Escape Theory

CHAPTER 3




Name: Cleo Lambert

Session Date: Sept. 10

Referred by: Headmaster Wyler

Reason for Session: Caught shoplifting at

Monte Vista Pharmacy



“This is my punishment? Trés magnifique,” Cleo tucked her black bob behind her ears. Her bright-yellow-painted nails tapped on the wooden armrest.

“Does that mean good or bad?” Devon asked. She opened her notebook to a new page and took the lid off her pen. “Maybe, for the sake of clarity, let’s stick to English.”

“C’est bien. It’s better than getting kicked out, right?” Cleo let out a hollow laugh.

Devon smiled back. “Good point. So, do you want to start with what happened in Monte Vista?” Devon made a point to keep her face blank, eager to hear Cleo’s answer.*

Cleo checked her watch, even though she’d arrived right on time. Rose gold, chunky, men’s watch. Devon couldn’t see the brand but the diamonds on each number made a clear statement: You can’t afford this. Cleo’s uniform of black biker boots, skinny jeans, oversized black sweater, thick black eyeliner—it was straight out of a fashion spread in Vogue. Black is the new black! Her eyes wandered around the room, deliberately bored. “I’m tired of the Monte Vista story. Wouldn’t it be easier for you if I sat here and cried about Hutch being gone and contemplated the meaning of suicide or something to that effect?”

She bit her bottom lip and eyed Devon up and down, no doubt noticing the grass stain on Devon’s jeans. Devon crossed her legs again in a feeble attempt to hide it. Maybe she would try to wear a better choice of clothes for Cleo’s next session. Anything that Cleo couldn’t mentally rip to shreds.

“This isn’t about making anything easier on me. This is about you and whatever happened in Monte Vista.” Devon quickly added, “But, we could talk about Hutch if you want, if you have something you want to talk about, about Hutch.…”

“I saw him in Monte Vista. On his last day, you know, alive.” Cleo let her sentence hang in the air. She clearly enjoyed the suspense it created.

“Okay. What happened?”

“It’s not like I couldn’t pay for the nail polish, you know. It was just so easy to take it. So I did. Tucked it up my sleeve. But the trick is not to leave right away; that’s too obvious. You gotta walk around, like you’re still shopping. Look like you haven’t found what you’re looking for. D’accord? So I go into the tampon products. Always a safe place; no one wants to talk to a girl surrounded by pads and plugs. And there he is, the man of the hour. Jason Hutchins. In the tampon aisle. He doesn’t see me see him, but he grabbed a pregnancy test. One of those Early Response things. Shoved it in a pocket in his cargos. You know the ones he always wore. The Hutch uniform of sorts. You okay?”

“Huh? Oh.…” Devon realized her mouth was hanging open. “Of course.” She exhaled and sat up straighter in her chair. “So, you were saying Hutch bought a pregnancy test?”

“Stole. Hutch stole a pregnancy test. Aren’t you listening? Anyways, he puts the box in his pants just as he turns and sees me. He knows I know. And classic Hutch, he winks at me and walks right out of the store.” Cleo tucked her hair behind her ears again. She leaned back in her chair and looked at Devon like she was waiting for a prize.

“He walked right out? He didn’t get busted?”

Cleo laughed. “Oh no, the alarm went off. The store manager grabbed him the second he tried to walk out. And then the manager, connard, grabbed my arm too. Walked me and Hutch to his little back office. You know, it’s sad. A man his age with an office that size. Kinda pathetic he has to get off busting teenagers. But c’est la vie, right?”

Devon stared back down at her notebook. Cleo’s French-isms were crossing the wires in her head. Did Cleo always talk like this? Maybe they’d never had that long of a conversation before. How could she without pulling her hair out or craving a croissant? “Wait, sorry, I’m confused. Hutch also got caught shoplifting? Why didn’t the school know about it?”

Cleo leaned forward and her voice dropped to just above a whisper. “Dig this. So Hutch and I are sitting there in this guy’s office. I’m sweating it a little. I mean, if the store complains to Keaton I could get expelled, and that involves dealing with my parents, non merci, if you know what I mean. But, Hutch, he’s whistling. Literally whistling in his chair. Not a care in the world. It’s almost infectious, you know Hutch. So I try to joke with him about that pregnancy test because, come on, I want to know who it’s for considering he and Isla broke up over the summer.”

