Escape Theory

CHAPTER 7




Name: Isla Martin

Session Date: Sept. 18

Session #2



“You been feeling any better?” Devon asked. Isla sat in the leather chair opposite, winding her hair into small braids.

“I don’t know, whatever,” Isla said with a shrug. “Fine, I guess.”

“Kind of a gnarly week, huh? Last session you wanted me to hold onto your pills, Hutch’s funeral happened, and classes kicked into full gear. You handling everything all right?”

“How else would I handle it? Smile and be perfect, isn’t that the mandate around here?”

Devon returned her stare as gently as possible. “Did someone say that to you? Because if you’re not feeling like smiling, you don’t have to. There’s no mandate like that around here, with me.”

“Well, look who’s been drinking the Keaton Kool-Aid. Are you going to report me if I say anything anti-Keaton?”

Devon cleared her throat. “I didn’t see you at his service on Sunday.”

“What was I supposed to do? Play the grieving girlfriend? Comfort his mom, sit in the front row, and cry the loudest like a good girl? When meanwhile there’s some slut in the chapel carrying his baby? No way, I’m not doing that for him.”

Devon swallowed. “What do you mean?” For the first time, it occurred to her that she had no idea how much Isla knew.*

“Looks like Hutch knocked someone up. Cleo Lam-bitch thought it’d be funny to leave a pregnancy test on my bed. I thought maybe she heard something about the night Hutch died, but whatever. I caught her doing it, you know. She shouldn’t have been in my room.”

“I’m sorry.” Devon took a deep breath. “Start from the beginning. What would Cleo have heard about the night Hutch died?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing. She shouldn’t have been in my room. She said she saw Hutch getting a freakin’ pregnancy stick for someone, can you believe that? She thought he was getting it for me and she wanted to help, yeah right. Crazy Francophile bitch. She knew Hutch wasn’t buying it for me; it was just her passive-aggressive way of telling me what she knew. I hate that freak.” Isla scratched at her arm, leaving red streaks along her pale white skin.

Devon kept silent. No way would she try to fill in the blanks here.

“The scary thing is, she was probably telling the truth. It was too random for her to make up. Cleo’s good at stirring up shit, but she’s not quite creative enough to invent it, ya know? Hutch was seeing someone this summer, after me. I know he was.”

“Did you see him with someone?” Devon asked.

“No, I didn’t … why do I have to prove everything to you? I just know it, okay? I talked to him before school started, you know, just to see where we stood before all the rumors started about us being broken up. And he was distant, like he had moved on to someone else after me.”

“So, you and Cleo think he moved on to someone that he got pregnant?”

“I don’t care what that bitch thinks. I got her back though, crushed up an Ambien and put it in her little Frenchie water carafe she keeps next to her bed. She passed right out in Chem that day. It was awesome.” Isla laughed a little.

“That’s … um.” †Devon paused to make sure she phrased this the right way. “Isla, I’m not here to tell you what to do, but slipping anyone a prescribed drug is extremely dangerous. They could have an allergic reaction, for one thing. After what happened to Hutch—”

“What do you mean ‘what happened to Hutch?’ It was suicide. The a*shole did it to himself and left us to pick up the pieces.” Isla’s dark blonde eyebrows pushed toward the center of her face.

“Okay, but do you understand what I’m saying about slipping people prescriptions?”

Isla chewed on the inside of her cheek and stared at the Rorschach poster behind Devon.

“Isla. Seriously. I have to refer to you to Mr. Robins if this could happen again. I really don’t want to narc on you.” Devon tried to keep her voice steady. She wouldn’t let this turn into one of those moments that people regret for the rest of their lives. If only I’d intervened.

Isla eventually brought her eyes back to Devon. “Fine. I hear you. I won’t slip pills into anyone else’s water. You’ve gotten really boring you know. Or maybe you’ve always been boring and I just never knew it.”

Devon sat back in her chair. “I’ll take boring, just as long as you hear me on the prescription thing. Speaking of, do want to tell me any more about the Oxy you asked me to hold onto last week?”

“Why, what’s wrong with it? Did you flush it or something?”

“No, I still have it. Keeping it safe like you asked. It’s just … I’d like to know where it came from.”

Isla leaned forward in the creaky leather chair. “I told you. I got it at home before coming back to school. It’s not that hard in Portland. Doctors are pretty lax about pain meds.”

