Escape Theory

CHAPTER 2




Name: Isla Martin

Session Date: Sept. 7

Referred by: Mr. Robins

Reason for Session: Hutch’s girlfriend



“You’re such a sweetheart,” Isla said in a soft, high-pitched voice. She was lying on her side in bed, one arm tucked under her head. Her other arm was extended, fingers wagging like jazz hands that had lost most of their jazz. She beckoned Devon to her with a limp flick of her wrist. “Lemme see,” she whispered.

Devon placed the green sweatpants and sweatshirt on the edge of Isla’s bed in a neat pile. “I just grabbed the first stuff I saw, hope it’s okay.”

That wasn’t exactly true. When Nurse Reilly sent Devon to grab overnight clothes for Isla in the Health Center, Devon found most of them in a massive pile on Isla’s floor. Funny: it had reminded Devon of the piles of leaves her mom would pay her to rake up in their yard every fall. Five dollars for the whole yard. She’d always have to fight the urge to leap and belly-flop onto the middle of the pile. It was worth an extra half hour of raking for one chance to fly into the air and land in the soft cushion of leaves, sending them flying up around her in a whoosh!, as if the pile was exhaling an excited burst of leaf breath. She would slowly sink closer to the ground as the leaves crunched beneath her.

Isla’s laundry pile was limp and sad in comparison: a miserable support group for lost and found items. If Devon tried to belly-flop on the clothes, they would probably just sag and give in to her weight, a frail moan in response. She had found the sweats and sweatshirt by picking the first two colors that seemed to match. She also made a mental note to return to the room later, to fold and put away the rest of Isla’s clothes. That way when Isla left the Health Center she could return to a clean room.

Not like Isla would ever do the same for Devon, but that was the power of Isla. She was always getting people to do nice things for her. Devon was used to being an audience member of The Isla Martin Show. Isla’s flowing skirts, wavy-blonde hair and glittering blue eyes swept everyone under her spell—and the only acceptable responses would be, “of course,” “here you go,” and “do you need anything else?” And when she and Hutch were together it seemed that the combination of their beauty and charm could power the entire school.

Now she seemed … small.

“These are great. I just want to be cozy, you know.” Isla sat up in bed and stretched her arms to the ceiling in a long, luxurious yawn. If she hadn’t been such a mess, the gesture might have been sexy: a lean cat just waking up from a nap. But all Devon could think was: This girl is way too skinny. And she needs a shower.

The afternoon had been a blur, mostly a fight to get Isla to the Health Center, in spite of her shaking and sweating and incoherent mumbling. The prescription bottle was for OxyContin. There were still a few pills inside. Devon’s peer counselor mode took over. Her first priority had been to get Isla to the Health Center to make sure she was physically okay. Devon deliberately avoided explaining the Oxy to Nurse Reilly when they got there. It would have escalated the situation from “distraught girl” to “drug addict,” which could have brought with it a whole army of unwanted faculty.

Devon needed a chance to figure out how to approach this one first. Isla was more than a bereaved girlfriend: she could be suicidal, or she could have been Hutch’s pill supplier, or both. Being in possession of the pills alone could get her expelled. But there was too much Devon still wanted to know about Hutch’s death; she couldn’t turn Isla over to the faculty just yet. It wasn’t selfish, Devon reasoned, as a peer counselor she was looking out for Isla’s best interests, and maybe there’d be helpful insight into Hutch. They’d discuss it in session together and Devon could ascertain if Isla really was a suicide risk.* She’d get Mr. Robins involved if she needed to, but only in a worst-case scenario. That’s what a good counselor would do, right?

Isla rubbed her eyes and glanced around. She wrinkled her brow, as if confused by the fact that she wasn’t in her dorm room. She blinked at the rows of neatly made-up twin beds and fluorescent lights. A faded quilt was folded at the end of each bed: a flimsy effort at making the Center feel more homey. Of course, most Keatonites who used this part of the Health Center were freshman going through a bout of homesickness. A quilt that reminded them of Grandma—and a cup of hot chocolate with Nurse Reilly, whose wrinkled face and gray-haired bob would look equally at home in a nurse’s uniform as it would on a box of cookies … the standard and most effective cure on campus.

