Keaton School 01: Escape Theory (2 page)

Maybe they were going to have to reword that rule in the future. Say if a boy might want to make out with a boy? There was apparently
no rule against members of the same sex making out. The
Companion
could catch up eventually (judging from its tone, it hadn’t been updated in thirty years), but for now, the gay students had a loophole they could exploit. Lucky for them. Yes, Devon did want to make out with a guy sooner than later. One fumbling, wet kiss last summer in the back booth at Peet’s Coffee didn’t exactly count. If Devon had one goal, it was to actually hook up in high school. Ariel agreed. Besides, Devon figured there had to be
one
benefit to coed living.

She looked at the next photo. Another one of her and Ariel: tanned, short shorts, flip-flops, and fake mustaches. Over the summer she and Ariel liked to put on fake mustaches and take pictures around town, trying to get shots of people giving them weird looks. She wished she could show Ariel
The Keaton School Companion—
now
that
would make her laugh.

The bag of Nutter Butters caught Devon’s attention again.

They still needed milk.

Waiting until tomorrow seemed impossible. “So, go get some milk, loser,” is what Ariel would have commanded. Devon looked at her clock. 10:21
P.M.
Nine minutes. If she left right now, she could dash up to the dining hall and be back in time for curfew. She could burst into the Spring House common room with a cold pitcher of milk and cookies to share just as
Bring it On
was starting. “Look, I brought it!” she could shout. And the girls would giggle back. Boom: Insta-Friends. June would probably say something like, “Welcome to the party, chica!”

It’d be as easy as that. Right?

Or she could stay in her room eating the cookies alone without milk. But Ariel’s voice would call her a loser all night long. Steeling herself, Devon stuffed the cookies into her sweatshirt pocket. She figured if a teacher asked what she was up to, it would be good to have the cookies on hand to back up her story. She shoved her feet into her sneakers and ducked out her door without even bothering to consult the mirror first. Best just to move. Best not to think.

Outside the wind had picked up. Devon pulled her sweatshirt
hood over her head to keep her hair from flying everywhere. She squinted, her eyes adjusting to the moonlight.
We’re really far out here
, she thought. The night had a sharp chill to it, as if a storm was coming in off the ocean. At the bottom of the black Keaton hillside, Devon could see the straight line of faint yellow lights: Monte Vista’s main drag. Beyond that the velvety black of the Pacific Ocean merged into the dark sky on the horizon. The wind whipped a strand of hair across her eyes.
Get the milk and get back to the dorm before curfew
. That’s all she had to do in nine … no, eight minutes.

The Dining Hall stood at the peak of the hill—its façade largely floor-to-ceiling windows. A ring of classrooms encircled it, and below that, the ring of dorms. The layout meant there was a view of the valley below from every dorm room, but it also meant every meal involved walking
up
to the dining hall. While Devon’s mom might find it “invigorating,” Devon found it an annoying metaphor for Keaton. Everything was an uphill battle, even a pitcher of milk.

Devon hurried up and across the wet grass of Raiter Lawn and passed the cobblestone path below the senior boys’ dorm, Sherman. Senior boys sat on their balconies, shirtless, comfortably nestled into crappy wicker chairs and surrounded by surfboards, stinky lacrosse gear, and passed-down hammocks. The sound of someone playing guitar drifted from behind a tapestry-covered window.

Devon kept her head down. She was short—five feet three inches and a thin frame—and she hoped she could pass by undetected. Someone whistled from the balcony above, but she didn’t look up. The freshmen were warned that seniors could initiate a water balloon fight anytime during the first week. She ran quicker just in case that whistle was a precursor to getting soaked—up, up, up, her breath coming fast.

The Dining Hall doors were open. She pushed through, her heart thumping, and made her way around the polished wooden tables and benches—perfectly aligned and glistening in the moonlight—toward the drink machines. Soda, ice, lemonade, iced tea, water, and milk; they all buzzed and hummed in the silent hall.
Devon found a plastic pitcher next to the water jug and pulled the lever under the low-fat milk.

Nothing.

She tried the non-fat. Nothing again.

That’s when she noticed a plastic latch above. The machine was on lockdown for the night. Water was her only option.
Great
. So much for listening to Ariel’s voice. Her Nutter Butter plan was already going awry.