“You knew about that?” Devon realized how petty that sounded. She put the lid back on her pen. Taking notes at this point would just slow the story down.

“Of course. I make a point to know these things.”

“So, who is it for? Was it for, I mean? Did you find out?”

Cleo’s ruby lips curled in a smirk. “Wait, it gets better. God I love that kid. Loved, past tense, sorry. So Hutch leans over to me and whispers, ‘Don’t tell anyone. But I’m late.’ And winks at me again. And then, here’s where it gets interesting. That kid that works in the pharmacy, Bodhi, comes in.”

Devon blinked. She wanted to grab Cleo by that stupid black sweater and yell in her face, Who did he steal the damn pregnancy test for? TELL ME!

“You know, Bodhi Elliot?” Cleo said, reveling in milking the suspense. “He graduated Keaton a few years ago. His little sister is a freshman day student this year. Raven. She follows in the family tradition of having a rat’s nest for hair. Hippies. Le gauche. You know, Bodhi would be semi-hot if he cut those rancid dreads off his head. Apparently he was some big science genius, but dropped out of MIT after the first year. No one knows why. He’s been slumming it back in Monte Vista at the pharmacy. Anyway, Bodhi comes in and asks for Hutch to come with him. Hutch says to me, ‘Here’s my Get Out Of Jail Free card. Good luck.’ And he walks out with Bodhi and never comes back. Untouched. God, that kid was untouchable. Until he wasn’t, I guess. C’est triste.”

Devon released her crushing grip on her notebook. “So you never found out who the test was for?”†

Cleo took a deep breath and leaned back. “Is this session about me or Hutch?”

“About you, of course,” Devon said, trying to recover from her misstep. “I just want to understand why you’re the only one that got in trouble. How did they know you were shoplifting?”

Cleo shrugged. “Manager claims he saw me in the overhead mirror. We had a little chat in his office and he let me off with a warning. Said he wouldn’t press charges but was going to tell the school. I told him I was troubled, bullied, unsure of my sexuality … you know the type of caring adult. Anything to help the troubled youth. So then Wyler sent me to you. Required therapy. And voilà, here I am.”

Devon folded her hands in her lap.

Cleo tugged at her Burberry boots. “You’d think for $500 bucks these things could at least guarantee no blisters, huh?” She didn’t seem to be interested whether Devon answered her or not. She was killing time here because she had to. Devon was background music to her; the piano player in a mall you might walk past, but would never consider an actual musician.

“Do you think you’re troubled? I mean, if you said that to the pharmacy manager, do you think there’s an element of truth to it?” Devon asked.

Cleo lifted her gaze from her boots. “How much training have you actually had?” Devon hated this question. Mainly because her own answer made her cringe. Not very much. “Does it matter?” she finally asked.

“Yes, because, we’re not exactly BFF, n’est-ce pas? I started here last year, we’ve never been roommates, never taken a weekend away together, never laughed over a crush on a hot guy, so, remind me … why the hell would I tell you anything?”

“You don’t have to tell me anything. You’re just required to be here for five sessions. What we talk about is up to you,” Devon said.

Cleo shrugged. Her face softened the slightest bit. “Tres bien.”

Devon placed her notebook and pen on the floor. Maybe that would be less threatening. Just keep Cleo talking; that was the bare minimum she could accomplish. “So, what do you want to talk about?

“I wanna know who that pregnancy test was for,” Cleo responded immediately. “Hutch and Isla broke up this summer. Maybe that changed and they hooked up again. If not, there’s a mystery lady we don’t know about. A black widow so to speak. A femme fatale who will do anything to protect her secret. All I know is: Some girl who’s too scared to get her own test is walking around wondering if she’s pregnant with a dead guy’s baby. Don’t you want to know who that could be? I’d kill to know who it is.” Cleo was leaning forward now, drawing Devon into her gossip circle once again—eyes wide enough so that Devon could see the smoky blue color behind the layer of black eyeliner.

Devon could only nod. Her heart raced. A secret pregnant girl on campus? Not Isla. Hutch had written her off. Did Matt know? No, because if he did know Hutch was sleeping with someone else, why would he mention Hutch’s plan to take Devon to prom? And then there was Hutch himself. When Devon saw him that first day of school he hadn’t acted like someone who was hiding a terrible secret or hanging out with a girl on the side. She hadn’t even gotten the “memo” about Isla. But, Devon had to admit, he also didn’t act like someone who was about to commit suicide the next day either. Happy, flirty, planning ahead. Devon couldn’t shake the thought: A black widow. Hutch may be gone, but this girl was still out there, if what Cleo was saying were true.