Devon knew. She’d been here herself.

With marshmallows floating in the mug of cocoa, Nurse Reilly had let four-week freshman Devon babble on and on about everything she missed at home. When she’d finally wrung herself out, Nurse Reilly took Devon’s hand in her own—silky soft and gnarled—and promised that before she knew it, Devon would have all of those things and more at Keaton.

For better or worse, Nurse Reilly was right. Going home over the summers the past two years felt like a limited stay in a vaguely familiar hotel. Devon often wondered if the boarding school experience was an extended case of Stockholm Syndrome: where the prisoners started to identify and even bond with their captors. Did being a peer counselor mean she had gone to the other side? Was she the prisoner that betrayed her fellow prisoners for a bigger slice of bread: in her case a recommendation to Stanford?

No. She was here to help. She wanted to help, bigger slice of bread or not.

Isla crawled out of bed and pulled her black tank top over her head. Her purple padded bra looked wrong, almost too bright and happy on the sad shape her body was in. Devon could see her ribs jutting out over her flatter-than-flat stomach. Hip bones popped out of the top of her jeans. Faded red scratches ran up and down her arms. Devon turned her back while Isla unzipped her jeans.

“Please, like we’ve never seen each other naked before,” Isla said with a short laugh.

That was true. But Devon had never seen Isla in this state before, either. Even though they had lived in the same dorms for the last two years, shared the same communal showers, and brushed teeth in their pajamas next to each other countless times, Isla’s inner light always burned brighter than everyone else’s. Her perfection made the guidelines of beauty clear to the rest of the girls: Isla on top, Keaton mortals below. It was one less thing to think about. But now, Isla looked broken, like a phoned-in version of her former self. Devon didn’t want to accept it. If Isla’s standard of beauty could be cracked, what did that mean for the rest of them?

Of course, if Devon were to work with Isla, she would have to start seeing beyond the glorified image of the Isla Martin. She would have to accept the dark rings under Isla’s eyes and the way she couldn’t hold eye contact. In session, Isla wasn’t superhuman. She was just another sixteen-year-old who needed help.

“You slept through the afternoon. Probably needed it,” Devon said, pulling a nearby rocking chair next to Isla’s bed. “Nurse Reilly said your pulse was racing. Like you were having a panic attack or something.”

Isla pulled her long blonde hair out from underneath her sweatshirt and tied it into a knot on the top of her head. Frayed split ends poked out like a warped halo. She pulled the covers over her lap.

“I didn’t need a trip to the Health Center, you know,” she said after a minute.

“Sorry about that.” Devon turned away, and instantly regretted it. Bad form. She was losing her footing in this conversation before they got started.

“Whatever, it’s pretty chill in here,” Isla added. “It’s easier than being out there. Everyone giving me their pity faces, the forced frowns. I’m so over it.”

“Well, I promise not to give you a forced frown if that helps.” Devon smiled, but Isla rolled her eyes and studied her fingernails. “Mr. Robins said he spoke to you about seeing me.”

“Yeah, I’m, like, supposed to talk with you about my issues and stuff.”

“It’s just for a few sessions.” Devon pulled her notebook from her bag and dropped it unopened into her lap, then leaned back. She hoped the gesture was non-threatening.† It felt good to have something to write in, something that made her feel removed from their existing relationship, however thin that was.

Isla smirked at the pad of paper. “So, what? Are you going to peer into my soul, Devon? Show me the error of my ways?”

“How about we start with the Oxy. Why’d you give me those pills?”

Isla chewed a nail.

Devon smoothed out the empty page of her notebook, shiny Mont Blanc pen poised. But her heart had started to pound again. “Isla?”

“I didn’t give them to you. I just wanted you to hold onto them for a bit. There’s a difference.”

“Fair enough. Why did you want me to hold onto them?”

