Escape Theory

CHAPTER 5




September 10, 2010

Freshman Year



The lock clicked into place. Devon flinched at the sound. Hutch grinned like a little boy about to open his Christmas presents.

“That was exciting, wasn’t it?” he said. Hutch crawled out from underneath the table and extended a hand toward Devon, but she stayed on the ground.

“We’re officially screwed, aren’t we?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t say ‘officially.’ ” Hutch used both hands to pull Devon to her feet. “More like a temporary forced relocation.”

“You make us sound like refugees,” Devon said.

“Aren’t we? I mean out there,” Hutch pointed to the door. “Out there is kind of like war. Every day we gotta fight to keep up appearances, grades, athletic ability, but in here … in here it’s just you and me and Nutter Butter pancakes.” Hutch cracked an egg into the mixing bowl of batter. “Come on, you gotta crumble up the cookies.”

Devon pulled a cookie from the container and crunched it in her hand. Her over-analytical brain was working overtime on other matters. Were they stuck in here for the night? Had Hutch known this would happen? She thought he seemed disturbingly not disturbed by their situation. As far as she could track it, this night had gone from boring exciting romantic nerve-racking, all in a matter of fifteen minutes. Devon stayed frozen with her hand clenched above the bowl. Hutch tossed an eggshell into the trash at the end of the counter and noticed Devon’s pensive stare.

“Hey, we’re fine, you know. This night will end at some point; it’s just that how it ends remains to be seen. All we can do is enjoy the time we have now.” Hutch wrapped a hand around Devon’s wrist and slowly pulled her fingers back, letting the cookie fall into the bowl below.

Devon looked up at him. That spiky hair, his eyes brown or hazel, she couldn’t tell in this light, but they were deep, melted chocolate, standing out in contrast to his bushy eyebrows. And the way he looked at her—calm, unflinching, solid—made her relax.

“How are you so … so … you?” Devon asked. As soon as she heard the question out loud she knew it sounded as stupid as she thought. But she didn’t know how else to ask. How did this guy, this guy who theoretically had been alive for the same amount of time as she had, come to have such a different attitude? Hutch seemed to have the kind of calm people meditated for years to find. Here he was, fourteen and already a Zen master.

Hutch laughed and reached for another cookie. “How am I me?” He used two hands to crush a cookie into the batter. “Kind of an existential question, dontcha think?”

“No, come on, you know what I mean.” Devon crumbled a cookie now too. It felt better to be doing something with her hands, a reminder that she was still breathing. Like the stories she heard about people getting stuck on desert islands; it wasn’t the elements that could kill you, it was the boredom. Or was it the solitude? Either way, staying busy was the best way to avoid going stir-crazy, she was sure of it. “It’s like nothing fazes you.”

Hutch chuckled. “That’s my brother, Eric. Everything fazes him. He got the burden of being older and worried about what everyone thinks of him, especially our dad. That’s just not me. I don’t care what anyone thinks. I refuse to bend over backward for everyone else until I’m broken like he is. I’m broken in my own way, I guess.”

Devon noticed that as he stared into the batter bowl, the top of his jaw twitched just in front of his ears. He had an over-analytical brain, too. “Aren’t we all?” Devon said back. She sounded more cynical than she’d planned. She didn’t want to. She wanted to make Hutch comfortable, like he had for her.

“Oh yeah? How are you broken?” Hutch stopped crushing the cookies and gave Devon his full attention.

“I don’t know.” Devon thought back to a therapy session her mom made her attend over the summer: a preemptive strike against any teenage rebellion that might have been brewing. “Well, I was a sperm bank baby, so I really don’t know anything about my dad, which means I probably have daddy issues. And I’m on scholarship, which means I probably have a complex about money.” Devon stopped. Why was she telling Hutch all this? The cookies might have brought him in, but psycho-babble would definitely send him running out the nearest door.

“Impressive,” Hutch said as he poured the batter onto the hot frying pan. The hiss pulled Devon out of her inner monologue. “Sounds like someone spent a little time in therapy. What’s with the sperm bank thing? You have two moms?”

“No, just the one.”

Hutch nodded and scanned the shelves for something above them, but Devon wondered if he was avoiding eye contact.