“Come on, where’s your imagination?” Cleo demanded. “Golden Boy kills himself out of the blue. Something drove him to it. And maybe our mystery lady knows. Or maybe she’s the reason he did it. Think about it. Hutch knocked somebody up. That’s gotta weigh pretty heavy on the conscious don’t you think? A good guy like Hutch?” She raised an eyebrow at Devon.

“Why’d you call him a Golden Boy?” Devon wondered out loud, forgetting the peer counseling setting. The question had nothing to do with her shoplifting, or helping Cleo become a better person.

“Hey, I’m just the messenger. Hutch was born like that. Lap of luxury. Never had to work at anything, except making sure his smile was as perfect as it could be. Our parents belong to the same golf club in San Fran. All of this drama kind of just goes with the territory.”

“What do you mean: the territory? Was there a suicide before in Hutch’s family?”

“No. Nothing as scandalous as all that. It’s just rich people, you know. Embezzlement, drug problems, alcoholism, secret children.… It tends to happen in the higher tax brackets because they think the world revolves around them. Ponzi schemes? Those have nothing to do with investing; it’s all an ego trip. A massive pissing contest between a few über-wealthy guys with other people’s money. And suicide? It’s pretty much the most selfish thing a person can do. Hey, everyone pay attention to me, I’m dead. Only, joke’s on them because they’re still dead whether anyone cares or not.”

Devon swallowed. “Wow, I guess I never thought of it that way. Then again, that’s not my tax bracket, so to speak.”

“That’s just the world as I’ve seen it thus far. Who knows? I could change my mind about it all tomorrow. Not likely. But, I could.”

“So, if suicide is selfish, are you saying that Hutch was selfish too? Wasn’t he just buying a pregnancy test for someone? That doesn’t seem like the act of a selfish person.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Clew frowned. “Did I crush your vision of the Golden Boy?”

“No, it’s not … I didn’t have some vision of Golden.…” Devon stammered.

“Wow, Devon, you little minx. Here I was thinking you were the Good Grade Girl, but you got a chocolaty chewy center, don’t you?” Cleo’s eyes lit up.

“What? I don’t have a chocolaty chewy anything,” Devon fought back.

“Puh-lease. You have a hard-on for Hutch, don’t you?” Cleo turned her voice into a small whine and pretended to be Devon. “ ‘He’s not selfish. He was doing a good thing up until he accidentally took too many Oxy pills.’ ” She folded her arms and sat back in her chair. Her voice dropped back to normal. “Do you want to think this through a little bit more before you come down on the side of the defense?”

“I don’t have a hard-on for Hutch,” Devon began.

“You totally do! You’ve got a serious case of amour fou. Shit, why am I the one in the hot seat?”

“Seriously, I don’t … wait, what’s amour … forget it.” Devon took a deep breath. She couldn’t lose control of the session like this. “Whatever Hutch was going through, and clearly none of us really knew, it was something painful. And even in death, I think he deserves our compassion and respect. Is that so difficult to imagine, or does that make me self-centered too?” Devon stared Cleo down, hoping Cleo wouldn’t notice that she was walking an uncertain tightrope of authority.

Cleo turned to the window. The slightest blush appeared on her porcelain cheeks. Her hair fell to her face from behind her ears, but she didn’t put it back in its place. Finally she sighed.

“Whatever. Just make sure you’re looking at what’s really there, not what you want to see. Otherwise you’ll be disappointed.”

“Noted. Thanks. I think our time is up for the day, so for next week—”

“Save it. See you next week, counselor.” Cleo said the word with disdain dripping from her tongue. She pushed her way out of the room and slammed the door.‡

Devon exhaled deeply. It wasn’t personal; she knew that. Cleo just didn’t like being required to be here. Who would? Devon reached for her notebook and pen on the ground, but only found the notebook. She got on all fours on the thin carpet and looked under Cleo’s chair. The pen hadn’t rolled under there.