“I just did, okay? With Hutch and everything.…” Her voice trailed off and she studied her fidgeting hands in her lap. Therapy is what happens when you let the subject fill the silences, Devon reminded herself. Isla’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Maybe I didn’t want to end up like him,” she said in a hoarse voice. “Is that the answer you’re looking for?”

“Why do you think you would? Are you planning on taking those pills?”

She stared back down at her hands. “I wasn’t there for him. And now he’s not here. I just worried about, like, what if I got into a bad place like Hutch did and had those pills around.… I just didn’t want them in my room anymore, okay? I thought I was making a good decision.” Her tone hardened. “Why are you grilling me for it?”

“No one is grilling you. You’re right; it was a good decision.” Devon made sure that her tone was warm, inviting Isla to open up. “I’m glad you asked me to hold onto them for you. Do you think Jenny Martin will miss them, though?”

Isla’s head snapped up to meet Devon’s gaze. “What?”

“The pills. I noticed the prescription is made out to Jenny Martin in Portland. Is that someone in your family. Maybe your grandmother?”

Isla scratched at her arm and stared at the yellow daisies on her quilt. Her pupils flickered. Devon had struck the vital nerve.

“How about an alias for Isla Martin?” she pressed, even though she knew she was reaching. “Is Jenny Martin a name you use to get prescriptions filled in Portland?”

“Shut up!” Isla snapped. “You don’t know what the f*ck you’re talking about. Why am I even talking to you? Just give them back.” Her voice was no longer raspy or choked. She held out her trembling hand, palm up to Devon. “Give them back, NOW.”

Jackpot, Devon thought. But having her suspicions confirmed gave her no pleasure. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’ll hold onto them for you though, okay?”

“You’re not going to rat me out?”

Devon shook her head and gazed into Isla’s bloodshot eyes. “Part of the deal here is that nothing we talk about gets shared with anyone else. So, as long as we keep talking, and I feel like you’re not a danger to yourself or others, no. I won’t rat you out. That’s the truth.”

Isla folded her arms. “That’s still a pretty lame reason for not giving back what’s mine.”

Devon held her hands up in a mock surrender. “Hey, you gave them to me in the first place. I’m just doing what you wanted.”

“Touché.” Isla leaned against the cold cinderblock wall.

“You and Hutch have been together since last year. Did you talk to him at all that night? Did he give you any indication of what he might be thinking of doing?”

“I didn’t see him that night, okay?” Isla said.

“Okay. Was that for any specific reason or just circumstance?”

Isla laughed in a hollow breath. “We broke up over the summer. Clearly you didn’t get the memo.”

Devon swallowed. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Her mind raced to process. They weren’t together anymore? Hutch was single again? When he asked to have pancakes with her again he was single? His smile, his question all had new meaning. She shoved the swirl of thoughts away. “Do you want to tell me about that?”

Isla sighed. “You don’t have a cigarette on you, do you?”

Devon laughed. “What we say in counseling is confidential, but that’s the only rule I can slightly bend. Smoking in the Health Center is definitely not going to fly.”

Isla had to laugh, too. “Figured it was worth a shot. If regular rules are suspended in these little sessions, ya never know.”

“I’ve got gum.” Devon offered her a piece of Winterfresh from the pack in her pocket. “Might be stale, but it’s better than nothing.”

Isla took the gum and started chewing, opening her mouth wide. Devon tried not to stare at the gum being violently tossed back and forth between her teeth. She really is a wreck. Isla twisted the wrapper into a long wormlike strand and rolled it between her fingers.

“It was the first week of summer. We were supposed to go on some boat trip with his parents, but we were arguing all the time. Hutch said he wasn’t happy anymore. I thought he meant he wasn’t happy with us. But now maybe he meant.… He wouldn’t have done it if I was there for him. He should have let me be there for him.” Her voice caught.

“Isla, what happened to Hutch is nobody’s fault, okay? This isn’t your fault.” Devon leaned forward, forcing eye contact. It was important that Isla knew this. If she took the blame, then she was at risk. The girl was using an alias to feed an addiction; she was more than capable of hurting herself. She already had hurt herself.