The pancake blobs simmered in the pan. The smell of peanut butter made Devon’s mouth water. She grabbed a spatula on the shelf behind her and went to work flipping the pancakes over. Hutch stepped back, letting her slip in between him and the stove. She could feel his eyes on the back of her head. And then his hand was on the back of her neck, gently smoothing stray strands of hair into place. Maybe she hadn’t scared him away. Maybe he was pitying her now. Maybe there was something else going on.

Stop thinking, she thought. Devon turned around to face him.

Hutch’s lips curled into a slight smile. He stroked her hair away from her face and brought her hand to his lips and kissed her palm again. Devon’s heart thudded. He reached for her chin and pulled her face toward his and kissed her. It wasn’t the usual teenage boy tongue-groping kiss she expected. He pressed his lips against hers and lingered softly. Devon closed her eyes. The electricity in her body relaxed into a warm glow.

He pulled away and Devon realized she was standing on her tiptoes. She slowly lowered her heels to the ground and opened her eyes to Hutch. He was watching her, smiling, waiting.

Devon smiled back. Hutch exhaled.

“I’ve wanted to do that all week.” Hutch reached around Devon and turned off the burner.

“All week?” The red glow pulsed through her body again.

“Since our first day assembly. You sat in front of me. Red shirt with the corner of your shoulder poking out.”

“So you’ve been planning this mission since then?” Devon laughed. The fears she had before, the tension in the air, all of it vanished. This adventure was theirs now, as if they’d planned it together all along.

“Yeah, that’s it. I willed you to arrive in the Dining Hall with cookies tonight.”

“Well, I willed you to make Nutter Butter pancakes. I guess we’re even.” Devon raised an eyebrow at Hutch. Up until now, Ariel was the one who raised her eyebrow whenever she flirted with guys. It was Ariel’s way of acknowledging she may be crossing a line, but happily crossing it anyway. Ariel reveled in kicking up trouble, the kid that can’t help splash in a rain puddle. Now it was Devon who’d splashed.

Hutch grabbed a plate from a nearby shelf, and Devon slid the pancakes from the pan onto the plate. “And the most important part of this nutritious meal.…” He wandered back into the walkin fridge. Devon hoisted herself onto the counter. “Jackpot!” Hutch reemerged from the fridge carrying two glasses of milk. “The culprit that started this whole mess.”

Devon felt herself grinning stupidly. She handed him a fork.

Hutch shoved an oversized bite of pancake in his mouth. “Dude, that is amazing. Just wait.”

Devon took her first bite. She wasn’t even thinking about pancakes, but the crunchy peanut butter cookie bits melted into the pancake flavor perfectly. “Wow, Nutter Butter pancakes. Officially a thing now.”

“See, I told you. Hold up. I think we gotta go next level.” Hutch pried open the tin of chocolate syrup and dipped a spoon into the goo, drizzling it over the plate. “NOW it’s a thing. Just needed the chocolate to call out the peanut butter, you know.”

“You think we could get the kitchen to make these again?” Devon asked.

“I’m sure if you smile that smile of yours, my guess is you could get the kitchen to do just about anything you want,” Hutch said as he stuffed an oversized bite in his mouth.

It never occurred to Devon before that she was a girl that could get guys to do things for her. What was it like to wield that kind of power? She’d seen Ariel use her feminine ways to get free coffee at coffee shops, free rides on the BART, and even free clothes. But what would happen after this? Would she and Hutch become a couple? Would Hutch be the guy she married years from now and they could say they were high-school sweethearts? What did it really mean to be someone’s “sweetheart?” Don’t jump too far ahead—you’re still locked in a kitchen, her over-analytical brain reminded her.

“I didn’t mean anything before, about the two moms stuff. It’s totally not my business. And no biggie if you went to therapy. My parents made me go a lot. They were obsessed with finding the right medication for me when I was younger and ‘out of control.’ Turns out I was just a ten-year-old boy, and that’s kind of what happens.” Hutch leaned back on his elbows and kicked his shoes off.

“Well, you know what they say about an unexamined life not being worth living. I kinda always liked the idea of that.” Devon finished the last bite of pancake and dropped her fork next to Hutch’s on the plate.

