Keaton School 01: Escape Theory (3 page)

It wasn’t a rhetorical question. He stopped smiling. His eyes dug into Devon, forcing an answer out of her.

“No, I guess not,” Devon stammered.

“Good. Because I figure there’s two kinds of people in the world. The ones who do everything that’s laid out for them, the supposed-tos, and then there’s the people that look above it and do what they want to do. I prefer the latter, but maybe that’s just me. A not-supposed-to.” Hutch shrugged and slid off the counter, tip-toeing to the industrial fridge that hummed in the corner. “Now, how about that milk?”

The school bell echoed across the dark campus.

Curfew!

Devon gasped. She clutched the cookie package to her chest. Bad idea. She was right; this
was
stupid. She was supposed to be in her dorm room right now. Why did she have to try out her Ariel-like personality so close to curfew? She
wasn’t
Ariel. That was the whole freaking point.

Hutch didn’t budge.

“Um, we have to go, don’t we?” she hissed at him. This wasn’t a rhetorical question, either. The
Companion
clearly stated that all students have to be inside their designated dorms by 10:30
P.M.
Hutch pursed his lips, as if disappointed. “If you say so.” He crossed to the door and pushed it—but it didn’t open. “Hmm.” He pressed the handle and pushed again. And again. He cracked another smile.

“What?” Devon blurted out. She could feel the panic rising up along her spine, up the back of her neck and flooding her squirming skull. No, she didn’t want to be at Keaton. But that didn’t mean she wanted to get kicked out before classes even started, either.

“You try then,” Hutch said. He stepped aside.

Devon gripped the metal handle and pushed hard against the door. Nothing.

“What are we supposed to do?” Her voice quavered. “They’re gonna wonder where we are. We have to check in. Rule #3b.” Why wasn’t Hutch freaking out? Did being a legacy mean you couldn’t get into trouble? All she could do was imagine packing up her dorm room, taking down the pictures she’d just tacked to the corkboard, her mom’s disappointed silence on the drive back home. Her mom would never forgive her—

“Supposed to. Supposed to. You keep saying that.” Hutch strode back across the kitchen and opened the fridge. He leaned inside, hands on bony hips, scanning the shelves. The frost billowed around him like it was whispering dirty secrets.

“Well, yeah, sorry if I’m some annoying rule-abider, but it is boarding school,” Devon muttered. She tried to fight back the bitchy tone the fear had brought on. “There are rules. And we are breaking at least one, probably more. Like, does this count as four feet on the ground? I don’t know. And doors aren’t supposed to be closed like this when members of the opposite sex are … that’s 4b, I think … no, maybe it’s 1b, no, that’s plagiarism.…” Her voice trailed off as Hutch emerged from the fridge clutching an armload of supplies. “What are you doing?”

“Look, someone will be coming around sooner than later. We’ll just flag them down, explain the cookie thing, it’ll be fine. These things happen.” Hutch dropped his supplies on the metal counter with a clang.

Devon started to breathe again. Maybe he was right. One of the pillars of Keaton
was
honesty, and they
were
just looking for milk. She had the cookies to prove it. “You really think someone will come by?”

“Sure, they always do. Ten minutes, tops. Your dorm head probably won’t even notice if you’re late. And you know what we should do in the meantime?” He was already pulling a bowl from a nearby shelf, a wooden spoon from a canister. “Finish our mission.”

Devon’s ears perked up at “our.” She had never been an “our,” “us,” or “we” before with a guy. Ever.
Our mission
. Hutch poured pancake mix into the big bowl.

“Weren’t we just getting milk?” Devon asked.

“Oh yeah, change of plans. We’re making Nutter Butter pancakes now. Infinitely better, right?” Hutch nodded at Devon, practically agreeing for her.

She tried not to nod back. And yet she couldn’t help but go along with it. With him.

“Nutter Butter pancakes? Is that even a thing?” Devon hoisted herself onto the counter next to the ingredients.

“Oh, it’s a thing. You’ve just been too busy doing everything you’re
supposed to
do to know about it. I think I’m going to have to illustrate. Commence opening Nutter Butters.”

Devon broke open the plastic package. “You’re lucky you found me. I was going to share these with Spring House.”