“And there’s no chance you shared any pills with anyone when you came back to school?”

“I had them and then I gave them to you. That’s all there is to it. Why are you so obsessed with this?”

Devon stared back down at her notebook. She realized she hadn’t taken nearly as many notes since she’d lost her Mont Blanc pen. Of course, the cheapness of her Pentel had nothing to do with the lack of note-taking. “The thing is, before you gave them to me, Hutch overdosed on the same drug. So, you can see why I’m interested. Just trying to make sure that there wasn’t a chance Hutch got into your stash or something like that.”

“Well he didn’t, okay?” Isla picked at her split ends. “You wanna know where I was on Sunday? I went to the Cove. I couldn’t see Hutch in a coffin. I watched the surfers floating out in the waves and pretended that Hutch was one of them. When we were together, I would watch him catch a wave and he would wave back to me on the shore every now and then. Even though we weren’t next to each other, I could still feel him.” Isla absentmindedly scratched at her arm again. Her eyes brimmed with tears and she let them fall from her lids and skate down her cheeks. “There’s nothing to feel now.”

Devon nodded. She envied Isla’s memories. To feel that connected to someone, even from afar.… He’d wave to her on the beach. She’d wave back and return to her homework, smiling, feeling that warm glow spread across her body, the warmth of knowing someone loved you.…

“Whoever she is, she doesn’t get to have Hutch’s baby.” Isla’s words pulled Devon back to the session.

“Well, we don’t know what it’s like to be in this girl’s shoes. Maybe she doesn’t—”

“No!” Isla slammed her hands on the arm of the chair. “It’s not her choice. I get a say, too. It’s Hutch. There can’t be a baby.”

Devon stared at Isla. She was breathing heavily. Her cheeks turned a splotchy red. She didn’t want another panic attack on her hands.‡ She ripped a blank page out of her notebook, hoping to catch Isla’s attention. It worked. Devon started folding the paper into halves. Isla watched, curious.

“You know, Isla, in normal counseling we could keep talking about this, your feelings, blah, blah, blah. But normal is boring, and that’s not you. You think outside the box. Want to try something a little different?” Devon had no idea where she was going with this, but at least Isla was breathing evenly again, and her cheeks were no longer flushed.

“Yeah. Sure. Different is good, I guess,” Isla conceded.

“Okay, close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale.” What to do with the folded piece of paper? She wasn’t sure. She tucked it under her thigh.

“You feel calm throughout your body. It moves from your toes, up your legs, up the back of your spine, behind your eyes.”

Isla leaned back in her chair, eyes closed.

“Now imagine you’re a girl who’s scared, alone, not sure who you can turn to,” Devon continued. “Now imagine you’re pregnant and alone.”

Isla’s eyes popped open. “I’m not stupid, you know.”

So much for subtle manipulation or phony meditation. “No, you’re not stupid.”

“You’re just trying to throw me off the scent.”

“Isla, there’s a girl who’s probably going through a rough enough time right now. How about if we just focus on you and how you might be feeling?”

“You seem pretty focused on protecting this girl,” Isla spat. “How do I know it’s not you?”

Devon laughed. “Are you serious?”

Isla didn’t respond. Her eyes turned to slits.

“It’s not me. Seriously, it’s not.”

“Then why do you care so much?” Isla demanded.

“It’s my job to care. No one deserves to be going through what this girl is probably going through. And we don’t know what this had to do with Hutch.”

“It’s got everything to do with him! It’s his fault. Why is everyone so busy making him out to be the perfect guy that could do no wrong? I’m so sick of it. Hutch acted like the world revolved around him, and now he’s dead, and it still revolves around him! It’s disgusting.”

“Isla, death, especially a sudden death like this, can bring up all kinds of emotions. Denial, anger, depression … let’s talk through it.”

“No, I’m not going to talk through it with you. You’re just as bad as the rest of them. You think I don’t hear you defending him every chance you get. Let me tell you, Hutch was not the angel everyone makes him out to be, okay?”

“Isla—”

“No, you know what? I’m not going to sit here and listen to you defend him. You really want to know how I feel? I’m glad he’s gone.” Isla stood and turned to go.

“No, you’re not.”

“Stop thinking you know me. You don’t.”

“You loved him, Isla. That doesn’t go away. I saw you with him last year. He loved you and you loved him.”