All at once, she smiled. First lesson of doing sessions with a kleptomaniac: Expect something to be stolen. It’s not like Cleo could go far; they were all stuck on the same mountain. She’d calmly and politely ask for her pen back at their next session, even though she kind of wanted to sneak into Cleo’s room and steal it back. But starting a stealing war with a klepto probably wasn’t a good move. Klepto lesson number two.

As Devon tucked her notebook into her backpack, she couldn’t shake the thought: Hutch got someone pregnant. And Cleo was right. Sure, Devon could run to his defense. But who she defending, exactly?

DINNER WAS WRAPPING UP. Plates and glasses clanged from the back of kitchen. A tray of limp Sloppy Joes and mushy peas waited at the end of the serving line for the last stragglers of the evening. Devon grabbed a Sloppy Joe but left the peas alone. A Keaton rule: If something looked bad, it tasted worse. After all, Presley had just been reminded of that the tough way.

As Devon moved to the salad bar, she spotted Mr. Robins at a table chatting away with Ms. Ascher, the French teacher and girls soccer coach. Devon kept her head down. Hopefully Mr. Robins wouldn’t feel the need to chat. Jicama. Cherry tomatoes. Romaine lettuce from the student vegetable garden. That always made her smile. Leave it to California boarding schools to not only have students willingly eat their vegetables, but grow them too.

“Devon?” Mr. Robins called.

Shit. “Oh, Mr. Robins, hey. Didn’t see you there.” Devon poured dressing on her salad. He stood and strode toward her. Keep moving.

“How are the sessions going?” he asked. Funny: For the first time, Devon noticed that he wasn’t actually as tall as she had thought. He probably wasn’t taller than five feet nine inches. She wondered if he had a girlfriend somewhere or if he was just a thirty something single guy stuck on this hill with a group of hormonal teenagers. What adult would choose that lifestyle?

“Um, great. We’re still meeting tomorrow to discuss everything, right?” Devon looked around. Most of the tables nearby were empty, but still, she didn’t want to talk about this stuff in such a public place.

“Right, right. Tomorrow’s still on. Just wanted to see how you were holding up.”

“It’s great. I’m great. I’ll fill you in at our meeting.”

With that, Devon made a beeline for the back of the Dining Hall. No quicker way to get flagged as a narc than to talk about this therapy stuff in the middle of freaking dinner. She put her tray down at an unoccupied table two tables away from the Corner Table—the preferred home base of freshman troublemakers. The kids who sat here were out of the teacher’s sightline so they could throw food, make towers with cups, or spit balls to stick to the ceiling. True to form, a few freshman boys were shooting sunflower seeds at each other through their straws. Two girls sat with them, clearly bored.

Devon almost smiled to herself. She remembered those days when tentative friendships were formed—not with roommates or classmates, but accidentally, during the in-between times on campus. After dinners, lounging on lawns before study hours, late nights in the kitchen.…

“No, I’m telling you. That stuff is totally easy to OD on,” a freshman boy with spiky blond hair was telling his friends. “My uncle lived in the building next to Heath Ledger’s place. He said accidental overdoses happen more often than you would think.”

“Whatever,” one of the girls with a fishtail braid said back. “I heard he was taking Oxy like every day. Total addict.” Devon’s ears perked up.

“I heard he wrote a suicide note in blood,” another boy said.

“That’s totally not true. I heard he made a YouTube video right before,” said Fishtail.

Nice: a game of one-upsmanship about how Hutch killed himself. But not surprising. Every freshman aspired to be a Keaton expert.

“Makes you miss a home-cooked meal, huh?” a voice said behind Devon.

Maya. She dropped her tray at Devon’s table. Maya was a fellow junior: half Vietnamese and with her almond shaped eyes and petite frame Devon always thought she looked like a really pretty doll. Devon could easily imagine her in a pink tutu, spinning to music in a little girl’s jewelry box.

“I’m sure there are jails with more edible food.” Devon scooped up her Sloppy Joe; most of it plopped back down onto her plate as she took her first bite. Maya had a big glass of iced tea, jammed with ice, and a plate with a few cucumber slices and carrot sticks.

“Not hungry?” Devon asked.

“I had a big lunch.” Maya took a polite sip of her drink. Her jet-black hair was twisted and clipped on the top of her head, every hair in place. “I heard you were talking to folks about Hutch. Like grief counseling or something?”

