Escape Theory

CHAPTER 13




Name: Cleo Lambert

Session Date: Oct. 4

Session #3



Cleo crossed her motorcycle-booted ankle over her knee and bobbed her foot in the air. She leveled her eyes straight at Devon. Silence. Devon shifted in her seat. Normally she should let the subject start talking, but “normally” also implied that the subject hadn’t given the counselor sincere advice which said counselor had then ignored and then suffered for. Cleo sighed deeply. More silence.

“Okay, you were right,” Devon finally said. “I don’t know what it is, but I totally can’t trust Grant anymore. You’ve got to tell me what you know about him.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said, even though she was smiling. “I know everyone thinks I’m a sieve and get off talking shit behind everyone’s backs.” Devon waited for her to continue. Cleo frowned. “Isn’t that where you’re supposed to tell me that I’m wrong, no, everyone really likes me and doesn’t think that about me?”

“Um, is that what you want me to tell you?” Was this a counseling question or a regular person question? Ugh.

“Whatever. No, don’t say anything. I know that’s what people think. It’s totally true. I do get a secret thrill talking behind people’s backs. I love knowing things before someone else does. Usually. But, I saw Grant in Monte Vista last weekend with Eric Hutchins. I guess Eric has been staying at the Four Seasons outside Santa Cruz, but he’s been around here dealing with Hutch family fallout. But, why is he hanging out with Grant, I’m thinking, you know? Kinda weird. And then it gets really weird. I saw Grant use your pen.”

“Wait, my pen? My Monte Blanc pen? I thought you stole it again.”

“No, I gave it back to you. I wouldn’t go back to something I already stole, where’s the fun in that? No, Grant used your pen. I know it was yours. But he used it to sign something, like it was his pen he casually had in his pocket. He wasn’t waving it around or making it a trophy or anything. Kleptos know the difference.” Cleo tucked her short hair behind her ears. It gave Devon a second to catch up. Grant had clearly lied about his relationship with Eric. But why, unless there was something to hide?

“So, if he stole my pen, you don’t think he.…” Devon didn’t want to finish the sentence.

“He’s totally looking at your notes. Guaranteed. Messed up, huh?”

The breath left Devon’s body, and she sat there, empty. Of course, Grant had known which notebook she used for her session notes. Stupid to leave them alone in her dorm room. Behind her chair, in her backpack, a small metal box was scrambling some signal—or something—so she could keep what was said in this room quiet. She had rewritten her notes for Mr. Robins. And it wasn’t enough. Because she was careless, or too trusting, or maybe both, what happened in here was out in the open. And Grant was also probably sharing it all with Eric Hutchins. It made sense. Wouldn’t Eric want to know what was being said about his own brother’s mysterious death? And even worse … she inhaled sharply and felt the blood rush to her cheeks … Grant’s feelings for her must have been a complete lie, as well. The flirting, the late night visits, the compliments; he had manipulated her, and she’d let him.

“Why did you try to warn me?” Devon asked.

“That’s the thing,” Cleo said. “Having the drop on someone is a total power trip. But when I saw Grant something kind of clicked. Like I could use the power for good and actually help people instead of hurt them. And since you’re one of the few around here who actually tries to help people, it seemed fair that someone should help you. I mean, I’m not like turning into a nun or anything.”

Devon didn’t know why, but she wanted to cry then and there. After all her time in these sessions being yelled at, berated, and despised for trying to help—finally, a glimmer of acknowledgement. From Cleo, of all people.

“I really appreciate that. I just feel so horrible. Everything I’ve been trying to protect in here has been leaked. Who knows what other people know? And it’s my fault.”

“Look, if everyone, especially Robins, really knew what being said in here, you would have been shut down already. My guess is, either they haven’t seen anything interesting enough in your notes yet, or, they don’t want this stuff to get out any more than you do.”

Devon blinked a few times and looked Cleo in the eye. “Cleo, I’m so sorry that our sessions got out. You trusted me, and I messed it up. That should never happen in a proper counseling session.”

Cleo waved her off with a smile. “Nah, that doesn’t matter. I got caught shoplifting, it’s not like those notes had anything that personal. Besides, isn’t this session still about me?”

“What? I mean, it is, but you still want to talk?”

“That’s why I’m here. I mean, your boyfriend betraying you totally sucks and all, but last time you told me to come back with the truth. So, is this a proper counseling session or what?”

Devon sat back in her chair and cleared her throat. She had been ready to watch Cleo slam the door on her way out. She had been ready to watch the whole program and all her work disappear like the puff of phony smoke in a magic act. But here was Cleo actually wanting to talk. Maybe it was a magic act. A real one. “Okay, yeah, we can do that. What do you want to start with?”

