“Jesus, Pres.” Devon jumped off the bed and pulled Presley’s hair back while Presley caught her breath. “What’s wrong?”
“Ah, man. This is beyond mystery meat. I think I’m sick.” Presley held onto the school-issued rubber can. She blinked apologetically at Devon, wiping her mouth. Her lips trembled. “I’ll clean this up for you.”
The school bell rang: 9:30 PM. Study hours were over. One hour of free roaming around campus before everyone had to be in their rooms.
Presley grabbed the garbage can. “Damn. Pete will be here in a second. Tell him to hold on if I’m not back. I gotta brush my teeth.” She hurried out of Devon’s room, can in tow.
Devon opened her sliding door to welcome in some fresh air before the vomit stench could set in. The rest of Presley’s evening was Presley’s business.
She pulled her notebook from under her pillow. She had just finished describing Isla’s decaying body, the scratches, her skeletal frame. Should she write about Isla using an alias for her prescription? Mr. Robins had promised Devon that students couldn’t get in trouble for whatever they discussed in their sessions. In turn, Devon had promised to share her session notes with him to better help him oversee her. It seemed like a good plan, but that was before Devon started counseling. Her notes wouldn’t reveal a small infraction like vodka stored in water bottles or a new hideout on campus for smokers; most of the school was either using or complicit in an illegal drug ring. If Mr. Robins read them he would have no choice but to show Headmaster Wyler. Given the climate at Keaton post-Hutch, the school would go into lockdown. Rooms would be searched. Weekends would be restricted. And no doubt, Devon would be scapegoated. Isla and Matt were too smart; they’d figure out who’d ratted out Hutch, in spite of Devon’s promises to them. No, there was no way Mr. Robins could see these. For now they were for Devon’s eyes only. She would write down everything she could if it meant she was helping her subjects. She’d deal with Mr. Robins later.
Someone banged on the window next to Devon’s room. “Pres! You in there?”
Devon sighed and put the notes away again. She poked her head outside. Pete stood with a quilt draped over his shoulder.
His dark hair was cut short, an effort to control his ‘Jew Fro’ as he called it. He wore a short sleeve shirt and even in the dim outside lights Devon could see the black hairs blanketing his arms. “Presley’s coming. She’s been kinda sick.”
“Thanks. That sucks.” He checked his watch and pulled the quilt off his shoulders with a big sigh. It hung in his hand, limp.
“Yeah, you probably won’t be needing that,” Devon said. Quilts, blankets, even sheets at this hour were for one thing only. On the grass behind a dorm, on the carpet of a music room, even between the bleachers in the basketball court, carrying a blanket at this time of night was a badge of honor. No doubt Pete made a point for his dormmates to see. “Congrats, by the way, on you two getting back together. I didn’t think she’d take you back after … well, you don’t need me to tell you what you did.”
Pete’s wide forehead wrinkled. “No, but you like reminding me.”
“That’s probably your guilt reminding you, actually. Me? I’m just looking out for Presley.” Devon crossed her arms and leaned against her open door.
“Hiiiiiii, baby!” Presley sang as she stepped out of her room.
Pete leaned in for a kiss.
“Better not, I’m sick,” Presley croaked.
Devon watched as they disappeared into the dark behind the dorm. She envied Presley’s ability to neatly compartmentalize. Presley had been on the newspaper staff with Hutch the past two years. They’d been friends. She was within her right to be publically upset about Hutch. But Devon? No one, not even Presley knew about her night with Hutch. Devon had just been locked in a kitchen with him for one night. One night, two years ago. Maybe she didn’t have a public claim on being his friend, to being more upset than anyone else, but she couldn’t shake the voice in her head, You were more than friends.
She pushed the thought away. Instead, she headed down the deserted hallway—back to Isla’s empty room and her lonely pile of clothes.
A WIND CHIME MADE of seashells clinked when Devon walked in. She flicked on the light to avoid feeling like she