“Oh yeah? It’s your turn, prove it.” Isla leaned against the door, her arms folded across her chest.

Devon hesitated. She was probably crossing all sorts of counseling lines. But Isla had to see the truth. “Last year. Spring. I was in Bio and you two had a free period. I remember looking out the window and seeing you two walk across Raiter holding hands. Hutch kissed your hand on the inside of your palm and held it there against his cheek. I saw that look in his eyes. He loved you, Isla. No one else mattered to him.”

Isla was crying again, her mouth curled into a frown, pooling the tears around her chin. “You’re sick,” she whispered, then pushed the door open and let it slam shut behind her.

DEVON WANTED TO FINISH up her session notes before vacating her cramped office. At least in here she could count on a little silence. She debated whether or not to include Isla slipping Ambien into Cleo’s bedside water in her notes. What was the worst case scenario? Isla drugs and possibly injures or even kills someone, and if Devon’s notes were used to prove that the school was counseling Isla and knew of this dangerous activity, the school would be sued until the end of days for knowing about Isla’s behavior, and not reporting it. Or, was it that Devon could be sued for not reporting it? Or could Mr. Robins be sued for overseeing Devon and not knowing about Isla’s dangerous tendencies? If Isla drugged someone to the point of harming them, someone was getting sued, that was a guarantee.

Nope, that’s a piece of her sessions Devon could keep stored away in a forgotten storage unit in her brain. Unit 24, reserved for potentially threatening activities by counseling subjects, in the box marked Stuff No One Else Needs To Know, Seriously.

“Hey, sunshine,” Grant opened the door a crack and leaned his head inside. She wrapped her notebook around her chest and squinted at the sunny outline of Grant.

“Hey, you’re not supposed to be … what if I was with …?” Devon couldn’t find a polite way to say: What the hell are you doing here?

“Don’t worry, I saw Isla leave. I’d never barge into a session like that; I know what you look like when you get angry. No thanks,” Grant laughed and Devon relaxed.

“Sorry, no one’s ever been in here with me that wasn’t a—”

“Nutjob?” Grant plunked himself down into the leather chair. “Tell me Doctor? Is it bad that I want to have sex with my mother and kill my father?”

Devon didn’t laugh. “We should go.”

“Wait, wait, I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me. Let’s talk about you, your feelings. Any lingering emotions you want to confess to me?”

Devon tried to squirm out of Grant’s way, but he held her hands and kept her in her chair. “Grant, I don’t know.…”

“Isla’s gotta be a real piece of work once you get her in here, huh?”

“You know I can’t talk about that stuff.” She pried her hands from his grasp.

“Right, right, of course. Heaven forbid Devon breaks a rule.” Grant shook his head.

“You know, since you are in the chair, I have a question for you.”

“Shoot, Doctor.”

“How are you and Eric Hutchins so tight?” Devon was more curious how Grant would respond to the question that what his answer could be. He blinked, avoiding her eyes. Hmmm, so telling already.

“We’re not really.”

“So, why did he ask you to be a pallbearer?” Devon asked.

“Okay, you got me. It was Colonel Mustard in the Billiard Room with the lead pipe. Happy now?” The bell rang for the start of next class. “And I’m late to French.” He stood and reached for the door.

“Grant, seriously.”

He sighed. “Eric and Hutch and I went to the same lacrosse camp once, years ago. It was before Keaton. To be honest, I don’t really know why Eric asked me. Now, can I be excused?” His voice took on a harsh edge.

“Hey, I didn’t ask you to barge in here.”

“Yeah I’ll remember that next time I try to visit you.” Grant slammed the door behind him.

Devon felt sick. Keep this up and not only will your subjects quit, you’ll drive away all your friends, too. She grabbed her backpack and locked up the therapy room. How did an extracurricular start taking over everything in her life? There was nothing “extra” about it.

THANKFULLY, BAY HOUSE WAS quiet. Devon was grateful to have a free period. Clean my room, catch up on homework, be a human again.

As she approached her room, she noticed that Sasha’s door was open at the end of the hall. Devon stopped and listened. No toilet flushing, no phone call chatter, no shower running … no Sasha. Devon poked her head inside the room. Sasha’s dad had once played for the New York Jets. Apparently he was Hall of Fame material. Sasha’s room looked like a Jets-themed sporting-goods store. But, Devon supposed it was why Sasha pursued her athletics and education with equal intensity.