“I normally wouldn’t be into all this shit, but once I started thinking about coming back in here, being honest with you, honest with myself, I kind of started seeing things differently.”

“How so?” Devon wanted to reach for her notebook; this was the time to start taking notes. But, no. Those needed to be left alone, especially now.

“It was at that Pop-up Party the other day.” Cleo flicked lint off her black jeans. “Everyone rushed off to go do something they couldn’t normally do. Skip homework, dance, eat dinner on the lawn, hook up in a classroom.…” she raised an eyebrow again at Devon. The smugness of Cleo was still there, and in this case, rightfully so. Devon kept her eyes down and nodded, hoping she’d just move on already with the story. “But I remember I sat down on my bed and I didn’t know what to do. Like, what was it I wanted to do now that I could do anything with this free time? And nothing came to mind.”

“What did you end up doing?”

“That’s the thing. Nothing. I sat there running through all the things I’ve done already in my life. I’ve been to the Louvre. I’ve met the Dalai Lama. I’ve skied the Alps, been in a hot air balloon over Holland during tulip season. I’ve gone sky diving, skinny-dipping in the Mediterranean under a full moon. I have a tattoo of my initials on my butt. I lost my virginity to a gorgeous surfer named Ocean in Hawaii after I swam with dolphins. And, I couldn’t come up with one stupid thing I wanted to do while sitting on my bed in my ten-by-ten dorm room.”

“Maybe everything pales in comparison to all that other stuff?”

“But, it’s always been that way. My whole life has been full of ‘you’re gonna love this,’ or ‘you have to do that,’ but no one ever asked what I really want to do. It’s like I’ve been living someone else’s bucket list. And now that I have the chance, I don’t know what’s on my own list.” Cleo tugged on a buckle on her boot.

“No one told you that you had to steal that nail polish, or you’re gonna love stealing nail polish, though, did they?” Devon emphasized Cleo’s own words, but her tone was soft.

“No, I guess not.”

“Stealing the nail polish was fun because it’s something you’re not supposed to do. Right?”

Cleo looked up. “Yeah, I guess.”

“And everything you’ve done before that is a supposed-to.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” Cleo sat up straighter. So did Devon. Was she actually making progress?

“A smart man once told me that there are two kinds of people in this world. The supposed-tos and the not-supposed-tos, and you, my dear, are a not-supposed-to.”

“I am?”

“I mean, this is completely off-book, but hear me out.” Devon leaned in, excited. Screw Mr. Robins’s Pilot Training Guide. “You’ve done everything right, everything your parents wanted, everything the tour books say to do, the whole upper class society thing you’re supposed to do, and the thing that excites you the most was stealing a five dollar bottle of red nail polish. My guess is it’s not even a color you would wear.”

“They took it from me, but yeah. It was that horrible tacky red from the ’80s, like it belonged in a Billy Joel video.”

“See? That’s all this is. And Cleo, this is very cool.”

“Why is it cool? I am totally depressed and have no idea what to do with myself.”

“Because. Look what happened when you took away all that clutter. All the gossip. The chit-chat about everyone else. Without all that in the way, without a Keaton schedule to adhere to, there’s only you left. And it can be totally freaky to look into that abyss of nothingness, but the amazing thing is, you can do anything you want with it. Your life is there for you to make it what you want.”

Cleo rolled her eyes. “This is getting a little new age-y for me. Did you, like, watch The Secret lately or something?”

“See, there you are. I’m getting close to something otherwise you wouldn’t be bringing out your bitchy self.”

Cleo laughed shortly. “Did you just call me a bitch?”

“No. Well, yeah. It’s like your persona, your armor. It’s much easier to be bitchy and judge than it is to actually be a part of something and believe in it.”

“Maybe.”

“I do it, too. I mean, I don’t turn into a bitch, but my armor is that I have to dissect everything into a million pieces for it to make sense. But really that’s just me buying time before I have to commit to anything. We all do it in our own way.”

Cleo was silent. Her lips twisted in a smirk, but Devon could see her chin quivering a little. Then a lot. The smirk disappeared and her eyes welled with tears. Cleo brushed them away.

“Honestly, I don’t even know who I’m supposed to be.” Cleo sniffed and sat up straight. “I’m just living the schedule they want me to live, you know? And here we wake up at seven A.M., class by eight A.M., lunch at noon, sports, homework, dinner, more homework, and bed, and then do it all over again. And there’s no end in sight. I’m just going to go to whatever college they want me to, marry the guy they want who also has enough money so we can afford to put our future kids on the same schedule when it’s their turn. I know I sound like some spoiled brat that doesn’t appreciate anything, but I would give it up just to make my own choices. To live my life. Like, really live.”