“Mine’s a tie,” Hutch said.

“A tie?” Devon leaned back onto her elbows beside him.

“My philosophy. It’s a Robert Frost tie. Between ‘The Road Not Taken’ and ‘Snowy Evening.’ ”

“Oh, is that about choosing the road less traveled? I think I remember that one.”

Hutch looked up at the ceiling and recited, “ ‘Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.’ ”

He finished and looked to Devon with that crooked smile of his. She now understood that this is the face Hutch made when he was proud of himself.

“That makes sense. The not-supposed to part of you, it’s the road less traveled.”

“I just like the idea of looking back at my life and feeling like I made different choices than everyone else, you know? Most people are inherently boring if you really dig deep. They don’t want much, they don’t veer from their chosen path, and they’re generally scared of change. I don’t know, at least that’s how my grandfather tells it. I don’t want to be like fifty and realize that I was one of those people who didn’t bother to think outside the box. That’s why the other poem is tied.”

“What’s the other one about?” Devon asked, rapt.

“I won’t do the whole thing, although, I could, it’s one of my hidden talents, reciting poetry. But the part I love the most is, ‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.’ ” Hutch closed his eyes. A small, contented smile was fixed on his lips. Devon wanted to kiss those lips again, but it seemed better to let the poem have some space. She let the last line hang in the air a moment longer.

“I really like that one,” she said. “I’m not sure I totally get it, but it’s cool.”

Hutch rolled to his side and looked at Devon, his head resting in his hand. “There’s always something else to do. Like it’d be easy to stop or be lulled into something, but there’s miles to go before I can stop doing any of it. I don’t know, that probably sounds really lame.”

“No, I get it. I think we all need that thing, whatever it is, God, family, pancakes, that keep us going even on those days when you just don’t want to get out of bed. You’ve got miles to go, and I’ve got Nutter Butters.” Devon leaned down now, level with Hutch.

Hutch’s face grew serious. His fingers intertwined with hers. “You should always have Nutter Butters,” he said, his eyes locking with hers. “Always.” Devon waited. The way Hutch bit his lip, she knew there was more to come. “This kid at my school last year. I didn’t know him. I mean, I’d seen him around, but … he committed suicide. They did this all-school memorial and the principal read some lame poem that no one listened to and then the band played that Sarah McLachlan song, ‘I Will Remember You.’ I remember thinking that this kid, wherever he was, must be laughing his ass off or hating this stupid ceremony, or both. The whole thing was royally wrong. Like you’re here one day and the next they’re playing Sarah McLachlan in your honor, and no one knew the kid well enough to play a song he would have actually liked. How could no one know what song he would have wanted?”

Devon squeezed his hand. “Okay, so what song would you want played at your stupid memorial service?”

Hutch sat back up. “First off, my memorial service wouldn’t be stupid. I expect people to laugh at my funeral, have fun. I don’t get why funerals have to always be so sad. And ‘Kodachrome,’ for sure. That’s what I want playing at my funeral.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Paul Simon. He’s kind of awesome. My grandfather got me into it. I’ll burn it for you.”

“If we ever get out of here,” Devon said.

Hutch leaned over her, blocking out her view of the stucco ceiling.

“I’ve never told anyone that. Only you and my grandfather know I’m a secret Paul Simon fan. Can you handle that kind of secret?”

“I don’t know. Sounds like a lot of pressure.” Devon said back with a smirk.

Hutch reached out and stroked the side of her cheek. “As far as I can tell, you handle pressure well.”

Present Day, September 16

DEVON’S EYES SNAPPED OPEN. The sunlight pierced the curtains. She found herself blinking at, Kaylyn’s carved words in the bookshelf: We’re half-awake in a fake empire. She rolled to her side and curled into a ball. Her clock blinked 9:30 A.M. Thirty minutes until she had to be there. Forty minutes until reality would invade. She closed her eyes again, hoping for another glimpse of Hutch. You handle pressure well. His words clanged around in her head. Kodachrome. She still hadn’t heard the song that Hutch wanted played at his funeral. Should she have told someone that it’s what Hutch would have wanted? Was it too late? Would anyone have believed her anyway?

