Escape Theory

CHAPTER 20




Monday morning. The zillionth of how many zillions of Mondays? When Devon walked into the dining hall, students were shuffling through the food line, standing at the door chugging a glass of milk, or scarfing their morning cereal. The same old sea of sweatpants and unwashed hair. But this morning it felt different. For the first time Devon saw the Keaton world for what it was. It didn’t feel like a factory for the Ivy League anymore, a sci-fi colony breeding The Perfect Student, organs and all. For the first time, Devon didn’t feel like an outsider. She was a piece of this world. Keaton had been here for her this whole time, but she’d needed to strip away the lies and fakery around Hutch’s death to see it. It was murder. Hutch wasn’t a “troubled young man” with problems “beyond our control.” He was complicated and sweet and rash and tried to do the right thing, and his own brother had killed him for it.

“Yo, Whore-issa Explains it All.” Presley sidled up to her. She chewed on a piece of toast and held out another piece out for Devon. “I put raspberry jelly on it, just like you like.”

Devon took the piece of toast. “Thanks.”

“Um, so I’m sorry and stuff.” Presley shrugged. “I know you want to smack me. I want to smack me. You were following your instinct and it paid off. I’m sure somewhere Hutch is glad you believed in him.”

Devon swallowed and smiled. “I hope he is. But, I had to do it for me, too. To prove he was the guy I knew too.”

“What was the deal with you two, anyway? I didn’t know you were so tight.” Devon took another bite of her toast. “Oh, I get it. You think you can keep a seeeecret. That’s not going to last.” Presley smacked her on the butt and walked away. “I gotta get to Chem. See ya later, hater.”

Name: Devon Mackintosh

Session Date: Oct. 15

Session #4

Reason for Session: Peer Counselor Review

MR. ROBINS SIPPED FROM a white ceramic mug, stolen from the dining hall no doubt. The Santa Cruz Sentinel, with Eric Hutchins’s mug shot splashed on the front page, sat on his desk between him and Devon.

“The truth about what Eric may or may not have done has yet to be determined,” Mr. Robins began. Devon looked at her hands. Why had he called her here if he was just going to lecture her? “But, you did a brave thing. I shouldn’t have put you in session with something this difficult. The good news is, now, everything else in counseling will probably seem easy in comparison.” He laughed a little, and Devon looked up. Okay, he was trying to be nice. “Isla told me what was happening, with her, with Matt. You were keeping secrets, Devon, you shouldn’t have had to keep. And as much as some of your choices went against policy, you showed a lot of strength. Your subjects were lucky to have you.”

“Are you going to keep doing sessions with them? Matt and Cleo?”

“Matt left school last night.”

“What?” Devon stiffened. “What do you mean ‘left?’ Like he just decided to walk away? How does that happen?”

“He wrote Headmaster Wyler a resignation letter of sorts. Said he was leaving school to clear his head.” Mr. Robins took another sip of coffee and leaned back in his chair. “But the question you’re here to answer, Devon, is what do we do with our program?”

“Our program? I thought it was your program at this point.”

“Yes, well, in light of recent events I may have come to that decision too hastily. I’d like us to try again. And you’ve got more experience this time.” Mr. Robins scrunched his nose, pushing his glasses up.

Devon wanted to gloat, but she forced her expression to remain neutral. It’s your session, she thought. “Well, that’s a nice offer, Mr. Robins. I appreciate it. A couple of things might have to be added to the Training Guide going forward. I’ll help you with that. Whether I’m interested in sitting in that chair again? I’ll let you know next semester.”

Mr. Robins’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Well, I’m sure there’s room for discussion.”

“If that’s all you needed to see me about …?” Devon reached for her backpack.

“Actually, I just wanted to tell you that you did a good job. You’d make a good therapist one day. If you still want to be one, that is.” Mr. Robins stood up and held out a hand to Devon. It took her a minute to understand. He wasn’t asking her to hand him something or reaching for something across his desk, he wanted to shake it. Devon put her hand in his, and Mr. Robins’s grip tightened around hers. “You stuck to your beliefs, Devon, and I respect that.”

The smile flickered and she allowed it. “Thanks.”



