Escape Theory

CHAPTER 1




September 5, 2012

Junior Year



Devon’s eye caught the harsh glare of the setting sun. She blinked and looked down, realizing she was rubbing her right palm where Hutch had kissed her years before.

“Devon? Are you sure you can handle this?”

She looked up at Mr. Robins. The sunlight suffused the wooden blinds behind him, highlighting the chaos of his curly brown hair. He scrunched his flabby cheeks, pushing his thick, black-rimmed glasses further up his nose. A bushy eyebrow flickered. He wanted an answer.

“Devon? If it’s too much—”

“No, Mr. Robins. It’s fine. I can handle it,” she said.

He leaned back in his chair. “Good. You’re certain?”

“I’m certain,” she said. Her voice tightened.

“And remember from the training guide, you don’t need to have all the answers. You just need to listen. That’s the most important thing you can do for them right now.”

The backlighting found the details in Mr. Robins’s tired face: the end-of-day stubble around his chin and upper lip, the wrinkles that were beginning to make a home at the edge of his eyes. He looked as exhausted as she felt. “Your fellow students are really going to need you.”

“Whoever you think needs a session, I’m here to help,” she said.

“Whomever,” he corrected her.

“Sorry, whomever,” she said through gritted teeth.

“You don’t have to do the push-ups this time,” he offered.

“Thanks,” Devon seethed. Could he really be thinking about grammar right now? Mistaking ‘who’ and ‘whom’ in front of Mr. Robins actually resulted in push-ups. Sometimes the whole class would have to do them for one person’s mistake. But, no, even he had no interest in these Keaton-isms today. He studied his fingernails.

“Imagine if my program had been around earlier. Maybe Jason would have sought refuge in a peer instead of turning his anger inward.…”

“Yeah, imagine.”

“I realize we’ve only been through a basic amount of training over the summer, but we’ll do the best we can, hmm?” He flashed Devon a tight-lipped smile. It was at once a supportive gesture combined with a hint of I’m watching you.

Devon nodded. What do you mean ‘we?’ You’re not the one being thrown into the lion’s den, she wanted to say.

“Like I said, I’m here to help. So, if we’re good here.…” she let the words drag out, but Mr. Robins didn’t get the hint. He was still pondering the mystery of his fingernails.

“You know, if you and Jason were close we can arrange—”

“Hutch. And no, not really. We talked a bit freshman year, but that was like once, ages ago … no, I’m fine. These things happen.” Devon took a deep breath to keep her rising thoughts from spilling out. These things happen. Like getting locked in an off-limits kitchen with a guy after curfew. Sure, that happens all the time. Those damn Nutter Butters. That night in the kitchen. Their night in the kitchen.

Mr. Robins started shuffling through papers on his desk. “You should get yourself some dinner.”

Devon jumped up. As she swung her worn-in backpack over a shoulder she caught a glimpse of her own haggard reflection in the window. She’d grown a few inches since freshman year. That flat chest was no longer a problem by the time she was a sophomore. She now lived in the Keaton sweats she used to loathe, and kept her hair in a messy ponytail most of the time. It was as if someone had thrown her chipper freshman RA, June, the month, into a washing machine—and Devon was what came out, her smile left behind long ago in the spin cycle.

“Thanks,” she said on autopilot.

“I’ll send Matt over to you first thing tomorrow,” Mr. Robins replied, focusing on his desk. “Classes will be cancelled, so you can take all the time you think you need. Just remember what we talked about this summer; listen, take notes, and then we’ll discuss afterward, okay?”

“Sounds good.”

The next thing she knew, Devon was standing in front of the milk machine in the dining hall. It was all the same meaningless swirl: the dull whispering voices of other students eating dinner, faculty trying to keep their toddlers quiet out of respect, and the kitchen staff yelling behind the scenes. Noise in a place that should have been dark and empty. All I wanted was some milk.

What would she do if she could go back to that night? Would she have done it differently? She wanted to experience that newness again. She thought of that apple juice dribbling down his chin. What if he hadn’t been there in the dark? She would have just gone back to her dorm without the milk. She would have shared that bag of cookies with the girls in her dorm and watched Bring it On. She wouldn’t know him like she did. And she wouldn’t be feeling this … whatever feeling the gnawing pit in her stomach was called. She wouldn’t be feeling that.

But Hutch was there in the dark. And despite what had happened over the past two years, however less frequent their conversations became, however much his secret glances at her across the classroom dwindled, she did know him.

A plate clattered to the floor somewhere in the back of the dining hall. She heard applause for the klutz at fault. A few people laughed. How is anyone laughing right now?

Hutch was right; he’d always been right. They were just a bunch of organ donors. Drones cycling through the prep school system and getting spit out on the other end with their fancy college acceptance letters in hand. They were moving parts in the machine. Replaceable parts.

But Hutch wasn’t replaceable.

Devon hated them. Hated that she was one of them. She had become a part of their machine. The same machine that Hutch had tried so hard not to be a piece of.

The words escaped her lips before she could stop herself.

“… bunch of organ donors.”

The metal milk machine blurred in front of her, morphing into a rippling molten bubble. She reached for a glass, but her hand looked fuzzy. Only then did she realize she’d been crying.

Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide

by Henry Robins, MFT

Upon completion of the Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training program, the Peer Counselor will read and sign below:

Peer Counselor Oath

I, Devon Mackintosh, do swear, to the best of my abilities, to uphold the standard and method of Peer Counseling as explained in the Peer Counselor Pilot Program Training Guide written and taught by Henry Robins, MFT.

I have completed the forty-hour Peer Counselor Pilot Program Training Course with Henry Robins, MFT.

As Peer Counselor, I will not give advice to my subjects, but will use the listening and communication skills taught to me by Henry Robins, MFT, to be an understanding and helpful counselor to my peers seeking help.

I will keep and respect the confidentiality of my subjects, and will refer any subject to a professional when warranted.





Devon Mackintosh 9/5/12

Peer Counselor Signature





Date





Supervisor Signature Date

Signed forms should be given to Henry Robins, MFT, before first Peer Counseling session.

Name: Matt Dolgens

Session Date: Sept. 6

Session #1

Reason for Session: Best friend to Jason Hutchins

“I DON’T KNOW WHERE he got it, if that’s what this is all about.”

Matt slouched in the cracked faux-leather armchair. A metal music stand lay on the floor behind him. An out-of-date amplifier collected dust in the corner. So much for peer counseling resembling actual professional therapy. Why she’d imagined a movie set—where subjects lounged on plush recliners in a cozy, neutral, book-lined room; where Devon sat safely behind and beyond their field of vision—she had no clue. She knew Keaton.

Nothing sat between her and Matt’s angry eyes but three feet of stuffy air.

At least the two armchairs she’d secured were comfortable. Plus she’d slapped a poster of a Rorschach inkblot test onto the wall. Now she regretted it. She’d hoped it would make the room feel like a proper counseling space. But even calling this a “room” was generous. It was an eight-by-eight-foot soundproof box.

During the weeklong intensive summer training session with Mr. Robins, he’d emphasized that creating the right environment was important. “I think one of the music rooms would be ideal. Why don’t you go make it yours before the school year gets going,” he’d suggested. “Kids feel safe there. Believe me, I know. It’s where they hook up and puff weed.”

Devon remembered making a concerted effort not to cringe. Was “puff weed” ever something any Keaton student ever said, at all? Still, she’d heeded his advice. Devon could only hope that one of the music prodigies on campus (or a longstanding couple) wouldn’t start a turf war. Who was Devon to stand in the way of Sue Lin’s violin genius? Or to poke another hole in the soul of Keaton’s resident indie guitarist, Phoenix Flowers (his real name), depriving him of the privacy to write his heartbroken love songs? On second thought, that was probably a boon for the whole Keaton community. How could any self-respecting female actually fall for … but no. She was not here to judge. She was here to be judgment-free. Besides, soundproof walls were essential for therapy too.

It was against school policy (Companion Rule #6c) to burn candles, but before Matt even showed, Devon had lit an oversized Scent-o-Vanilla she’d smuggled in to eradicate the musty smell. It was hot in here, though. The sun beamed through a small window, highlighting the dusty air. She should get a plant. Mr. Robins had a plant in his office, didn’t he? She slid the lid off her new shiny Mont Blanc pen—a gift from her mom for completing the training course “because your notes are valuable, the pen you write them with should be to.” Devon had to admit, it was the one thing right now that made her feel remotely qualified to be a peer counselor. She wrote in the corner of her notebook page reserved for Matt’s sessions: Plant.

“What are you writing?” he demanded.

Devon swallowed. “Keynotes for our session,” she lied. “We’re here to talk about you and how you’re handling Hutch’s death,” she added, purposefully holding his gaze. “And as far as knowing or not knowing where he got the drugs, it doesn’t matter. Everything you say here is confidential.” That was the truth.