Devon forced herself out of bed.

She ripped the tags off her black Banana Republic dress. So ironic! It was perfectly plain and boring, but her mom insisted she have a formal interview outfit on hand for her college trips this fall break. College trips that Hutch would never take. Her fingers paused on the buttons over her stomach. There were lots of things Hutch would never do again. Make pancakes. Surf. Graduate from Keaton. Kiss a girl.

She left her dress hanging open and snapped her laptop open, searching Paul Simon. There among a list of his songs was ‘Kodachrome.’ Devon pressed play and sat back on her bed. It sounded old, a relic, but the upbeat guitar made her smile. Only Hutch would want a happy cheerful song at his funeral; this was no Sarah McLachlan anthem.

The first lyrics came out, “When I think back on all the crap I learned in high school, it’s a wonder I can think at all.” Devon laughed out loud. This was exactly Hutch’s sense of humor. “Kodachrome, it give us the nice bright colors, it give us the greens of summers, makes you think all the world’s a sunny day.…” Her cheeks were wet. She was smiling, but couldn’t stop crying at the same time. It was so simple. It was Instagram, but real. A song about old camera film that made everything look better; that’s just what Hutch did. He could make everything brighter, memories better, jokes funnier. Or maybe that was just her experience of him.

Tap, tap, tap!

Someone was knocking on her glass door. Devon wiped her cheeks and quickly finished buttoning her dress. She pulled the curtain aside, and there was Matt. Black slacks, a white button-down with a red striped tie draped open around his neck. He held his black blazer squished in one hand while his other hand shielded his eyes as he peered through Devon’s glass door. She slid the door open.

“Matt? Are you okay?”

“Hey, I’m glad you’re here.” Matt walked right into Devon’s room. 9:45 A.M. on a Sunday morning was definitely not part of visiting hours, according to the Keaton Companion. But rules would probably be lax today.

“I need your help.” Matt said. He parked his feet in front of Devon. He stood up straight, eyes toward her ceiling, and chest puffed out. His hands tapped against his thighs. From the sweat glistening down the side of his face and his pulse throbbing along a vein in his neck, Devon figured he was on some kind of upper. More Adderall probably.

“Matt.…”

“Go ahead, I’m ready.” He said still looking up.

“Matt! What do you need help with? You need to tell me that part.”

He sighed and shook his head. The tapping stopped for a moment. “Sorry, I’m a mess. My tie. I don’t know how to tie it. I mean, I know how, but not today. I’ve been trying all morning and it’s like my hands just forgot. So, could you?” He looked back up at the ceiling and puffed his chest out again, waiting.

Devon sighed. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you live with at least twenty other guys. Wouldn’t asking any one of them make more sense?”

Matt gave her a weak smile. “Today doesn’t exactly make sense.”

Devon smiled back. He didn’t need to say anything else. “Lemme just look it up, I’ve never done this before.” She flipped her laptop open again and pulled up an instructional video. “Okay, I just grab here.…” She pulled at the tie ends. “Wait, this is backward. Here, you gotta sit.” Devon guided Matt to sit on her bed. She knelt behind him, hands draped over his shoulders as she tried to follow the video.

Matt’s foot tapped on the floor. Devon could smell his cologne. She had never been this close to Matt before. It struck her: Any freshman girl would trade places with Devon in a second. This was Matt Dolgens, gorgeous, cool, beyond connected, beyond rich, beyond everything and everyone. Except that now he couldn’t tie his own tie. She finished the last loop and gave him a final pat on the chest.

“There. That should do the trick,” she said.

“Wait.” Matt grabbed her hands and wrapped them across his chest. Devon knew he didn’t want her to let go. She felt the same. She just wanted someone to hold her close, make her feel like this Hutch darkness wouldn’t trap her alone forever. She leaned forward, resting her chin on Matt shoulder and shut her eyes tightly. He squeezed her back.

For what seemed like a very long time, they sat together on her bed in a silent embrace, breathing in the same rhythm. Devon looked at the clock. 9:55 A.M. Gently she pulled away. “It’s time to go,” she whispered. She leaned back, sitting back on her heels. Matt leaned forward and adjusted his shoes, shiny black oxfords; he’d probably never worn them before.