On her desk Devon spied a pad of green paper. The same paper she had seen Sasha give Matt. “Sasha?” she called out to the empty room. Nothing. A place that bases everything on an honor system leaves a lot of room for stupidity. Devon darted toward Sasha’s desk. The green paper had the Keaton logo at the top of the page. Now she felt like an idiot. She had the exact same pad. Everyone always got a pad of Keaton paper on their desks at the top of the school year. Nothing could go more unnoticed.

BACK HER OWN ROOM, Devon examined the paper she’d swiped from Matt before Hutch’s funeral. It was hastily scrawled with 25Ad/15 in dark pencil. “Ad” probably was code for Adderall; that part wasn’t too hard to guess. 25Ad probably meant 25 mg pills and /15 meant that person wanted 15 of them. Her heart thumped. If Devon ratted Matt out for selling Adderall, there would be a lot of angry classmates. As far as she was concerned, Adderall for homework was the same as steroids for sports: cheating. (How Sasha didn’t make that comparison was beyond her.) But this was about Hutch. He’d died from an Oxy overdose. The Health Center didn’t seem to be Hutch’s source. Matt and Bodhi had both denied that they would ever supply a drug as hardcore as Oxy, but that was what they told her. Would they admit to something like that in person? To Devon of all people? What if the request came from another source? Devon grabbed a pen and wrote 30Ox/10 on a piece of her Keaton paper. Now she had to find the right person to give Matt the order.

“DEV, WAKE UP.” THE flashlight glaring in her eye woke her up before Presley’s whispering did.

“What time is it?” Devon covered her eyes with a hand. Presley stood next to her bed.

“It’s almost two A.M. Come on.” Presley pulled Devon’s comforter down.

“Pres, come on. I wanna sleep,” Devon said. She rolled over.

“Devon. Get up.” Presley wasn’t whispering anymore. “There’s a thing for Hutch at the Nest. You should be there.”

Now Devon was awake. She squinted up at Presley. “What?”

“Just put on your damn shoes.” Presley flicked off the flashlight and tossed one Converse at a time onto Devon.

THE FIRE WAS THE first thing Devon noticed once they’d cleared the weed-entangled path to the Nest—the other Keaton hideaway for bad behavior, on the opposite side of the hill from the Palace. Funny, in all her time at Keaton, she’d never been here. It was nothing more than a tiny clearing with a metal trashcan at its center, now roaring with flames.

Devon could only see the dark outlines of other students until she wedged herself in the circle around the fire. Presley slid next to Pete, who wrapped a blanket around both of them. Allison Rice, Greta Lewis, and Taylor Pierce—all contributors to The Keaton Hawk, like Presley and Hutch—were writing on small pads of paper. These three had been on the newspaper since freshman year, and seemed to always have an article about something in the works. Devon was amazed that in such a small community, where the same things happened all the time, they still found new things to write about. Well, maybe this year was an exception. Taylor handed Devon a pad of paper and a pencil.

“Here,” she said. “We’re all writing notes to Hutch. You know, for closure.”

“Um, okay.” Devon looked down at the blank page. Across the fire Allison ripped a page off the front of her pad and dropped it into the fire. Her eyes filled with water and reflected the flames as she watched her paper burn. Greta rubbed her back in a supportive gesture. Allison wiped the tears from her cheek. Another subculture that Hutch was a key member in, and yet once again Devon didn’t get the invite. At least Presley knew Devon would have wanted to be there.

“I got one,” Taylor said. She unfolded her piece of paper and read aloud, “Dear Hutch, I remember the first day you walked into the Hawk and wanted to join. You were so excited to interview other students. Your love of writing a good story, or learning something new about someone was infectious. With you gone, I will try to spread your enthusiasm to the rest of us. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you. With the utmost respect and love, Taylor.”

She let her paper flit in a loopy spiral down into the fire.

Presley cleared her throat. The fire made her curly hair and pale round cheeks glow like honey. “I’m not writing this one down.” She smiled at Devon across the flames. “Last year I almost got busted buying vodka in Monte Vista. I was at the register and Hutch was outside. Mrs. Ascher was about to walk in, and Hutch distracted her so I could get out before she saw. Thanks, Hutch, for having my back.”

She ripped a piece of paper from a pad and watched it burn.

“Amen, sister,” Pete chimed in.

“Amen, God bless America, and word up, homeboys.”

