the ones who don’t. Devon had a new distinction to add to the list now: the ones who’d slept with Hutch, and the ones who hadn’t. Which one did Presley fall into?

Presley threw a tube of hand lotion at Devon. “Yo, J.D. Slutinger, you hear me? Besides, you make something happen with Grant yet?”

“Yeah, I mean, no. I don’t know.” Devon walked to her mirror and tried to figure out what to do with her hair. “Pres, you didn’t hook up with anyone when you and Pete were broken up, did you?”

Presley furrowed her brow, still smiling. “No, why?”

Devon tried to sound casual as she brushed her hair. “Just wondering. Cause you weren’t on the pill until recently, so it’s possible—”

“Dev, cut the shit. I know that weird tone in your voice, what are you getting at?”

She sighed, turning to face Presley. “You didn’t hook up with Hutch did you? I know it sounds out there, but you two were on the newspaper together, you were barfing. You didn’t get pregnant did you?”

Presley’s face softened. She shook her head, got up from the bed, and stood behind Devon at the mirror. They looked at each other in the reflection. Then Presley’s lips tightened. She ran her fingers through Devon’s hair and started to pull it into a loose braid. “Devon, I’m saying this because I love you, because you’re my best friend, and you don’t talk to ton of other people. So someone has to say it. You have got to get over this Hutch thing. No, I never slept with Hutch. Never even kissed the guy. Thought about it, yes. Did anything about it, no. But you? You’re obsessing. It’s annoying. But more than that, it’s disturbing. Go find Grant. Go make out with that hot boy and forget about the dead one. You hear me? This is for your own good.” Presley finished the braid and gave Devon a supportive smile in the mirror. “King Slut-ankhamun,” Presley added, and slapped Devon on the butt, then ran from the room with a laugh.

“William Slutspeare!” Devon called down the hall.

Presley poked her head out of her door. “That one sucked.”

Devon turned to the mirror again. Presley had a point. Devon didn’t think she could stop thinking about Hutch, or his possible murder, but Grant wanted nothing more than to take her mind off things. Maybe she should let him.

AFTER THREE KNOCKS SHE opened the door to Grant’s room. No one there. A huge American flag was tacked to one wall, and a large iPod dock took up most of the remaining space on his book-strewn desk. His bed was still unmade and dirty clothes formed a trail from the bed to closet.

She’d try to find him later.

Down the hall, Devon passed a door that stood out from the rest. Carved, inked, painted, scribbled all over it were messages to Hutch. RIP. We’ll miss you, bro. Always in our hearts. Keaton forever, Hutch! Wish You Were Here. And on and on, covering almost every inch of the dark wood. Devon ran her hands over the writing, the deep grooves in the wood, the gloppy white-out hearts and stars around his name. When her hand brushed against the metal doorknob she couldn’t resist. The door was unlocked. She would just look and get it out of her system. This wasn’t obsessing; it was closure.

Devon ducked into Hutch’s room, quietly closing the door behind her. The mattress was bare and wire hangers hung in the empty closet. The poster from The Godfather still tacked to one wall and ripped corners of photos on another were the only sad remnants of the boy who’d lived here. Surely another student would be claiming this room at some point—someone thrilled to be taken off the waiting list, to be given the chance to attend the prestigious The Keaton School, only to discover they’d be sleeping in a dead student’s bed. The wait list might not look so bad then.

Devon reached for the light switch, but stopped. She could almost feel the weight of Hutch’s hand and his whisper in her ear, “No lights. It will give away our position.” Devon inhaled, trying to find a scent of Hutch, but the air only smelled of dust and floor disinfectant. She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she spotted letters carved into the underside of a shelf behind the bed. She scooted closer, the words seemed out of order, and then she realized: miles to go before I sleep written backward. Next to the words was a circle with what looked like three branches stemming from it. She ran her hands over Hutch’s carvings, brittle slivers of wood dropped away at the touch. Her breathing got shallow and quick and she felt her ears burning. Anger was creeping in and taking over. She had to get out of here.