There was a spot of green paper poking out of his pants pocket. Devon swallowed. It would be wrong to take it; Matt would hate her and they’d just shared a moment—something real and profound. Matt wasn’t faking. He was in pain. But … Hutch. They were on the way to his funeral. If a stolen scrap of green paper did anything to explain why Hutch was being buried today, it would be worth it.

Devon rubbed Matt’s back while he was still leaning over. With her right hand she slipped two fingers into his pocket and pulled out the green scrap. Matt turned around to face her. She quickly smiled at him and palmed the paper. “You know, Hutch was right about you,” he said with a genuine smile. He stood up and held out a hand. She froze. Had he seen what she’d done? Play dumb. That usually works. She offered her left hand and Matt helped her up from the bed.

“Thanks for the help with the tie and all,” he said.

Devon nodded. She took Matt’s hand and led him through the glass doors, tucking the crinkled green paper into her pocket.

“Let’s make him proud,” she whispered.

THE CROWD OUTSIDE THE Keaton Chapel was even bigger than Devon had expected. Seniors, juniors, most of the sophomores, and even a few freshmen lingered on the grass outside, still wet from the morning dew. Mr. Robins chatted with a circle of students, his red tie sticking out in an ocean of black. Devon quickly dropped her hand from Matt’s before he spotted her.

“I gotta say hi to the family,” Matt said to Devon. “See ya in there.”

He wandered to the chapel entrance where Hutch’s parents stood side by side with Hutch’s older brother, Eric. At Family Weekend events over the past two years Devon remembered seeing Hutch’s mom, Mitzi, always at the side of his father, Bill. Mitzi wore a black pencil skirt with matching black blazer, probably Chanel. Everything was fitted to highlight her small frame, Pilates-sized within an ounce of perfection. Her hair was a deep walnut color, too deep and dark to be natural for a woman in her fifties. Devon fought to push the judgmental thoughts out of her head. Mitzi was at her son’s funeral. She wondered what it must have been like for Mitzi to get dressed for this morning. Bill, too, for that matter. Mitzi gripped her husband’s arm while Headmaster Wyler approached to console them.

“You’re doing morning sessions now?” a voice called.

Devon whirled around to see Grant running to catch up with her. His blond hair was wet and slicked back. For once, he wasn’t wearing his signature white hat. But he still looked sporty and casual: a gray suit and white shirt with no tie. For some reason the lack of tie bugged Devon, like it was rude of him not to dress more formally.

“Morning sessions?” she asked.

“You and Matt seemed awfully … intimate.” He said the last word with a bite to it.

Devon stopped walking. She wanted to be mad. But she felt the paper in her pocket, poking against her thigh and knew she wasn’t riding high on morality at the moment either. She sighed, changing her tone. “Today’s pretty difficult for everyone. I was just helping, okay?”

Grant reached out and took her hands in his. “Sorry. I saw you two holding hands.” He pulled her into his chest for a long hug. He swayed a little from side to side. Devon closed her eyes, letting herself be lulled into him. “Let’s just get through this,” he whispered with his cheek pressed to her head. Then he leaned back and faced her. His blue eyes caught the sunlight. “I want to see you later. Think we both need a little distraction? What do you say?”

Devon took his hand and turned toward the organ music emanating from the chapel. “Like you said, let’s just get through this first.”

Inside the chapel doors, Eric Hutchins was the first to greet the mourners. This was a Keaton legend, right in front of her. So many rumors and stories. The best: Headmaster Wyler had lost a bet to Eric, and had to run a lap around campus in nothing but his running shoes and underwear. But here now, Eric was just someone who’d lost his brother. He was tall like Hutch, with long brown hair that was gelled back and tucked behind his ears. His eyes had the puffy, swollen look of someone who has been crying. Still, he was classically good-looking, like Hutch would have been. Devon noticed his cheek twitching at the top of his jaw, clenching like Hutch’s used to. What could he possibly be feeling right now? She resisted the urge to hug him.

Grant gave Eric a one-armed hug. “I’m so sorry, bro,” he murmured.