“How do you know?” Isla sounded as if she were talking more to herself than Devon. “You didn’t know him like I did. I mean, we kind of pissed each other off from time to time, but there was a while there we were really in love. Like, I didn’t think it was possible to love someone that much, kind of love. It sounds like a stupid movie when I say it out loud but it’s true. And he all of a sudden says he didn’t want to see me? Thought we’d grown apart. It was so cliché, but it was my life.” She laughed bitterly. “That sounds like a stupid movie, too.”

“How did you grow apart? What happened?” Devon wasn’t sure this was actually relevant to counseling Isla, but she couldn’t help herself.‡ Their coupledom had turned them into Isla-And-Hutch, a unit, a thing; how could that relationship fall apart?

Isla shrugged. “I don’t know. He wanted me to lay off the pills, and I thought he was being controlling. I refused to change for him. I thought I was proving to him that I could be strong. And once I was home in Portland it was easy to get whatever I wanted. So I didn’t have to change. I think I kept using just because he didn’t want me to. But, I don’t know. The way he did it, looking down on me, he was so f*cking smug about it. It pissed me off.”

“What about now? Do you still think it was him, being controlling and smug?” The words just popped out of her mouth. Devon gritted her teeth. She was starting to sound like her mom. Don’t judge; be supportive. On the other hand, the non-counselor voice in her head couldn’t believe that Isla had essentially chosen pills over Hutch. Epic mistake. Any girlfriend would have talked Isla out of it, gotten her to kick the pills—whatever it took to stay with someone like Hutch. But maybe Isla with all her magic spells couldn’t conjure up any real friends to step in before her addiction took hold.

Can I? Devon wondered. That’s what she’d signed up for with this peer counseling stuff. She had to try, to finish what Hutch would have wanted for Isla. She could help Isla see the error in her ways, without being pushy of course, and Isla could stop blaming herself for Hutch’s suicide—

“I saw him earlier that day, you know?” Isla began, almost as if reading Devon’s thoughts. “The day he … his last day. He was making a sandwich in the Dining Hall before going into Monte Vista. And you know what he did? Typical Hutch. He wouldn’t talk to me. He said I hadn’t changed at all. He knew I was still using. Condescending prick.” Isla twisted a handful of quilt into her clenched fist.

“And then he committed suicide that night with pills,” Devon murmured.

Isla snorted in disgust. “Hypocrite. Typical Hutch working his magic: Look at my right hand, so you don’t see what my left hand is doing. And I fell for it. We all did.”

Devon nodded but her head was spinning. “Was Hutch always against the Oxy? He never took it with you?” If Isla was using a drug like that, he had to know. Maybe that’s why Hutch had inexplicably reached out to Devon again a few days ago, across the parking lot and all that time. Her chest squeezed tighter. He’d wanted to get pancakes. Like that night, their night. Like he’d been in an Isla haze, and had finally emerged to see that Devon was there the whole time.

“At first, maybe a few times,” Isla said. “But then he wouldn’t touch the stuff. Talked about not wanting to pollute his body and other crap like that.” She chewed another nail and spat it onto the floor. She squinted at Devon. “You really didn’t get the memo, did you?”

“About what?”

“Look, I can say this because he’s gone. Otherwise I wouldn’t be telling you shit. But, Hutch was supplying pills to like half the school. Nothing like Oxy, he wouldn’t go that far, but Adderall, Ritalin, Wellbutrin, Xanax, Prozac, Valium. If you wanted to go up, down, or sideways, Hutch was your guy.” Isla’s mouth curled into a half-smile.

Devon adjusted her notebook in her lap, anything to hide her face. “Yeah, I heard something like that,” she managed as nonchalantly as she could.

“It wasn’t a big deal or anything. Just a little Adderall to help kids study or Valium to help them take the edge off the Adderall. Whatever they needed. But Hutch made sure they actually needed it. He knew how much everyone was taking, kept the doses low.” Isla shrugged. “I guess he was still kind of looking out for people, in his own twisted way.”

Devon’s chest constricted again. Images of Hutch—smiling at Devon, leaning against that dirt-covered car … toasting her with a Nutter Butter … they popped and were gone. Her mouth was dry and she had to lick her lips to speak. “So why’d he do it all? If he wasn’t taking anything himself?”