“Yeah, just helping out where I can,” Devon replied, trying not to stare at the pink powder dusting across Maya’s cheekbones. Devon had never seen Maya without full make-up, even during sports. The rumor was that Maya woke up at 5 A.M. every day so she would have enough time to get it all together before 8 A.M. classes. She apparently had her own airbrush machine to keep her foundation perfectly applied. Devon wouldn’t know where to start with and airbrush.

“That’s cool of you. Hutch was one of the good guys. It’s.…” Maya picked up a cucumber slice and put it back on her plate. She bit her lip. “It just sucks, what happened.”

“How much does dinner blow?” Presley slammed her tray on the table next to Devon. “What’d I miss?”

Maya blinked several times. “I was just leaving. I’ve got a pack of Ramen in my room that is way better than this.” She pulled a lipstick tube out of her pocket and expertly applied a bright coral color to her lips, then blotted on her paper napkin and tossed it on top of her plate—sealing her scant meal with a kiss. “Later.”

Devon had always noticed that Maya didn’t so much walk as she sashayed—even when dumping her dinner tray. She dresses like she’s going to a board meeting. Button down shirts, knee-length skirts, ballet flats; Maya was the queen of Grace and Proper. She looked like a foreigner in the country of Lazy and Comfy, a sea of sweats, flip-flops and ripped jeans. But maybe that was envy talking. Lipstick blotting and sashaying were not things that came either easily or gracefully to Devon.

“What a bitch, right?” Presley took a monster bite of her Sloppy Joe.

“I don’t know if bitch is the right word, but she’s something,” Devon said.

“You’re right. What I meant was, stuck-up bitch. I mean, who wears lipstick around here? What, are we going to the opera?”

Devon grinned in spite of herself. “I’ll bet her mom is wired like that. My mom would love it if I cared more about looking good, but I can’t say I’m wired that way.”

“Of course her mom is wired to be a little sex kitten. She married Eddie Dover. Gotta look good to be a millionaire’s wife. And we know the Queen of Big Pharma can’t go around looking, heaven forbid, less than perfect.” Presley wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Maya’s mother, C. C. Tran, had married Eddie Dover—owner of the pharmaceutical giant Dover Discovery—in a highly publicized marriage that still made the gossip pages, and of course was always news around Keaton. C. C. was painted as the ultimate gold digger, a Vietnamese immigrant sinking her claws into a wealthy American businessman. Not that Devon particularly cared. After all, nobody gossiped about her mother.

“You seem better, Pres.” Devon took a bite of her Sloppy Joe. She felt too much like a cow eating in front of Maya and her cucumber slices. “You feeling better?”

“Man, I had to hit up the health center this morning I was so freakin’ sick but I think it passed. Some twenty-four-hour thing, I guess.”

“Lucky you. Just in time”

“No kidding. Lacrosse starts tomorrow, too. I’m gonna be sucking wind. Five bucks says I’ll be barfing again by the end of practice. Speak of the devil, the drillmaster herself.” Presley nodded across the dining hall.

Sasha Harris, captain of Varsity Girl’s Lacrosse—with her perfectly creamy black skin, too-short running shorts and sports bra to highlight her six-pack abs—strolled across the dining hall, grabbing an apple from the community fruit bowl.

“Little Miss Harvard,” Presley said with her mouth full. “I’m already dreading graduation next year when she’s valedictorian and my dad wonders why I wasn’t better friends with her.”

“Please, she doesn’t have friends, just people she hasn’t conquered yet,” Devon heard herself say. She felt a twinge of regret. If she knew Sasha better she would probably find a way to sympathize for her and her perfectionist ways.

“Too right, Drew Barry-whore,” Presley said.

Devon laughed. “Good one. What about, All Quiet on the Western Slut?”

Presley smiled and almost choked on her Sloppy Joe. Devon stiffened, glimpsing Matt as he entered the dining hall. He went straight to the soda machine and poured himself a Coke. Maybe he had an idea of girls that Hutch was hanging out with.

Devon stood up and grabbed her tray. “I gotta go. See ya back in Bay.”

“What?” Presley frowned. “You’re gonna leave me with the Freshman 15 over here? Whatever, I’ll catch you later, Moby Slut.”

“That one sucked,” Devon said over her shoulder.

“Oh, there’s more where that came from, John Malko-bitch.” Presley yelled across the dining hall.