“Don’t you know they control our diet?” a voice asked.

Devon jumped. June had warned the freshman girls about avoiding popular make-out spots around campus at night. It was considered a major faux pas to stumble upon a couple behind a bush or in an empty classroom. But this was just one voice. Sitting alone in the back of the Dining Hall. She squinted, trying to turn the outlines and shadow on a bench into someone she recognized. Long, gawky legs with knobby kneecaps. A spiky head of hair. A narrow neck that threatened to topple from the weight of a bulging Adam’s apple.

Jason Hutchins
.

Another freshman. Devon remembered him from orientation. He kept bumping the back of Devon’s chair. After she had shot him an annoyed glare, he whispered an apology while the headmaster talked about their class schedules.

He stood up. Devon guessed he was easily six feet two inches, and only thirteen or fourteen.
No wonder he could barely fit in his seat
. He tucked something in his pocket as he walked toward her. She caught herself thinking that once he got over being gangly, he could be kind of hot. His face didn’t need any help. Then again, she had to grow out of this flat-chested stage before she might be considered cute, so who was she to judge.

“Just wanted some milk. Didn’t think that would be against the rules,” Devon said. She tucked her hands into her jeans pockets. She had a bad habit of letting them flip and flail when she was nervous. And being alone in the dark dining hall with this boy was definitely making her nervous.

Jason leaned against the wall by the milk machine. Devon noticed he wore cargo shorts (as he would for the next three years, because he always needed pockets), and a simple belt where new holes had to be punched to account for his bony hips.

“You think they’d want us to drink milk. It’s in their best interest to keep us strong.” Jason clipped a pen into one of his many pockets.

“Their best interest?” Devon leaned against the counter. She remembered now that Jason was a
legacy
student. In theory it only meant that he had a sibling or parent who attended Keaton before him. But when the headmaster asked all the new legacy students to stand up during orientation, Devon understood that being a legacy put you in a special club. It meant you were a bigger piece of the school’s DNA than other students. Only five kids in their class of seventy had stood.

Later, June (the month) explained that Jason was the prize legacy of the freshman class. His older brother, Eric, had graduated from Keaton last year. Apparently Eric was a perfect Keaton specimen: chemistry genius, all-star lacrosse player, but more prankster than Stepford Student. (“Keaton values individualism”—The Month’s words. Uttered seriously.) Jason and Eric’s very rich and very generous father, William, had also attended Keaton. June had whispered the last part conspiratorially: Rumor had it that the new science wing built three years ago existed solely because Jason’s dad wanted better chemistry facilities for Eric.

Jason grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. Threw it up in the air and caught it. “You know, for the organ donations. That’s what we’re here for. A big bunch of young, unsuspecting organ donors. Gotta feed the machine somehow.” He took a big bite from his apple. “So, like I said, they want to keep us healthy.”

Devon put herself in Ariel’s shoes. The smart thing to do would be to play along.

“Silly me. Here I was thinking they were shaping us into well-rounded young adults.”

“Bor-ring,” Jason drew out the word as long as possible. “That’s what they want us to think. Looks much better for the catalogues.” He examined his apple and took another oversized bite. Some of the apple juice dribbled down his chin and onto his white V-neck shirt. Devon had to look down to hide her smile. Jason had just blown whatever cool image he was trying to create. But honestly, it was the first time she’d caught anyone doing anything remotely human all week. “You’ve got it all worked out then. Good thing I ran into you … Jason, right?”

Jason held Devon’s gaze longer than was comfortable. “Yeah, good thing,” he said.

Devon instinctively took a small step back. She had seen that look-into-your-soul look before. Last summer Ariel made Devon double date with these guys that worked at Amoeba Records, Luke and Spencer. Devon was supposed to date Spencer, but he wouldn’t stop talking about “the importance of The Clash in music evolution.” Talk about bor-ring. She remembered that he kept staring into her eyes, willing her to like him back. It was the same look Jason was giving her now. He was definitely flirting with her. Devon broke away from the stare by brushing her hair out of her eyes. She was bad at flirting. Her over-analytical brain crept in. He didn’t ask her name. Clearly he knew. Now she was the lame one for asking the question. “Well, guess I’m not going to get that milk, so, see ya, Jason.” Devon put her empty pitcher down next to the machine and made a beeline for the exit.