“I guess because he could. He had access. Most of the campus is taking this stuff anyways, so might as well bring a little quality control to the situation. He said it’s like that in Europe. At the bigger raves out there they have people who will test your ecstasy to see what it’s cut with. At least someone could make sure they’re taking stuff that doesn’t kill ’em. Ironic, huh?”

“Yeah. Definitely.” Devon picked at a loose piece of rubber on her flip-flops. Her head was swimming in a million questions, new shades of Hutch rising to the surface like bubbles.

“But at the end of last year he quit it all,” Isla continued. “Stopped dealing. Even stopped drinking coffee. Didn’t want to be controlled by it anymore. That’s why he wanted me to stop using too.”

Devon couldn’t think of an appropriate response. This version of Hutch wasn’t new to Isla. But to Devon he’d always been a faraway buoy in the choppy ocean of Keaton. Now, in death, the closer she swam to him, the further away he seemed.

“I don’t know what he got into this summer. But something changed. If we were still together this wouldn’t have happened. It just wouldn’t.” Isla sighed heavily. “What are we supposed to do now? How come he gets to check out and leave the rest of us to pick up the pieces? It just doesn’t seem fair. What about me? How could he do this to me?”

“I don’t know,” Devon said. I really don’t know. But I have to keep swimming.

DEVON WAS WRITING ABOUT Isla’s deteriorating physical condition. It would be good to keep track of if she got better or worse: The red scratches, the low weight—

Her door flew open.

She straightened her back against the wall. Sitting cross-legged on her bed was always a more comfortable place to study, as long as she remembered to stand up every now and then.

“Yo, bitch, did you steal my Origins mask again?” Presley demanded, barging into the room. She started rooting through the bottles of lotions on the bedside table. “It’s made of volcanic ash and you know that doesn’t come cheap.”

Devon tucked the session notes under her pillow. “So the ‘Quiet, studying’ note on the door wasn’t clear enough, I see. Good to know.”

“Please, you know that doesn’t apply to me,” Presley was already opening and smelling different bottles. “Whore-ella Deville, cough it up, where’s my volcanic ash?”

“Bitch, please, I have my own volcanic ash. Why would I need yours?” Devon smiled. As much as she loved quiet privacy, Presley’s reliable interruptions insured that Devon would laugh her ass off every once in a while, like a normal human being.

Presley rubbed a glob of lotion into her palms. “You don’t have any like Pepto or something do you? My stomach’s been kicking my ass. I totally barfed up dinner.”

“Eww. That might have just ruined taco night for me.”

Presley threw the hand lotion bottle at Devon. “If the mystery meat hasn’t ruined taco night for you yet, then I just did you a favor.”

“Good point.” Devon sighed. “But, I don’t have anything for your stomach.”

Presley checked herself out in Devon’s mirror. She was wearing her typical dorm uniform, flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt, and her curly blonde hair in a loose knot on the top of her head. “I hope I’m not like sick, sick. That would totally blow. Oh, speaking of blowing, b-t-dubs, what’s up with you and Gaa-raant! Roar. Someone worked out over the suuuh-mmer.” Presley liked to sing words for emphasis. She reveled in her terrible voice, an invisible karaoke mic on at all times.

Devon stretched out on her bed. “Pres, this whole Hutch thing.…”

“What?

“I just—I don’t know. I don’t want to gossip about how hot Grant is.”

Presley turned to her. Her blue eyes softened for a second. “Sweetie, the Hutch situation totally sucks. But that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to have a little fun.” Presley smelled her hands. “Mmmm, lemon. I like that one. You should get more of that.”

Devon had to laugh again. “How are you not more, like, in shock about all this? You and Hutch were on the newspaper together.”

“Look, I’m not like some heartless jerk. I get it.” Presley applied some of Devon’s mascara as she spoke, her mouth curled into an ‘O’ as she forced her eyes open. “But listen: The whole school moping around isn’t going to change the fact that Hutch is dead and gone, and that it was his decision. I mean, I feel bad for his family and all, but writing poems in my journal or contemplating life over tacos isn’t going to change anything. Hutch was clearly in a shitty place. I just hope he’s happier now. You need more mascara.”