Devon handed a tissue to Cleo. Finally, the tissue comes in handy. “Look, we’re all kind of stuck in the same thing here, some of us more so than others. But, even within that schedule there are amazing opportunities. You can live how you want.” She bit her lip. She’d nearly added: Hutch did.

“Yeah? Like what?” Cleo blew her nose.

“Well, let’s start at your definition of living, really living. What does that look like? Then we can find a way to get more of that in your life.”

Cleo laughed and wiped her eyes. She shook her head. “It’s stupid. You know, what just came to mind. No, it’s too dumb.”

“I doubt that. What is it?”

“Okay, well last summer my parents took me to Florence. It was supposed to be some big art history kind of tour. We saw the statue of David, the Birth of Venus, walked the Ponte Vecchio, you know, all the supposed-tos in Florence. On the last day my parents went with some friends on some winery tour. I was supposed to go on some tour of an art academy or something. Had the tickets and everything. I walked toward the academy thing that morning. On my way I saw this guy who looked about my age playing the guitar and singing in some piazza. He had this really cute dark curly hair, totally Italian cute. He sat on the steps near a church with the guitar case open, trying to make some money. I tossed him a Euro and he smiled at me and suddenly started playing a different song. The Rolling Stones. It was kind of cool to hear him sing in English with that accent, so I hung out for a minute to listen.”

Devon nodded, encouraging her. “Did you go on your tour?”

“That’s the funny part. I don’t know how, but he kept singing, and I went from standing there to sitting on the steps. He started talking to me between songs. Franco was his name. His accent was so hot, he had these chiseled cheekbones, it was like hanging out with the statue of David, if David wore Levi’s and was an emo guitarist. We chatted in his broken English and my guidebook Italian for a while. At one point he took a break and we got lunch at Burger King, which you’re totally not supposed to eat because, hello, you’re in Italy, try the spaghetti! But, I swear it was the best Whopper ever. We hung out together the whole day. We walked along the Arno River talking about everything, but nothing at the same time. He had to catch his train home before it got dark. I remember I was sitting on this stone wall right near one of the bridges, and he kissed me and said, ‘Ciao, Cleo,’ and then he was gone.”

She paused. Devon nodded for her to continue.

“I never told my parents about it. Or anyone, actually. But, that was probably the best day in my life. Unscheduled, no agenda, just going with it. It felt like that’s what life is supposed to be like. Not museums or guidebooks, but just feeling the sun on your skin, or hearing a song you like, flirting with a cute boy. That’s what it’s supposed to be.” Cleo sat back and smiled, her eyes still moist. She let out a long breath.

“I think we just had an actual proper therapy session,” Devon said, smiling back.

“Yeah, I guess we did. See ya next week, Counselor.”

DEVON THOUGHT THAT GETTING her homework done in the library would make it easier to concentrate. Plus, she doubted she would run into Grant here. But all she could think about was her stolen pen. At least now she knew to carry her session notebook everywhere instead of worrying about Grant sneaking into her room. She kept Cleo’s words in her head. If anyone had found anything wrong in her notes it would come back to her. But the pen! Her mother had given it to her. It was sacred, in its own silly way. And Grant had violated a lot more than her trust by stealing it. She’d have to get it back.

She found herself drifting away from reading The Rebirth of America Post WWII, and writing notes in the margins of her notebooks. Pregnancy test = Hutch + Presley, Isla, Raven? At this point, was she to assume that Hutch had gotten Raven pregnant? Is that why he stole the test? So Bodhi wouldn’t find out? But, Bodhi had helped Hutch evade his shoplifting charge. Bodhi had to know something more. He was the only other person to see Hutch that day in Monte Vista. Even with Bodhi and Raven’s suspicions—not to mention Reed’s—about Matt and Isla … still, that didn’t exactly cross Bodhi and Raven off the list of people with secrets around Hutch.

Across the room two freshman girls were whispering back and forth about their Spanish homework. A senior, Archie Chan, read Sports Illustrated in the magazine area. Behind Archie stood a monument to Keaton History: a display case full of old photos of Mr. Keaton in the 1940s, the shovel he broke ground with for the first Keaton building: this library, in fact. The display case had a logo carved into the top of it: the Keaton logo, but slightly different. Three trees, instead of one, inside a circle. Devon looked closer. Where had Devon seen that before?

THE HALLWAY OF FELL House was empty. In ten minutes study hours would be over and the halls would be full of guys roaming around before curfew. Devon said a silent thank you only after she’d slipped inside Hutch’s room unnoticed.