His jaw twitched. He sniffed, staring down at his feet. “Good, because I found out when everyone else did in that assembly yesterday. I mean, I saw the ambulance drive up the hill. I got that ‘I’m sorry’ text on the night he.…” Matt paused. “On the night he killed himself. But I didn’t put it together. I’m sorry? He didn’t have anything to be sorry about with me, so I figured it was just a mistake, like he probably meant it for Isla. I didn’t know he’d sent it to his whole address book.”

“His whole address book? Like, everyone in his phone?” Devon made her first real note.

Hutch’s suicide text not sent to me.

“Yeah, you know, the ‘I’m sorry’ thing. But by the time anyone put the pieces together it was too late.”

Was it wrong to be annoyed that she was left out? You weren’t even in his phone, Devon. That’s how close you were. So you weren’t lying to Mr. Robins when you said that Hutch was just an acquaintance. She looked at Matt. His shaggy blond hair was damp and starting to curl up on the ends as it dried. From the fresh red sunburn on his cheeks and deep tan line on his neck, Devon knew that he’d had already gone surfing this morning. He and Hutch were regular fixtures on the 6 A.M. van for the diehards that wanted to catch a few waves in Monte Vista before class.

“I still can’t believe he was out there all night,” Matt went on. He shook his head, like he was disagreeing with his own memory. “I don’t care what they found on him. Hutch wasn’t taking Oxy. Not him. When they do one of those toxicology things they’ll know.”

Devon flipped through the training guide in her mind. “So, Hutch wouldn’t take Oxy. Go on,” she prodded.*

Matt crossed a bare foot over his knee and picked at a callous on the side of his big toe. Devon blinked. He wasn’t wearing shoes. She hadn’t noticed that, either. The bottom of his foot was calloused and embedded with dirt. But as Devon stared at his foot she realized she hadn’t seen Matt wear normal shoes since he’d started at Keaton freshman year. He went barefoot everywhere—except when he had to wear cleats for soccer or lacrosse, and dress shoes for formal assemblies. His calluses were so thick they were shoes at this point.

“I mean, maybe he was out there drinking a bit and he fell asleep and the cold got him. I checked the temperatures. It dropped to freezing that night. They rushed this whole suicide decision if you ask me. It just wasn’t him. I would know if he was thinking about something like that. He would have told me. I know he would have.”

Of course he would have, you two were like brothers, is what Devon wanted to say. But instead she said: “It’s a shock to lose someone close.” More than that, she knew it was a shock to Keaton. Even students who’d never exchanged a word to Hutch burst into tears when Headmaster Wyler made the announcement in a special all-school assembly. Rumors had already been flying. Why not? There’d been an ambulance and police cars on campus. Even teachers were crying. Hutch was one of those guys everyone knew and everyone couldn’t help but like.

His girlfriend last year, Isla, had been at the epicenter of the largest cluster. Others had sobbed together in stairwells or hugged each other in the aisles. Devon hadn’t cried then. She hadn’t cried for the same reason Matt was so pissed off right now. Hutch and suicide were just two things that you would never put together.

“I know it’s a hard thing to accept,” she heard herself go on. Mr. Robins had told her that getting the subject to accept a situation was the key to successful therapy.†

Matt tilted his head at her. “Really? That’s what you’re supposed to say to me right now? ‘Acceptance’ crap? It’s not like my dog died, Devon. This is Hutch we’re talking about. I mean, no offense, but why am I talking to you? Big Brother trying to keep tabs on us so the suicide doesn’t spread? Before it becomes the cool thing to do?”

Devon brushed her bangs away from her eyes. He kind of had a point. Would I want to talk to me? She tried to gather her thoughts, remember her training from the summer. It was much harder to do this with people you actually knew. This was not one of Mr. Robins’s practice tests. When in doubt say someone’s name. It creates a sense of familiarity. He has to see you as someone he can confide in. Right. So even though in the outside world Matt Dolgens would NEVER confide in me, let him know he can trust you in here.

“Matt,” Devon began, “you are—”

“Required to be here,” Matt finished.

Devon hesitated. “I think of it as more of an opportunity than a requirement.” She cringed as the textbook answer flew from her mouth.

He sneered. “Ha! More BS.”

“I know it sounds lame, but it’s true. This program really is here, I’m here, to help you.” Devon kept her smile even and reminded herself not to get defensive. Matt’s reaction was normal. It was part of the process. It was part of what separated and distinguished Devon from Matt and Isla and everyone else at Keaton—Hutch, too, maybe. This was Devon’s purpose. She was a neutral observer from the get-go. She’d made that decision when she’d met Hutch, hadn’t she? Back in the days of June, the month; back when she still clung to the idea that Ariel was her true best friend (as opposed to the sporadic cheery-but-incomprehensible Facebook friend Ariel had morphed into)…. Devon had known that she was never meant to be anything more than a fly on the wall of Keaton. “That’s the only goal I have.”