“Screw Spring House. They won’t appreciate your Nutter Butters like I do, Devon.” Hutch reached into the package and grabbed a cookie. Devon picked one out too.

“Cheers.” Hutch clinked his cookie against hers. He gave her a wink and took a bite. The two of them chewed, eyes locked. The only sound was their crunching cookies against the hum of the fridge.

“You know,” Hutch began, his mouth still full of cookie. “There are two kinds of people in this world.”

“The supposed-tos and the not-supposed-tos,” Devon replied, trying not to spit crumbs at Hutch.

“Yeah, those too, but there are another two kinds of people in the world. Those who like peanut butter and those who don’t. And we, Miss Mackintosh, are the same kind of people.” Hutch pulled a measuring cup down that was hanging on the wall next to the stove. “Now be a good organ donor and crack open the Bisquick, will ya?”

“You know what I heard?” Devon poured the pancake mix into the bowl. “Nutter Butters are particularly good for the organs.”

Hutch lit the gas stove.

“See, we’re actually providing a service. Getting our organs nice and healthy for donating.” He cracked an egg into the bowl with a flourish.

A beam of light suddenly broke through the dark kitchen.

“Duck!” he hissed.

Devon jumped off the counter and landed next to Hutch on the floor. They huddled below the table. A jerky flashlight swept past the kitchen windows.

“Isn’t that our rescue party?” Devon asked. Her hands started to shake with all the adrenaline surging through her body.

Hutch wrapped both his steady hands around hers. “Except that’s not a teacher. That’s Tino. He’ll go nuts if he catches anyone in his kitchen. Trust me.” He kept his eyes glued to hers and brought one hand to his cheek. He kissed the inside of her palm and pressed her hand to his cheek again. Her heart froze.
He kissed me! Well, he kissed my hand, but still! A kiss!
She could feel his soft skin peppered with rough patches where he had started shaving. “Looks like someone’s not used to breaking the rules,” he whispered, smiling at her.

She pulled her hand away and looked down at the floor. “No, that’s not it.”

But Hutch tilted her face back up toward him. “It’s okay if it is. It’s kind of cute actually.”

Devon smiled slightly and let Hutch’s hand linger on her chin.

“I almost forgot,” Hutch whispered. “Never leave evidence behind.” He reached his hand up and over onto the table, and slowly, careful not to make the plastic crunch, he brought the bag of Nutter Butters down to their hiding spot.

“My hero,” Devon whispered back. “How would I survive without you?”

“Without me, you and your cookies would be toast,” Hutch whispered a little too loudly.

Devon pressed her lips together, holding back her laughter.
Hutch frowned. Devon bit her lip and Hutch shook his head at her. Laughing was not an option. Her chest heaved from the pent-up air trying to escape.

A key slid into the door. Hutch’s eyebrows rose into two wide arcs over his eyes. Devon’s right hand started shaking once more. Hutch reached for it, and kissed her palm again. He held her hand between his and nodded slightly.
Everything’s gonna be all right
, he seemed to be telling her.
This place isn’t as bad as it seems
.

She believed him.

And then the key turned and the lock clicked into place.

September 5, 2012

Junior Year

Devon’s eye caught the harsh glare of the setting sun. She blinked and looked down, realizing she was rubbing her right palm where Hutch had kissed her years before.

“Devon? Are you sure you can handle this?”

She looked up at Mr. Robins. The sunlight suffused the wooden blinds behind him, highlighting the chaos of his curly brown hair. He scrunched his flabby cheeks, pushing his thick, black-rimmed glasses further up his nose. A bushy eyebrow flickered. He wanted an answer.

“Devon? If it’s too much—”

“No, Mr. Robins. It’s fine. I can handle it,” she said.

He leaned back in his chair. “Good. You’re certain?”

“I’m certain,” she said. Her voice tightened.

“And remember from the training guide, you don’t need to have all the answers. You just need to listen. That’s the most important thing you can do for them right now.”

The backlighting found the details in Mr. Robins’s tired face: the end-of-day stubble around his chin and upper lip, the wrinkles that were beginning to make a home at the edge of his eyes. He looked as exhausted as she felt. “Your fellow students are really going to need you.”

“Whoever you think needs a session, I’m here to help,” she said.