She had to lie on her back on the mattress to see Hutch’s writing underneath the shelf. But it was dark. She didn’t want to turn on the light; she couldn’t risk attracting attention to the room. Next to the closet was a mirror mounted to the wall, held to the wall with plastic clips. Maybe there was a way to get the mirror to reflect enough outside light to see what Devon needed.

These dorm room basics had passed through years of students, so it was no surprise that the clips didn’t put up an argument when she pulled the mirror off. Devon lay on the bed again and she tilted the glass until she caught the light from outside. She saw the words Hutch had written on the underside of the shelf backward—miles to go before I sleep—now plain to read in the reflection. And next to them: the logo she had seen in the library. The circle with three trees, a variation on the Keaton logo. Could it also be the same logo from Reed Hutchins’s belt buckle? It had to be, although why and how, Devon did not know. She also saw now that Tres Abbatis and the three-tree logo was scratched into the black mirror backing. Was this carving also from Hutch? The scrawl of the logos matched too well not to be from Hutch. What was he trying to communicate? Devon repeated the works to herself. “Tres abbatis, tres abbatis,” probably Latin, meaning three of something. She’d look up abbatis back in her room.

As Devon slid the mirror back into the clips on the wall she heard muffled voices in the room next door. “Matt, you’re being paranoid,” a girl’s voice was saying.

She held her breath, listening.

“I’m being paranoid? You need to be a little more paranoid if you ask me. You’re certainly taking the pills for it. He knows I have it, Isla.”

“Calm down, you’ve kept it on the DL. He thinks everything went down in flames with Hutch.”

“If anyone finds this do you know how busted I’ll be? I’m not going down for this. You know what? Hutch isn’t here anymore, he can take the heat.”

Devon heard the door squeak open. There were footsteps in the hall—and the handle on Hutch’s door turned. She barely had enough time to pull the closet door shut before Matt stormed into the room. She couldn’t see what he did, but she heard a squeak of bedsprings. Then Hutch’s door closed again. Devon took a deep breath. She counted to twenty, praying she wouldn’t faint. She was alone. Hutch’s mattress was still empty, the shelves still bare. She lifted the mattress and saw a small black moleskin journal like Hutch used to carry. Devon flipped it open to find pages and pages of initials with numbers and letters next to them.

SH: 15/mg/AD





MD: 25/mg/RT





RK: 10/mg/VC





Hutch’s records of the pharmaceuticals. Cleo mentioned he was good at keeping track of how much people had. That’s because he kept a notebook of everything. No wonder Matt wanted to hide this. He and Isla sounded worried about someone finding this notebook. Reed and Raven and Bodhi were right; they were hiding something. Maybe they knew where the Oxy came from that had killed Hutch. Maybe this book had that answer. Devon felt her hands clenching into fists. She tucked the book into the back of her pants and got the hell out of Fell House as fast as she could.

DEVON’S DOOR WAS OPEN. Funny, she’d left it closed before going to the library. Seething, she picked up her pace down the hallway. If Grant thought he could sneak in without her noticing, he was sorely mistaken. Devon would love to catch him red-handed. Would she turn him in right away? Or enjoy letting him simmer in his guilt for a day or two, knowing that he could be called to the headmaster’s office at any time?

She burst in, taking a breath to yell “Caught you!” but instead of Grant, she found Presley sitting on her bed next to Mrs. Sosa. They both looked worried, sad—guilty, even. “Pres? What’s up?” Devon asked. She dropped her backpack on the ground and noticed her dresser drawer was open. The drawer with the green bottles. Mrs. Sosa spoke as the dread snaked its way down Devon’s back.

Oh, God, no.

“Devon? We need to have a talk. Have a seat.” Mrs. Sosa said, slowly and quietly.

“Dev, I’m sorry. I thought you had my hoodie. I looked in your drawer and I saw the bottles.”

Mrs. Sosa pulled the plastic bag of the three green bottles onto her lap. Inside the bag was also the small bottle of Oxy from Isla and the stray blue Adderall pills she had taken from Isla’s dresser. When the photo of Isla and Hutch poked through behind the bottles, Devon thought she was going to throw up. How was she going to explain this? The book she had taken from Hutch’s room was still wedged into the back of her jeans. She could feel it press against her, getting sticky against her skin as she breathed. Presley had warned her to stop obsessing. Matt had said it, too. And now, here she was, looking so obviously like a complete psycho with even more damning evidence tucked in her pants! She would be sent to see … who exactly?

“I’ve already called Mr. Robins.…” Mrs. Sosa began. Oh yes, that’s exactly who they would send her to.