WHEN THE DORMS CLEARED out for afternoon sports, Devon still hadn’t gotten Matt out of her head. He seemed happy when she had seen him in the library. Maybe Isla’s departure was harder for him than he expected? She still felt like he could show up any moment running to the soccer field or hosing down his wet suit outside Fell House. She had to know for sure. The shower was running at the end of the Fell House hallway. Hutch’s door was still adorned with graffiti, but the words Eric=Traitor were scrawled in a thick black pen across the top. Matt’s door was closed. His room looked as if he had never been there. Amazing how that happened so quickly. Stripped mattress, empty walls; the closet door hung open, also barren. As Devon closed his door behind her, white letters caught her eye. MAVERICKS OR BUST! scrawled in a thick, white paint on the wooden door. Devin smiled. The maintenance crew hadn’t reported this one to the headmaster yet. Surely Matt’s family would be billed for a new door. Not like they would care. Devon ran her hands over the writing, still sticky as it dried. As sad as it was that Matt was gone, he had gone surfing to the place where he and Hutch had wanted to live out their days. Maybe Matt would come back to Keaton, maybe not, but Devon knew he was honoring Hutch and figuring his own stuff out the best way he knew how: on the water. That was Matt’s version of therapy, his Nutter Butters.

Devon noticed his desk had dust outlines around his books, computer, pencil holder. But there was a CD in a blank case sitting in the middle. It looked like it had been left deliberately.

Devon picked it up and saw the handwriting on the CD. Her throat caught. Devon’s Prom Mix.

September 10, 2010

Freshman Year

“COME ON, COME ON, come on.” Hutch wedged the butter knife in the door against the lock. “No, no, no, ahhh.” The knife came out bent, the lock still in place. “If I get this open will you talk to me then?” He threw the knife in the sink next to the other failed lock picking devices. A spatula, a wooden spoon, a broken glass, a can opener … all busts.

“I don’t know. Why don’t you open the door and find out.” Devon placed another plastic glass on her growing tower of glasses.

“I’m going to open this thing. I just need something else. Strong but thin.” Hutch opened drawers, scanned shelves around the kitchen. “No, no … oh,” he held up a cake cutter. “Maybe.”

“Have you tried a credit card? That always works in movies.” Devon didn’t take her eyes off her tower.

“Do you have a credit card on you?”

“No.”

“Then thanks for the suggestion, idiot.” He said the last part quietly under his breath.

“Did you just call me an idiot?”

“No.”

“You totally did.” She put another glass on the tower and it toppled to the floor with a loud clank.

“Nice job, idiot.” Hutch was turned around watching her. “Oh yeah, I said it that time.”

If Devon wasn’t so tired she might have had a good comeback to that. She might have bothered to be upset but the only response her body had left was to laugh. All she could do was laugh. Laugh loud and hard and without reason. Reason had slipped out the kitchen under the locked door while they were making pancakes. Tears sprung to her eyes as if the force of her laughter pushed them out.

Hutch started laughing, too. He doubled over, steadying himself on his knee while still clutching the cake cutter. His laugh slowed to a slow drip, steady but further apart.

“You know, there are two kinds of people in this world,” she said. “The ones that carry credit cards, and the ones that carry cake cutters.”

Hutch held up the metal cutter for inspection. “You doubting my cake-cutting skills?”

“Yeah, I’m absolutely doubting your cake-cutting skills.” She took a step closer, the triangle blade of the metal caught the light outside. Hutch was smiling at her. He reached his hand out for her and she took it. Hutch pulled her close and let her hands fall on his shoulders. They stood there, her face at his neck and his breath hitting her forehead. Hutch’s hands wrapped around her waist. Devon tried not to exhale. Her over-analytical mind told her to pull away, not to give in just yet. But, his hands around her, his eyes looking down at her, she couldn’t move. It felt too good right here.

Slowly he shifted from one foot to the other, Devon leaned with him, and then they were swaying together as if music were playing. Hutch hummed a tune and Devon leaned her head onto his shoulder, relaxing into his grasp. With the outside yellow light cutting lines through the dim kitchen, they could have been at a school dance or in a dark club. Hutch slid a hand along her arm and held her hand aloft in his like they were dancing the Waltz. He hummed louder.

“Are you singing ‘At Last?’ ” she asked.

“No,” Hutch said, and kept dancing. “I’m humming it. But I can sing it.”

“Let’s hear it,” she said.

Suddenly Hutch spun Devon under his arm, her hand reaching up and over her head. “And life is like a song,” Hutch sang. His cheeks scrunched up and his head bobbed with each note. “Oh yeah, yeah, At last … can’t beat Etta James, huh?”

“Did you grow up in a juke box or something?”

“I just like old music. I don’t know; there’s more feeling in it. Maybe it’s listening to it on records at my grandfather’s. Love songs sound better on vinyl.”

“Is that a thing?”

“Yeah, it’s a thing.” Devon could feel Hutch smile as he spoke. He leaned back, looking at her now. “I think there should be another thing. This. Us dancing. It needs to happen again. Want to make a deal?”

“What kind of deal?” Devon felt herself blush.

“Senior year. No matter who we’re with, whatever happens until then, go to prom with me. I don’t want to leave Keaton and not have another night with you. This way at least we’ll have one guaranteed.”

“You sure you want to commit to a long-term deal like that? I mean, we do have four more years here together.”

“I know we do,” he said with a smile. He leaned down and kissed her. And kept kissing her. Devon stood on her toes again to kiss him back, her hands wrapped around his neck. Out the window behind Hutch, Devon noticed the sky was shifting from black to a glowing gray.

“The sun’s coming up soon,” she said.

“I’m going to get us out of here,” he said.

Hutch went back to work on the door, and this time Devon stood behind watching. He wedged the metal in between the door and the frame. It fit. Wiggling his cutter side to side he pushed it deeper in place. It clinked against something. “The lock.” Hutch’s face contorted as he twisted and dug the metal knife further. With a push they both heard the lock click back into the door. They looked at each other, frozen.

“Was that …?”

Hutch gritted his teeth and pushed the handle of the door. It opened. The cool air of the night blew into the kitchen. They could see a streak of pink spreading through the gray sky.

“We’re out,” Devon said.

“Told you I’d get us out.” Hutch held the door open for her.

Devon stepped outside absorbing everything. The gravel driveway seemed new, almost exotic. The air was cool and fresh, waking her up. She turned back to Hutch. “You did,” she said. “We’re free.”

He nodded, but still hung in the doorway. “I hope you don’t hate me. It was a stupid idea that backfired. But I’m glad it did.”

“I don’t hate you. I think this was the first real fun I’ve had since getting here.”

“Do you ever have those moments where you feel like you’re in the middle of making a really good memory? One that you’re going to remember when you get old? I think we just lived one of those moments.”

“You really think when you’re like fifty and have a wife and two kids and the house and fancy career, you’ll really remember this one little night?”

He didn’t so much as blink. “I’m going to remember this night until I die. Maybe even after that.”

“Me, too.” Devon’s feet were moving before she could think about it. Her lips were against his before she could talk herself out of it. She pulled him back into the kitchen and closed the door behind them. Hutch spun her around against the door and kissed her. His hand in the small of her back pulled her up to him, helped keep her from letting her body melt into the floor. Finally she pulled herself away and looked up into his brown eyes. Those thick eyebrows and big ears.

“Good night, Hutch,” she whispered.

Hutch kissed her palm again, folding her fingers around his imaginary kiss. “Good night, Devon.”

Present Day

October 16

THE BLACK LIMO, THE Town Car, and the silver Mercedes took up most of the parking spaces in Reed’s driveway as Raven’s Volvo pulled in.

“Blending right in,” Raven said.

“Who are all these people?” Devon asked as she got out of the car.

“The peanut gallery, as Reed calls them. Bill, Mitzi, some lawyer or three. It’s a shitstorm around here these days. Come on, there’s a better view from the guest house.” Raven’s flip-flops shuffled on the gravel as she walked down the hill. Devon followed her, kicking off her shoes as they headed straight down the stairs into the office hub. Bodhi was at the desk watching the monitors.

“Oh hey,” he said.

Cleo was reading a magazine on the nearby couch. “Hey, Dev. You here for the weekend, too?” She stood up and wrapped her arms around Bodhi at his chair.

“Just for a quick visit,” Devon said. “Reed wanted to see me.”

“Good luck,” Cleo said. She nodded toward the monitors where Bill Hutchins was arguing with two lawyers. “Turn it up, babe. She should hear this.”

Bodhi spun a volume knob.

“She tricked him into a relationship. He was under stress. Why is this so hard to understand?” Bill was yelling and throwing his hands into the air.

“Bill, you have to understand. That does not mitigate the physical evidence against him. The girl is pregnant. She’s dropping out of school.” The lawyers were also throwing up their hands in the air: a chorus of overdramatic exasperation.

“Is this happening right now up at the house?” Devon asked.

“Yep. Reed wanted records of everything said around here. You never know where this thing is going to go.” Raven lay on the sofa and closed her eyes. She suddenly perked up and checked her cell phone. “Reed’s waiting for you at the Mount.”

“The Mount?” Devon asked.

“The highest point of the vineyard. It’s where Athena and Hutch are buried. Just walk out the front door, turn right, and follow the trail up hill. I’ll take you back to school when you’re done.”

Everyone was watching Devon. She nodded and then walked out. What was she walking into?

The trail was well-worn and led directly to the rows of grapes below the guest house. She spied a familiar cowboy hat silhouette at the top of the hill.

Reed took off his hat to greet her when she arrived at his spot.

Two simple stone headstones lay side by side at his feet. The valley of grapevines extending to the ocean was the view below.

“It’s a great view, isn’t it?” Reed said. “This way they can enjoy it, too.”

Devon noticed Hutch’s gravestone.

JASON REED HUTCHINS

(1996–2012)

THE ROAD LESS TRAVELED.

She felt her eyes sting upon reading the inscription. The Frost poem. Devon took a seat on the stone bench next to Reed. He looked at the hillside below.

“There’s going to be a fight over this land. And Eric and this baby with Maya is just the beginning. Francis Keaton put the school here for a reason, and I intend to protect it from the likes of Edward Dover. But, I need your help.”

“Does this have something to do with the Tres Abbitas?”

Reed ran the brim of his hat along his fingers. “Keaton, Dover, and Hutchins. The three trees. This was our mountain.”

“What happened?” Devon thought back to the newspaper picture. Reed and Edward smiling as Francis broke ground on the school.

“Power, money. It has a way of poisoning men.”

“But weren’t you all friends?” Devon searched Reed’s face. He was looking at Athena’s gravestone.

ATHENA SCOTT HUTCHINS

(1926–1968)

BELOVED WIFE & MOTHER

Reed turned to Devon, a sad smile on his face. She could tell there was pain behind that smile.

“There’s a reason Hutch picked you. He lost himself with Isla and wanted to keep his feet on the ground this time. I told him to find the person he trusted. The person who no matter what, no matter how much he changed, would always recognize the real Jason Hutchins underneath everything else. He said that was you. You were the only one that really got him.” Devon looked at her open palm, then slowly, like Hutch had done, closed her fingers around his imaginary kiss. “Whether you want to be or not, you’re a part of this now.”

Devon looked at Grandpa Reed. His weathered, wrinkled skin around his eyes. She saw Hutch’s warmth in his face and knew that Reed knew how she felt about Hutch. And that was okay. Reed wouldn’t be around much longer to guide her way. She would do whatever needed to be done.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book would not exist without the trust, guidance, and extreme patience of the great and powerful Oz Daniel Ehrenhaft: Soho Teen guru, editor extraordinaire, taskmaster, fellow boarding school delinquent, and an all-around very cool dude. Thank you for your faith in me.

Many thanks to the rest of the gang at Soho Press: Queen Bee and kickass author, Bronwen Hruska; publicity maven Meredith Barnes; and the amazing help from Simona Blat; Paul Oliver; Rudy Martinez; Janine Agro; Juliet Grames; Mark Doten; Katie Hoffman; and Rachel Kowal. There are not enough Nutter Butters in the world to thank all of you properly.

The wonderful and inspired Keaton School logo is all due to the creative ingenuity and generosity of Sita Raiter and the gang at Yeti Creative Boutique in Vietnam.

To Julie Kane-Ritsch, Jeff Portnoy, and everyone else at the Gotham Group; thank you for your enthusiasm for this project and all of its iterations.

Octavia Spencer, Jennifer Niven, McCormick Templeman, and Sara Shepard: thank you ladies for your votes of confidence. I feel incredibly blessed to be in your orbit.

Lexa Hillyear, Lauren Oliver, and Stephen Barbara: your wisdom helped me turn the possibility of writing a YA series into a reality. Thank you.

Joel “Kodachrome” Dovev: thank you for your Hutchian inspiration, Nutter Butter pancake experiment, and your limitless love and support.

Julia Cohen and Jason Martin, a.k.a my Brooklyn family: thank you for the brainstorming, edits, dinners, and rosé—not necessarily in that order.

Lots of love to my family for your support, polite suggestions, related articles, and endless cheerleading. And Dad, thanks for comparing me to Hemingway as only you could.

Many thanks to Cate School and The Thatcher School for your help in my research.

To my high school friends from California and England: the secret missions, the crushes, the pranks, the heartbreak, the school spirit, the work crews, the roommate drama, the food fights, the bus rides, the senior pages, everything that was wrong and everything that was right about boarding school … I thank you for all of it.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Margaux Froley grew up in Santa Barbara, California, and attended not one, but two boarding schools during her high school years in California and Oxford, England. She studied film at University of Southern California, and has worked for such television networks as: TLC, CMT, Travel, MTV, and the CW.

She currently lives in Los Angeles and still loves Nutter Butters.

Escape Theory is her first novel.

You can visit her at www.margauxfroley.com.