Devon blinked. She felt like she was being counseled now. Hearing these cliché condolences wasn’t helpful; it was just annoying—even coming from Presley, whom Devon loved precisely because she never, ever engaged in bullshit. But the fact remained: Devon didn’t believe Hutch really meant to kill himself. Now she understood Isla’s irritation at everyone’s fake frowns and false hugs. They all felt like futile attempts to remedy something that could never be fixed. No matter what anyone said, Hutch was gone. The emptiness left behind sucked up each stupid platitude (“He will be missed.”) like a vacuum, leaving behind what you started with. Nothing.

“Oh come on, is this counseling thing going to make you a downer all year? Cause, if I gotta find a new best friend who actually likes to have fun, tell me now.” Presley had a goofy grin on her face. She waited for Devon to pick up the cue.

“So … Grant.” Devon said, without much enthusiasm.

“Grant,” Presley said back. She plunked down in Devon’s chair.

“He did come to visit me, and not during visiting hours. You think.…”

“I totally think. If he dropped by unannounced during the first week, you know what that means. He was thinking about you this summer.” Presley drew out the last sentence as if she’d just cracked the Da Vinci Code.

“Ya think?” Devon doubted it. Guys didn’t exactly seek her out. Presley usually acted as Devon’s hook-up guru, pushing her together with whatever wingman was attached with Presley’s current boyfriend. Their system had yielded precisely 2.5 hook-ups for Devon in the last two years. The half was when Presley was hooking up with a local surfer in Monte Vista. Presley and her surfer made out on the beach while Devon and the surfer’s friend, Whateverhisnamewas, huddled in his crappy van for warmth. He smoked joint after joint until just before passing out he said to Devon, “You’re totally bang-able. You can go down on me, if you want.” A true charmer. The ever optimistic Presley had insisted that if Whateverhisnamewas hadn’t passed out, he would obviously have hooked up with Devon—thus the half point.

“Yeah, I think. Someone’s gonna get la-aaaa-id.” Presley sang again.

“I don’t know.” Devon flopped onto her back. The glossy white ceiling reflected her room in rippling waves, Presley’s blurry head of yellow hair and blue pants, and Devon, a wavy white form on her colorful bed. “Hey, did you know Hutch was dealing pharmaceuticals last year?” Devon asked the ceiling.

Presley plucked a lip gloss from Devon’s table and tried it on. “Yeah, I scored some Adderall off him last year for finals. Way to change the subject, President Ho-bama.”

Devon rolled over. “Whatever, Former Vice President Al Whore.” Her smile faded. “Jesus, am I the only one that didn’t know what Hutch was doing?”

“Probably,” Presley said.

“Do people think it’s weird that Hutch OD’d on the one kind of pill he didn’t sell?” Devon was beginning to feel like the only one at Keaton who was left out of the Hutch party. First she doesn’t make the list for his suicide text. Now she discovers that everyone but her knew he was running a pharm ring at school. Yes, it was petty, but why not her? Not that she was waiting around to buy pills from him, but it felt unfair that Hutch kept a huge piece of himself hidden. Weren’t they closer than that?

“I wouldn’t say weird.” Presley’s voice broke into her thoughts. “More like, ‘not totally surprised.’ But you’re right: Hutch never had Oxy. It was like a rule of his. Wouldn’t give out the hard stuff. Strictly performance enhancers. He said it was something about messing with the system. Fighting the Man, all that. Like, I heard he even hooked up Jin Soo with prescription strength Rogaine because Jin was freaking out about losing his hair early.”

“Jin is losing his hair?”

“Not anymore.” Presley flashed a smile. “Look, dork, it’s almost nine thirty P.M. Pete’s coming over and we’re getting the language lab before anyone else. Seriously, who told these freshman all the hook-up spots? It’s not cool. Not cool at all.”

Devon mustered a smile in return and sat up in bed. “Wait, I’m seriously behind on the intel. I thought you and Pete broke up?”

“We did. He apologized yesterday. Bought me flowers, and this necklace. See?” Presley leaned over to Devon. She could smell the lemon hand cream. “It’s a compass. He said I’m his True North. Isn’t that cute?”

“I wonder if Hutch and Isla—”

“Dev?” Presley interrupted. “You’re going to have to ease up on the Hutch talk, okay? You’re kind of obsessing.”

“Humor me. The Hawk met already this year, didn’t you guys? Did Hutch go? Did you notice anything weird about him?”

“I don’t know. Hutch was going to do the arts roundup. Profile rising art stars at Keaton and all that.” Presley burped and grinned at Devon in the mirror. “Damn, excuse me. That was gross.”

Devon rolled her eyes. “Look, I’m not the expert, but do people who are going to kill themselves the next day plan on writing articles that month? It doesn’t add up.…” She suddenly noticed sweat glistening on Presley’s forehead. “Are you okay?”

“Fine, whatever. And no, it doesn’t add up. But.…” Presley burped again. She steadied herself against the wall. “It never adds up. That’s the thing about suicide. You can’t.…” Another burp. Her moist skin suddenly went white. “Shit, not again.” Presley grabbed Devon’s trash can and vomited.

“Jesus, Pres.” Devon jumped off the bed and pulled Presley’s hair back while Presley caught her breath. “What’s wrong?”

“Ah, man. This is beyond mystery meat. I think I’m sick.” Presley held onto the school-issued rubber can. She blinked apologetically at Devon, wiping her mouth. Her lips trembled. “I’ll clean this up for you.”

The school bell rang: 9:30 PM. Study hours were over. One hour of free roaming around campus before everyone had to be in their rooms.

Presley grabbed the garbage can. “Damn. Pete will be here in a second. Tell him to hold on if I’m not back. I gotta brush my teeth.” She hurried out of Devon’s room, can in tow.

Devon opened her sliding door to welcome in some fresh air before the vomit stench could set in. The rest of Presley’s evening was Presley’s business.

She pulled her notebook from under her pillow. She had just finished describing Isla’s decaying body, the scratches, her skeletal frame. Should she write about Isla using an alias for her prescription? Mr. Robins had promised Devon that students couldn’t get in trouble for whatever they discussed in their sessions. In turn, Devon had promised to share her session notes with him to better help him oversee her. It seemed like a good plan, but that was before Devon started counseling. Her notes wouldn’t reveal a small infraction like vodka stored in water bottles or a new hideout on campus for smokers; most of the school was either using or complicit in an illegal drug ring. If Mr. Robins read them he would have no choice but to show Headmaster Wyler. Given the climate at Keaton post-Hutch, the school would go into lockdown. Rooms would be searched. Weekends would be restricted. And no doubt, Devon would be scapegoated. Isla and Matt were too smart; they’d figure out who’d ratted out Hutch, in spite of Devon’s promises to them. No, there was no way Mr. Robins could see these. For now they were for Devon’s eyes only. She would write down everything she could if it meant she was helping her subjects. She’d deal with Mr. Robins later.

Someone banged on the window next to Devon’s room. “Pres! You in there?”

Devon sighed and put the notes away again. She poked her head outside. Pete stood with a quilt draped over his shoulder.

His dark hair was cut short, an effort to control his ‘Jew Fro’ as he called it. He wore a short sleeve shirt and even in the dim outside lights Devon could see the black hairs blanketing his arms. “Presley’s coming. She’s been kinda sick.”

“Thanks. That sucks.” He checked his watch and pulled the quilt off his shoulders with a big sigh. It hung in his hand, limp.

“Yeah, you probably won’t be needing that,” Devon said. Quilts, blankets, even sheets at this hour were for one thing only. On the grass behind a dorm, on the carpet of a music room, even between the bleachers in the basketball court, carrying a blanket at this time of night was a badge of honor. No doubt Pete made a point for his dormmates to see. “Congrats, by the way, on you two getting back together. I didn’t think she’d take you back after … well, you don’t need me to tell you what you did.”