“Hutch. Jason’s … whatever.… Hutch is really more my thing,” Jason-turned-Hutch called after her.

Devon turned only when she reached the doors.

“Gotcha, Hutch. Well, good luck with the organs.”

“Are those Nutter Butters?” Hutch asked with a smirk.

The package was sticking out of her pocket.
Great. Now it looks like I can’t go anywhere without bringing cookies with me
.

“You gonna eat those all by yourself?” Hutch left his apple on the countertop and began rubbing his palms together like a cartoon villain.

“Why, you want one?” Devon asked.
Save one for Derek
. How right her mom was. She made a mental note to thank her later.

“Hells yeah.” Hutch was next to her in a heartbeat, reaching for the bag. “Wait, sorry, that was rude of me. You should do the honors.”

He pushed the bag back, eager for her to open it. There was nothing in Hutch’s face that made Devon feel like they had just met or needed to be on their guard.

Amazing: her first Insta-Friend. Not from a sponge pellet, either. She tugged at the plastic, but stopped short of opening it.

“That brings me back to the original problem,” Devon started. “You can’t do Nutter Butters without milk. It’s a thing.”

Hutch raised his eyebrows. “Oh, it’s a thing?”

“It’s a thing. Like peanut butter and jelly.”

“Like Simon and Garfunkel?”

“Yeah. Like Rocky and Road.”

“Or like orientation week and sucking.” Hutch smiled wide at his own joke.

Devon laughed.

“Let’s get some milk then,” Hutch said mischievously.

“The machine is locked. Think we already established that,” Devon reminded him.

“This machine is. But where do you think they store the milk for the machine?”

Devon found herself smiling, again, too. What did he know that she didn’t?

“Come on. If it’s a thing, then we gotta go on a mission to make the thing happen.” Hutch grabbed Devon’s hand and pulled her through the doors. “That’s just what was missing tonight. A secret mission.…”

Devon’s thoughts were louder than Hutch’s words. His long fingers clasped her hand, scrunching her knuckles together. He pulled her along the gravel path outside the dining hall, leading her around back. The ocean wind whipped at her hair again, but, Hutch’s oversized grip felt warm and protective around hers. Safe. Which was
weird and definitely
not
safe, her over-analytical brain reminded her, because she’d just met him.

One solitary light jutted out from the roof in the back, illuminating stacked wooden crates and metal dumpsters. Hutch pushed on the metal handle of a lone rusted blue door. “Presto,” he whispered.

Sure enough, it opened right up into the school’s industrial kitchen. No locks here. Hutch led her inside, only letting go of her hand when she was past the threshold.

The door shut silently behind them.

“They don’t lock the kitchen?” Devon’s voice sounded ditzy in her own ears.

She tried to make sense of her surroundings while her brain tried to catch up. How did a package of cookies get her here? Five minutes ago she was alone in her dorm room, and now here she was on a “secret mission” with Hutch, the knobby-kneed prized Keaton legacy. In the dark, her heart began to thump again. Ariel would be proud. This was undeniably stupid and exciting. “A place that bases everything on an honor system leaves a lot of room for stupidity,” Hutch said.

Devon reached for the light switch, but he placed his hand over hers.

“No lights. It’ll give away our position.”

Hutch was just inches from her now. The outside light cast a dim glow through the small window above the door. Devon tilted her face up to him and felt his warm breath on her forehead. His light brown eyes were on Devon, flitting between her nose and lips. His eyelashes were dark but barely registered compared to his wide eyebrows. And his lips had that perfect dent in the middle. Devon found herself wondering what it would be like to kiss those lips. Hutch’s hand tightened over hers for an instant, but then he pushed away. The moment over. If it was a
moment
at all.

“We’re not supposed to be in here,” Devon whispered.

Hutch hopped on a sterile metal counter, his long legs dangling, as if he had all the time in the world. “Supposed to?
Devon, Devon, Devon,” he said in a faux-mocking voice. (So he
did
know her name.) “ ‘Supposed to’ is such a loaded little phrase. Do you really want to live your life doing everything you’re
supposed
to do?”