“Thanks, man. Hey listen, will you be a pallbearer? My knee’s still busted and can’t take the weight.” He plucked the white rose from his lapel and tucked it into Grant’s. “Thanks.”

“Of course. Anything you need. Oh, this is Devon.” Grant said.

Devon stepped forward and shook hands with Eric. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m so sorry. Hutch, I mean, Jason, was.…” She stammered looking for the right word.

“Don’t worry. I know. Hutch was Hutch.” Eric gave Devon a reassuring pat on her shoulder and turned to the next guest in the receiving line.

Devon snuck a glance over her shoulder, then another. It was Maya, looking stunning in a black cocktail dress.

“I wasn’t sure.…” Eric started.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Maya cut in before Eric could finish. She continued inside without shaking Mr. and Mrs. Hutchins’ hands. Eric stared at Maya as she slid into a pew. Devon tried to stop staring, herself, but couldn’t. Was Eric really checking Maya out? At his brother’s funeral?

The Keaton chapel was small, built for no more than two hundred people, packed tightly into narrow wooden pews—and far beyond full capacity today. The entire wall at the front was made up of windows facing the North, so the sun was always bright but never direct. Normally, the effect was uplifting and almost otherworldly—but with the glossy closed coffin up front near the altar, Devon found herself wanting to turn away. The coffin was strewn with white roses and draped with the green Keaton flag. Next to it sat an easel with a blown-up picture of Hutch in a boat: smiling, tan, happy.

Devon forced back tears. She clenched her jaw. Who decided to put the Keaton flag on his coffin? It almost made sense. The venue usually reserved for chorus recitals, poetry readings, and holiday services was now a funeral home. But it would have bugged Hutch. He refused to wear clothes with visible labels. The flag was like an overbearing corporate sponsor: Hutch’s Funeral, brought to you by The Keaton School! Keeping track of your kids, dead or alive!

But it all came down to money. No doubt Headmaster Wyler was making a big showing about Hutch since there weren’t any future Hutchins kids coming up the pipeline to fill his ranks and keep the donations coming in. Wyler was an expert at reminding the parents that the school was basically raising their kids and turning them into productive adults. Or trying.

Whispering thinned into silence as Headmaster Wyler stepped up to the podium. After he welcomed the Hutchins family and Keaton community, he turned the floor over to seniors Thomas Anders and Becca Linden for a musical interlude. Naturally: Thomas and Becca were stars of the music program. (Even though, of course, they’d probably spent less time with Hutch than Devon had.) Thomas was considered a piano genius; Becca, a shoo-in for Julliard or American Idol or both with her angelic voice. And Devon had to admit, when Becca took to the front of the room, her backlit blonde braid almost looked like a halo.

Thomas sat down at the piano and started playing. Devon wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or barf. “In the Arms of an Angel,” by Sarah McLachlan. This was Hutch’s nightmare, come true. He wasn’t here to defend it, to wake up from the bad dream, or have anyone in his family protest. Devon remembered hearing somewhere once: “Funerals aren’t for the dead, they are for the living.” That made perfect sense now. This display was all about Hutch’s parents. They had to hold their heads up high.

Devon looked around the chapel. Two pews in front and to her left Presley sat with Pete, their heads were lowered, but Devon could see they were passing notes on the program back and forth. Sasha Harris was a few rows in front of Devon, trembling slightly. Maya sat near the front with her head bowed. She used a tissue to dab at her eyes every few minutes. Devon spotted Cleo standing in the back, looking bored. But where was Isla?

Matt sat in the front row next to Eric. The song came to a close (mercifully!) and Devon noticed Eric pass a few white index cards to Matt, who then stepped up to the dais. Devon sat up a little straighter, nervous for Matt, and congratulating herself for a good job on his tie. Grant patted her thigh, and she slipped her hand under his. It probably caught him off guard to see her holding hands with Matt, especially considering she and Matt weren’t friends publicly. She shouldn’t have been annoyed. Besides, it wasn’t as if she could ever tell Grant that Matt was in Peer Counseling with her, even though it was easy enough to assume.