A deep voice slurred its way into their circle. Someone was stumbling toward them through the brush. Matt? Devon tucked her chin to her chest and tried to be invisible. He might not like seeing her at Hutch’s secret memorial. He could make a case that Devon was a narc. If he did, everyone would see her that way—probably until well after they’d all graduated.

“What’s up, children,” Matt’s glistening eyes skimmed past everyone and stopped on Devon. She looked back at the fire, hoping he would move on. “Seems like a pretty crappy showing for the Man of the Hour.”

Greta tried to coax Matt into the group.

“We were all just writing letters to Hutch about the things we wished we could have told him. So he knows how much he’s missed, you know, in spirit.”

Taylor and Allison traded looks. Presley stared at the fire. Devon held her breath.

Matt took a swig from a leather-encased flask. “Oh right, in spirit. I get it.” He laughed a little and then poured the rest of his flask into the fire. “Here ya go, buddy. Drink up.”

“Matt? Is there anything you want to tell Hutch?” Allison asked.

“I dunno,” Matt began. “I want to know what Devon has to tell Hutch.”

All eyes flashed over the fire to Devon.

She swallowed hard. “I’d rather write it down, if that’s okay,” she said.

“Nah, come on. We’d love to know. What would you tell Hutch if you could? Something you’ve always wanted to say.…” Matt’s smile curled up on one edge, twisting his charm into a devilish grin. “Come on, Devon. We’re just here to talk, aren’t we?” Devon’s eyes flicked back to Presley for help, but Presley seemed to be waiting for an answer, too.

Great. This is how Matt gets to humiliate me.

“Okay, that’s cool. Something I want to tell Hutch.” That I know about his secret lovechild? His illicit PharmClub? That I can’t see a Nutter Butter without thinking of him? “It’s like Presley said. Hutch always looked out for everyone. I feel like we kind of dropped the ball on being there for him. So, I guess I would tell him that I’ve got his back. Better late than never.”

Devon flashed to that first day of school this year when they spoke across the parking lot. She wished she could rewind to that moment and this time she’d press Play and tell him that she’d love to have pancakes with him; that those damn pancakes freshman year were always in the back of her mind. She’d tell him that what they felt that night in the kitchen wasn’t just because of the moment; it was the moment and it was real, they could be real together.

Better late than never.

Devon closed her eyes and pulled her tears back into hiding. She saw Allison wipe her cheek again. Matt’s grin faded across the fire.

Next to Presley, Pete pulled his sweatshirt over his head and dropped it into the can.

“Pete!” Presley squealed and backed away. The sweatshirt caught on fire in a mushroom cloud of smoke. Everyone else took a few steps back but Pete stayed put, his pale chest red in the light of the flames. “The shirt off my back. We all know Hutch would have given anything to anyone, including the shirt off his back. So, here, dude. It’s yours.”

Matt laughed. “Now we’re having fun. Here ya go, Hutchins. The shirt off my back.” He unzipped his crisp Patagonia jacket and tossed it into the fire. His white tank top followed into the growing cloud of smoke. The blue trimmed flames cast dancing shadows across Matt and Pete’s bare chests. The Newspaper Squad traded shocked looks.

“Screw it,” Presley said. She pulled her ratty Keaton hoodie over her head and dropped it into the fire. She stood there next to Pete in her purple bra. “The shirt off my back, Hutch.”

“Nice,” Pete said and kissed Presley’s neck.

“Hot,” Matt said as he ogled Presley’s chest.

Everyone eyed everyone else.

What the hell? Devon pulled her sweatshirt off and tossed it into the fire. “The shirt off my back,” she said, and then wrapped her arms across her chest. At least she had thrown on a sports bra from her floor before Presley dragged her here. It may not be the sexiest look, but she’d take unsexy over bare-chested in front of this crowd any day.

Matt raised an eyebrow at her. She shyly smiled back. If taking off her shirt proved to Matt how much she cared about Hutch, maybe she should have taken it off sooner.


* “Section II: Encouraging: Let the subject tell the story. Don’t fill in the blanks for them.” —Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide by Henry Robins, MFT

† “It is up to the Peer Counselor to determine if the subject is a danger to themselves or others.”—Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide by Henry Robins, MFT

‡ “If the subject goes off track, it is up to the Peer Counselor to stop them and shift their focus to the task at hand.”—Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide by Henry Robins, MFT