“Jennifer Ho-Pez!” Devon dumped her tray through the window to the dishwashing station and dodged the steam escaping from the industrial sink. She hurried past the teacher’s table toward Matt, but she stopped in her tracks when she saw Sasha sidle up next to Matt at the soda machine. Sasha also poured herself a Coke. Seems like a lot of sugar for an abs-obsessed star athlete, Devon thought. She pretended to analyze the fruit bowl instead as she eavesdropped. “Hey, Matt. How’s your class load?” Sasha asked.

“Maybe you wanna help me with that AP Bio test next week?” Matt said back.

Devon glanced at them, and caught a glimpse of Sasha slipping a folded piece of green paper in the pocket of Matt’s hoodie.

“Let’s meet up after study hours. I should have my questions ready for you by then,” Matt said. He turned and walked away, sipping his Coke. Sasha dumped her soda in the nearby drain and walked out the side door to the dining hall.

Devon suddenly realized that someone was staring at her. Right on the other side of the fruit bowl. Deep green eyes on a tanned, freckled face. A girl with black hair in a nest of braids and knots. Could it be the rat’s nest Cleo had mentioned? Raven, the pharmacist’s sister? She was practically glaring at Devon. Devon opened her mouth to say, “Can I help you?” when—

“You know what they say, an apple a day.…” Two hands reached around and squeezed Devon’s waist. She jumped and spun around.

“Oh hey.”

Grant smiled at her, his eyes twinkling.

“I haven’t seen you all day. Where you been? I’ll walk you back to Bay. Come on.” He held out an elbow and Devon took it. She turned back, but the girl was already gone.

It was still light out, but a peachy-pink shade filled the air as the sun set over the Pacific. They walked across Raiter Lawn in silence, Devon’s head falling against Grant’s shoulder. It wasn’t as pillowy as it was last year, but was that a bad thing? It still comforted. Anyone else would have filled the silence with small talk. Grant knew better.

“There’s still a bit of visiting hours left. Want to come up?” Devon asked.

“I thought you’d never ask.” Grant winked as he led the way inside.

Was that a loaded question? It hadn’t been until now; she’d asked Grant the exact same thing dozens of times. She could almost hear Presley beside her, egging her on. As Grant signed his name in the dorm ledger of visitors, Devon snuck a peek at his tanned neck, the perfect line of bicep poking below his sleeve. Maybe I should just go for it.

Devon opened the door to her room. Weird: The light was already on. Then she froze. An old man was lying on her bed. She tried to process what she saw. Phrases like ‘Who are you,’ ‘What are you doing?’ and ‘Get off my bed’ rattled through her brain. Instead Devon just cowered against Grant and let out a scream that devolved into “Ahhhhwhatmyroom?”

The old man sat up and slowly pushed himself off the bed. He held a cowboy hat in his hands and extended a wrinkled hand out toward Devon.

Grant immediately sequestered Devon behind him. “Go call someone, Dev. I got this.”

“Wait!” The old man barked.

His brown eyes were milky, his skin weathered behind a gray scruffy beard. A homeless man who wandered up the hillside and randomly into Devon’s room? Except that Devon had never known homeless people to tuck in their shirts and wear cowboy boots. He had a large silver belt buckle: three trees. Somewhere deep in Devon’s memory, that logo looked familiar, but she couldn’t be sure.

“You can’t be here,” Grant stated. “This is private property. I’ll count to three for you to get out of here or I’m forcing you, okay?”

Devon whirled and ran off to find any teacher. Anyone.

“Devon!” the old man croaked. “I’m here for you.”

How did he know her name? He must have seen something in her room with her name on it. Devon ran down the stairs and found her dorm head, Mrs. Sosa, already running toward the screams.

“There’s a stranger—strange man.…” Devon stammered.

Mrs. Sosa ran to Devon’s room with Devon close behind. The sliding door was open and Grant was on the patio. The man was already gone.

“Where’d he go?” Devon asked.

“Took off down the hill. He looked like he was about to pass out at the end there. Must have wandered up here off some back roads.” Grant squinted toward the trees at the edge of the school property.

Mrs. Sosa gently placed a maternal arm around Devon. “You okay?” she asked, with the trace of a Spanish accent. Her long black hair was tied into a braid down her back, and she wore jeans and a flowing peasant blouse. She was in her early thirties, teaching at Keaton this year through a teacher’s exchange program.

“I think so,” Devon said automatically.

“I’ll tell security and we’ll keep the doors locked tonight, mmm?” Mrs. Sosa asked.

Devon nodded in agreement. The bell rang for the end of visiting hours. Mrs. Sosa nodded at Grant but left the two alone to say their goodbyes. Devon leaned against her door.

Grant put a hand on both shoulders. “You’re going to be okay. That was just a totally freakish random thing.”

“If you weren’t here. What do you think …?” Devon didn’t want to think about it. What was the old man capable of? He said he came here for her. To kill her? To rape her? To help with her calculus homework? Did he really know who she was?

“Hey, I can see the wheels turning in there.” Grant ran a finger down her jawline, stopping at her chin. Suddenly his lips were on hers. The thoughts in Devon’s head stopped in their tracks and redirected everything to her lips. What was happening? She was kissing Grant. His lips were soft and strong at the same time. His hands moved down her back and pulled her closer to him. His chest heaved into hers, and she felt herself breathing in rhythm with him so as his chest swelled, hers condensed.

“Who’s got AP bio?” someone shouted down the hallway, bringing her back.

She pulled away.

“You have to go.” At least that’s what she hoped she said. What she was thinking was, Don’t go.

“I’ll come by after study hours, okay?” Grant brushed Devon’s bangs to the side. His eyes moved, taking in every inch of Devon’s face. A smile twitched on his lips.

“Okay,” she whispered.

He squeezed her hand, then hurried out the door. No doubt he would have to explain his tardiness to his dorm head, but his excuse would be campus-wide news in minutes over texts and emails. Strangers wandering onto their hill? In three years at Keaton, a few random townspeople had heckled students, but always outside the gates.

She went to the door, just to make sure Grant was safe on his way home. Her eyes fell to the guest sign-in ledger. Grant’s name was at the top, but below it a large swirling signature she hadn’t seen before. And Devon’s name was written next to the signature. She stepped closer. The old man had signed into her room. How did he know to do that? The name made the blood drain from her cheeks, Reed Hutchins.

NIGHT HAD LONG SINCE fallen, but Devon was still wide awake. She lay in bed, staring at the shadowy ceiling. Reed Hutchins. Somehow the old man was related to Hutch. His grandfather maybe? The name was definitely familiar; she’d heard it around campus. She closed her eyes, trying to calm the out-of-tune orchestra playing in her head. Her thoughts wandered to Grant’s kiss. What did this mean now? Was he officially out of the Friend Zone? And then Cleo’s story about Hutch and the pregnancy test surged back to the forefront of her mind.

Her eyes flew open. The shelf above her bed, like every other shelf at Keaton, was carved with etchings from the past: “Misha was here” and “Class of 2002 rulz,” dug into the wood. A newer carving stuck out, darker than the rest, even in the shadows. Devon ran her fingers over the scratched words, “We’re half-awake in a fake empire. —K. Bell.”

Devon remembered a senior had this room last year. Kaylyn Bell. Not a stand-out student. No awards as a senior, not a sports or academic star, and she got into some middle grade university. Something good, but not flashy; nothing her parents were probably bragging about. But Kaylyn had left her mark regardless. Everyone left a mark.

Devon drifted back to her session with Cleo. Hutch had left much more than a song quote behind; he’d left a girl pregnant. A piece of Hutch was still out there. Maybe Devon could help this girl. That’s what Hutch was attempting to do by stealing the pregnancy test, wasn’t it? Make sure you’re looking at what’s really there, not what you want to see. At this point Hutch was a drug-dealing, girl-knocker-upper, whether she wanted to see it or not. But underneath the secrets he kept, Devon was still certain that she knew who he was. The drugs, this pregnancy, his suicide, they wouldn’t be his legacy. Couldn’t be. Hutch was more than his mistakes.

Devon grabbed a pen out of her bedside table and wrote the words above her, digging them into the soft wooden shelf. Tracing and re-tracing each letter.

Hutch was here.


* “At the beginning of sessions, it’s important that the Counselor has a look of expectancy, inviting the subject to talk.” —Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide by Henry Robins, MFT

† Section V: Self-Awareness. “The Peer Counselor should always strive to keep his/her own emotions and motivations at bay during a session.”—Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide by Henry Robins, MFT

‡ “Try to end every session with a positive affirmation of the work you’ve done together.”

—Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide by Henry Robins, MFT