Matt cleared his throat and read his index cards. The audience shuffled in their seats, blew noses, and dried their eyes. “The Hutchins family asked me to say a few words about Jason, Hutch to those of us who knew him best.” Matt projected his voice nicely to the back of the room, made good eye contact with the audience, but the cards shook in his hands. Devon held her breath for him to be able to finish this speech without breaking down. Matt exhaled slowly before continuing. Everywhere he went, Hutch made it his mission to make people happy.”

OUTSIDE THE CHAPEL, DEVON watched as the pallbearers loaded Hutch’s coffin into the waiting black hearse. The crowd started to dwindle. Students slowly walked uphill to the dining hall to get a late breakfast … when Devon heard something. Was it singing? A man’s voice … a thumping, like hooves … and that’s when she saw him: An old man in a cowboy hat, galloping downhill on horseback, singing out loud.

Reed Hutchins.

Devon blinked. She wasn’t hallucinating. This was really happening. She looked for Hutch’s parents. They stood by the limos near the hearse, mouths agape. That’s when Devon heard the words clearly, “Kodachrome. You give us those nice bright colors. You give us the greens of summers. Makes you think all the world’s a sunny day, oh yeah!”

Devon’s throat tightened. She almost laughed. At least someone was representing Hutch as he would have wanted. Reed slowed to a stop by Hutch’s father, Bill: his son. Devon couldn’t hear what Bill said, but she saw taut lips and the bulge of a pounding jaw. Reed simply shook his head and smiled. “Kodachrome,” he hollered, then started coughing. Bill stepped forward and grabbed the horse’s reins. He pointed sharply down the hill, but Reed kept singing in a raspy voice. “Mama don’t you take my Kodachrome away!”

Bill let go and stalked into the nearest limo. Eric and Mitzy followed. The old man on his horse followed the somber procession, singing the whole way as they drew closer to Devon, following the road that would take them off campus. “I got my Nikon camera. I love to take a photograph. So Mama, don’t take my Kodachrome away.…”

“That’s Grandpa Reed,” a girl said.

Devon turned. She hadn’t even noticed, but Raven and Bodhi were standing next to her. Bodhi looked almost comical in a dark suit with his blond dreads in a knot at the top of his head, like a toddler forced to dress up for a grown-up occasion. Raven wore a long black flowing dress, which complemented the black hair in clumps around her shoulders. Devon turned back to Reed. He was fewer than twenty feet away now, plodding along behind the blackened faceless cars.

The old man saluted with two fingers from the top of his hat to Raven and Bodhi as he passed, still singing. Bodhi and Raven saluted him back. He nodded at Devon. Reflexively, she saluted, as well. It seemed like the polite thing to do. She wanted him to know that she knew he wasn’t a scary homeless guy. Crazy, yes: clearly. Although what was crazier, taking a nap in her bed or arriving late—in full cowboy regalia, singing and on horseback, no less—to his grandson’s funeral? And why was he in her room? She still had no idea.

The hearse and limos continued down the dirt road. Grandpa Reed followed on his horse. Raven sobbed next to Devon and Bodhi put a comforting arm around her, letting her cry into his chest.

“That guy loved Hutch more than anyone,” Bodhi said to no one in particular. “Bill and Mitzi think Reed has gone off his rocker. They’ve practically disowned the guy. But if you ask me he is the only sane one in the bunch. Hutch thought so too.”

“They disowned him because he’s crazy?” Devon asked.

“Because they’re a bunch of money-grubbing a-holes,” Raven said between sobs.

“Hutch’s parents,” Bodhi said to Devon over Raven’s head. “They’re going up to Reed’s land right now. Athena is buried up there too. At least Hutch will be with his grandmother on the vineyard.” He hugged his sister tightly.

“Saw the coroner this morning,” he added, still looking across the hillside.

“And?” Devon asked.

“He confirmed it was Oxy in Hutch’s system. A lot of it. But he said the weird thing was, usually with overdoses you find a few pills undigested in the stomach. Not with Hutch. The Oxy must have been crushed up before he took it. The only reason someone does that is if they plan on never waking up.”

Raven sniffed and stopped crying. She glanced up at her brother.

“Or, if they don’t know they were taking it,” Devon said.