Pete’s wide forehead wrinkled. “No, but you like reminding me.”

“That’s probably your guilt reminding you, actually. Me? I’m just looking out for Presley.” Devon crossed her arms and leaned against her open door.

“Hiiiiiii, baby!” Presley sang as she stepped out of her room.

Pete leaned in for a kiss.

“Better not, I’m sick,” Presley croaked.

Devon watched as they disappeared into the dark behind the dorm. She envied Presley’s ability to neatly compartmentalize. Presley had been on the newspaper staff with Hutch the past two years. They’d been friends. She was within her right to be publically upset about Hutch. But Devon? No one, not even Presley knew about her night with Hutch. Devon had just been locked in a kitchen with him for one night. One night, two years ago. Maybe she didn’t have a public claim on being his friend, to being more upset than anyone else, but she couldn’t shake the voice in her head, You were more than friends.

She pushed the thought away. Instead, she headed down the deserted hallway—back to Isla’s empty room and her lonely pile of clothes.

A WIND CHIME MADE of seashells clinked when Devon walked in. She flicked on the light to avoid feeling like she was sneaking around in Isla’s room. Bright lights equaled purpose. She reached for the top of Isla’s clothing pile and started folding.

A white V-neck. Folded. Plaid long-sleeve shirt. Folded. Devon glanced around as she worked. Aside from a large purple and brown tapestry with swirls of elephants and ‘ohm’ symbols, there were no pictures on Isla’s wall. Her iPod dock was stickered with Vegetarians Taste Better. On her bedside table lay a piece of driftwood with jewelry draped across it. Devon moved onto a pair of black sweatpants. One leg flicked the driftwood, sending an earring into the open top drawer. When Devon reached inside to retrieve it, another pill bottle rolled out.

Adderall, 10 mg. The prescription was for ‘Isla Mayfair.’ The bottle was pretty full. Devon dumped what looked like twenty blue pills into the palm of her hand. Instinctively she made sure Isla’s door was closed. This would be a hard one to explain to a teacher passing by. Isla must have thought these pills weren’t that big a deal if she hadn’t mentioned them. But Devon knew if she took the bottle Isla would notice. She poured half the pills back in the bottle and tucked the remaining pills in her pocket. At least she could limit how much Isla was taking.

The bottle rolled to the back of the drawer and Devon spotted a familiar head of brown hair: a photograph of Hutch and Isla on the beach. Isla was smiling at the camera, her cheeks fuller and brighter, her smile wide and real. Hutch was kissing her cheek, his eyes closed. Under the picture was an index card wrapped with a hemp necklace. Two nickel-sized shells were threaded through the hemp. On the back of the card was handwritten, “Love, H.”

Even though it was wrong, even though this wasn’t hers, Devon unwrapped the necklace. She stood in front of Isla’s mirror and hung it around her neck. The iridescent white and pink of the shells caught the light, as if they were showing off.

“Love, H,” Devon said to herself.

But this wasn’t hers to take. Hutch and Isla had created this. Devon wrapped the necklace back around the card, her hands shaking. She shoved it behind the photo. Devon hadn’t even been in Hutch’s phone to receive his suicide text. Isla—the Keaton Prize Girlfriend for whom Hutch had made a necklace, for whom Hutch had texted “I’m sorry”—must have had other Hutch pictures around. Devon tucked the photo in her back pocket. She deserved some little memento, didn’t she?

Devon felt her cheeks getting hot. This was bad. She couldn’t hate them: Isla, Matt … even Presley, any of them. She was just as guilty of turning away from Hutch. They needed her help. She had to help them. It’s what Hutch would have done.

Before leaving, Devon shook out the clothes she had folded and tossed them back on Isla’s pile.


* “Is Your Subject Suicidal?: A Checklist.” —Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide by Henry Robins, MFT

† “Egan’s Model of Effective Listening: S.O.L.A.R.,” R: Be a Relaxed Helper —Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide by Henry Robins, MFT

‡ Whenever possible, keep the subject focused on the topic at hand. —Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide by Henry Robins, MFT