“Please,” Matt spat back. “The only goal you have is to be a Keaton bitch. Some kid overdoses on their property so they gotta cover their asses somehow. So you narc us all out, and you get a good college rec letter? It’s been done before. Must be nice to sell out like that.”

Devon stiffened. “Matt, come on.”

“Next question, Dev. Let’s get this over with.”

She was going to have to change tactics. Hutch. Bring it back to Hutch. She forced a gentle smile. “Remember when you and Hutch went through Buck initiation? You two showed up at like 3 A.M. at my door in Spring House in your boxers? You said you had a mission or something like that.”

“A secret mission,” Matt corrected. But his tone softened a little and a smile began forming on his lips. “Hutch loved a secret mission. The seniors made us try to get girls’ underwear, but it was Hutch’s idea to go to your room.”

Devon nodded. A hard lump had formed in her throat. She could see the sides of his cheeks getting red, his eyes moistening. She leaned forward in her chair.

“What are you thinking about?” she whispered.

Matt swallowed back the tears. He said in a calm voice, “Hutch was the first person to call me out on my shit, freshman year. He called me a spoiled a-hole one day when I wouldn’t take out our trash. No one had ever said anything like that to me. I mean, Hutch grew up with money like I did. But I was used to being special, untouchable. He knocked me down a peg. I hated him for it. But it’s the best thing anyone could have ever done for me, ya know?”

Devon leaned back in her chair. With a shaky hand, she wrote on her notepad: Hutch = reality check.

Matt cleared his throat. “More keynotes?”

She looked up to find his cold eyes boring into hers. “Right. Just notes for myself to keep track of what we talk about—”

“But those don’t go anywhere, right?” Matt asked. His tears were gone.

“Well.” She smiled. For some reason, she was conscious of showing her teeth. She imagined it was the kind of terrified smile chimpanzees make when they’re nervous. “Don’t freak out. I have to record these sessions. It’s procedure.”

“Are you recording this right now? You know I can lawyer up in a second?” Matt’s voice escalated into a sharp bark with each word. “None of this is going anywhere without my consent. And I doubt you want to get my dad involved.”

Devon blinked several times. Right. Reality Check. She couldn’t try to be his friend. She wasn’t supposed to try. In this room, in this time, a “helpee” was just that: a human being who needed help from a detached resource. And as long as she sat in this chair and did what she was supposed to, Matt would see her as the enemy. It was her purpose to win his trust, not his friendship. It was her purpose to help him, no matter how pissed he got at her. Still, she knew that getting his dad involved was not a bluff on his part; his family definitely had the means and most certainly kept a lawyer on retainer. Matt’s family created the Dolgens Ski Company; they sponsored the U.S. Ski Team during the past Olympics. In public wasted moments, usually just before summer break, Matt had always bragged about how he’d expand the company into surfboards, how his dad would put him in charge of creating a surf team.

“Matt, I’m not a narc, okay?” Devon finally said. “Give me some credit. You know me.” She stood to prop the window open.

“Do I? When was the last time you and I actually had a conversation? Freshman year? On the bus to Freshman Campout? And then Hutch ODs and all of a sudden I’m supposed to pour my heart out to you? Bring up all the sweet memories you want, I’m done talking.”

Devon sat back down. “Fine, you don’t have to talk. I can’t make you. You just have to stay here for the whole session.”

Matt lowered his eyes. “So who else are they sending to you? Me, Isla? I heard Isla’s pretty wrecked. Started bawling right in the Dining Hall in front of everyone. They had to take her to the Health Center to get her to calm down; she was scaring all the freshmen. Guess it makes sense she was with Hutch all last year. They lost their.…” He caught himself before saying too much, drumming his fingers on his knees. “Who else are they making talk to you?”

Devon bent low to meet his gaze. “That’s confidential information. That’s part of this whole Peer Counseling thing. You guys have complete anonymity to talk about whatever you want.” Then she leaned back and glanced out the window, as if she didn’t care whether Matt spoke or not, as if she wasn’t hanging on his every word. Funny: this is what it took to get a peek inside Matt Dolgens’ brain. A guy that most girls (who hadn’t already) would give anything to hook up with. Most girls but her.

“Isn’t that redundant?” Matt muttered. “Isn’t anonymity by definition complete?”

“It’s not redundant if it’s emphatic,” Devon pushed back.

“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 people 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