ON A CLEAR DAY, with the sunset over the Pacific Ocean, the Palace had one of the best views on campus. Deep shades of orange and pink bled into purple as the sun vanished, and the ocean turned a dark blue as if pulling a comforter around itself to sleep for the night. But now the vista was ruined. The decaying concrete bunker was sectioned off by police tape—do not cross. Bright yellow and rippling in the wind, it threatened to snap off and drift down the mountain any second. The gravel and broken glass crunched under Devon’s shoes. Again, she wasn’t obsessing; she just wanted to see where it had happened. Returning to the scene of the crime—out of curiosity alone.

Devon sat on the bench wedged in the back of the bunker, with the graffiti-smothered walls all around her and nothing but the view below. Here was where he’d drawn his last breath. But for Hutch to be murdered, someone else had to have been here with him that night too. What were they doing? What brought Hutch out here? Matt said Hutch got a phone call that night. Could someone have called him to meet at the Palace? The police found a body and pills so they assumed suicide, which meant they probably hadn’t looked beyond this spot.

Devon walked behind the bunker. Only a single narrow trail through overgrown plants led to this spot. Anybody going to the Palace had to come through the Keaton campus and down the hillside. She walked up the trail, tucking her arms close to avoid getting scratched by the dried branches. The top of the trail opened to a gravel driveway where the school left outdated landscaping equipment. The driveway then eased into the lawn, where 100 yards up the hill, the gray rooftop of Spring House appeared. Devon stood in the gravel driveway. It must have been dark when Hutch had come here.

The sun was getting lower over the ocean, a half circle of golden orange light casting long shadows through the trees. If Hutch was angry about a phone call he got that night, did he come down here to blow off steam? But why here? Did he want to smoke a cigarette? Pot? Drink? It had to be something illicit to take him away from his dorm after hours. To Devon’s left she noticed an old tractor, rusted, tucked away by the hillside. Where Keaton farm tools go to die, Devon thought.

Something else caught her eye. Her feet crunched in the gravel as she walked toward the tractor. Three small green bottles were lined up next to the dirt-encrusted wheel. They looked oddly clean. Devon picked one up; it was small and round in her hand, not lean like a soda or beer bottle. She sniffed; the sharp smell of stale alcohol hit her. She studied the front of the bottle. The label was peeled off; only streaks of white paper remained. Was it possible Hutch drank from these bottles? Or better yet, his murderer? She tucked the bottle up her sleeve. Even getting caught with an empty was an offense punishable by suspension. She would have to hide it well back in her room.

Behind the tractor Devon saw a metal bottle cap: dark green with the ridges poking out and a white G printed on the top. It fit her bottle. Now she just had to figure out what the G stood for. It was possible other students had snuck to the Palace and had a beer or two in Hutch’s honor, but these were too far away.

Devon peered around the tractor to the hillside behind it. A wide patch of dirt cut a path down through the scrub brush—marked with fresh tire tracks. Is this how the tractor maintained the hillside? Devon glanced back at the wide, zigzag tires. The pattern didn’t match, and she doubted the tractor had actually moved from that spot in months. Could a car have driven up here? The tracks disappeared around a bend in the mountain. While anyone going to Keaton had always used the paved main road leading up the hill, Devon wondered if this was a secret fire road only certain people knew of. The opposite mountainside was draped in grapevines extending long shadows, like an army of scarecrows guarding their fortress. Grandpa Hutchins’s vines. He had ridden a horse up the hillside to Hutch’s funeral, and he had somehow left Devon’s room without taking the main road.…

It was getting dark. Devon knew she would have to be checked into her dorm for study hours soon. With her green bottle and metal cap, she trekked back up the hill. So, who besides Grandpa Hutchins might have access to that fire road? Hutch, Raven, and Bodhi probably knew about it too. A car door slamming in the parking lot near Spring House snapped Devon back to attention. It was that same silver BMW she had seen idling there before, Maya was walking away from it. Actually, more like stomping away from it. Devon saw her swipe at her cheeks, as if wiping away tears.

“Maya, come on! It’s not that big a deal.” A familiar-sounding guy with brown hair tucked behind his ears was yelling after Maya from the driver’s seat. He yelled again, “Maya!” but she didn’t turn around. He slammed his fist on the steering wheel, then turned, noticing Devon walking by.

She locked eyes with Eric Hutchins.