“Whomever,” he corrected her.

“Sorry, whomever,” she said through gritted teeth.

“You don’t have to do the push-ups this time,” he offered.

“Thanks,” Devon seethed. Could he really be thinking about grammar right now? Mistaking ‘who’ and ‘whom’ in front of Mr. Robins actually resulted in push-ups. Sometimes the whole class would have to do them for one person’s mistake. But, no, even he had no interest in these Keaton-isms today. He studied his fingernails.

“Imagine if my program had been around earlier. Maybe Jason would have sought refuge in a peer instead of turning his anger inward.…”

“Yeah, imagine.”

“I realize we’ve only been through a basic amount of training over the summer, but we’ll do the best we can, hmm?” He flashed Devon a tight-lipped smile. It was at once a supportive gesture combined with a hint of
I’m watching you
.

Devon nodded.
What do you mean ‘we?’ You’re not the one being thrown into the lion’s den
, she wanted to say.

“Like I said, I’m here to help. So, if we’re good here.…” she let the words drag out, but Mr. Robins didn’t get the hint. He was still pondering the mystery of his fingernails.

“You know, if you and Jason were close we can arrange—”

“Hutch. And no, not really. We talked a bit freshman year, but that was like once, ages ago … no, I’m fine. These things happen.” Devon took a deep breath to keep her rising thoughts from spilling out.
These things happen
. Like getting locked in an off-limits kitchen with a guy after curfew. Sure, that happens all the time. Those damn Nutter Butters. That night in the kitchen.
Their
night in the kitchen.

Mr. Robins started shuffling through papers on his desk. “You should get yourself some dinner.”

Devon jumped up. As she swung her worn-in backpack over a shoulder she caught a glimpse of her own haggard reflection in the window. She’d grown a few inches since freshman year. That flat chest was no longer a problem by the time she was a sophomore. She now lived in the Keaton sweats she used to loathe, and kept her hair in a messy ponytail most of the time. It was as if someone had thrown her chipper freshman RA, June, the month, into a washing machine—and Devon was what came out, her smile left behind long ago in the spin cycle.

“Thanks,” she said on autopilot.

“I’ll send Matt over to you first thing tomorrow,” Mr. Robins replied, focusing on his desk. “Classes will be cancelled, so you can take all the time you think you need. Just remember what we talked about this summer; listen, take notes, and then we’ll discuss afterward, okay?”

“Sounds good.”

The next thing she knew, Devon was standing in front of the milk machine in the dining hall. It was all the same meaningless swirl: the dull whispering voices of other students eating dinner, faculty trying to keep their toddlers quiet out of respect, and the kitchen staff yelling behind the scenes. Noise in a place that should have been dark and empty.
All I wanted was some milk
.

What would she do if she could go back to that night? Would she have done it differently? She wanted to experience that newness again. She thought of that apple juice dribbling down his chin. What if he hadn’t been there in the dark? She would have just gone back to her dorm without the milk. She would have shared that bag of cookies with the girls in her dorm and watched
Bring it On
. She wouldn’t know him like she did. And she wouldn’t be feeling this … whatever feeling the gnawing pit in her stomach was called. She wouldn’t be feeling that.

But Hutch
was
there in the dark. And despite what had happened
over the past two years, however less frequent their conversations became, however much his secret glances at her across the classroom dwindled, she did know him.

A plate clattered to the floor somewhere in the back of the dining hall. She heard applause for the klutz at fault. A few people laughed.
How is anyone laughing right now?

Hutch was right; he’d always been right. They were just a bunch of organ donors. Drones cycling through the prep school system and getting spit out on the other end with their fancy college acceptance letters in hand. They were moving parts in the machine. Replaceable parts.

But Hutch wasn’t replaceable.

Devon hated them. Hated that she was one of them. She had become a part of their machine. The same machine that Hutch had tried so hard not to be a piece of.

The words escaped her lips before she could stop herself.

“… bunch of organ donors.”

The metal milk machine blurred in front of her, morphing into a rippling molten bubble. She reached for a glass, but her hand looked fuzzy. Only then did she realize she’d been crying.

Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide
by Henry Robins, MFT

Upon completion of the Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training program, the Peer Counselor will read and sign below: