was sneaking around in Isla’s room. Bright lights equaled purpose. She reached for the top of Isla’s clothing pile and started folding.
A white V-neck. Folded. Plaid long-sleeve shirt. Folded. Devon glanced around as she worked. Aside from a large purple and brown tapestry with swirls of elephants and ‘ohm’ symbols, there were no pictures on Isla’s wall. Her iPod dock was stickered with Vegetarians Taste Better. On her bedside table lay a piece of driftwood with jewelry draped across it. Devon moved onto a pair of black sweatpants. One leg flicked the driftwood, sending an earring into the open top drawer. When Devon reached inside to retrieve it, another pill bottle rolled out.
Adderall, 10 mg. The prescription was for ‘Isla Mayfair.’ The bottle was pretty full. Devon dumped what looked like twenty blue pills into the palm of her hand. Instinctively she made sure Isla’s door was closed. This would be a hard one to explain to a teacher passing by. Isla must have thought these pills weren’t that big a deal if she hadn’t mentioned them. But Devon knew if she took the bottle Isla would notice. She poured half the pills back in the bottle and tucked the remaining pills in her pocket. At least she could limit how much Isla was taking.
The bottle rolled to the back of the drawer and Devon spotted a familiar head of brown hair: a photograph of Hutch and Isla on the beach. Isla was smiling at the camera, her cheeks fuller and brighter, her smile wide and real. Hutch was kissing her cheek, his eyes closed. Under the picture was an index card wrapped with a hemp necklace. Two nickel-sized shells were threaded through the hemp. On the back of the card was handwritten, “Love, H.”
Even though it was wrong, even though this wasn’t hers, Devon unwrapped the necklace. She stood in front of Isla’s mirror and hung it around her neck. The iridescent white and pink of the shells caught the light, as if they were showing off.
“Love, H,” Devon said to herself.
But this wasn’t hers to take. Hutch and Isla had created this. Devon wrapped the necklace back around the card, her hands shaking. She shoved it behind the photo. Devon hadn’t even been in Hutch’s phone to receive his suicide text. Isla—the Keaton Prize Girlfriend for whom Hutch had made a necklace, for whom Hutch had texted “I’m sorry”—must have had other Hutch pictures around. Devon tucked the photo in her back pocket. She deserved some little memento, didn’t she?
Devon felt her cheeks getting hot. This was bad. She couldn’t hate them: Isla, Matt … even Presley, any of them. She was just as guilty of turning away from Hutch. They needed her help. She had to help them. It’s what Hutch would have done.
Before leaving, Devon shook out the clothes she had folded and tossed them back on Isla’s pile.
* “Is Your Subject Suicidal?: A Checklist.” —Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide by Henry Robins, MFT
† “Egan’s Model of Effective Listening: S.O.L.A.R.,” R: Be a Relaxed Helper —Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide by Henry Robins, MFT
‡ Whenever possible, keep the subject focused on the topic at hand. —Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide by Henry Robins, MFT
CHAPTER 3
Name: Cleo Lambert
Session Date: Sept. 10
Referred by: Headmaster Wyler
Reason for Session: Caught shoplifting at
Monte Vista Pharmacy
“This is my punishment? Trés magnifique,” Cleo tucked her black bob behind her ears. Her bright-yellow-painted nails tapped on the wooden armrest.
“Does that mean good or bad?” Devon asked. She opened her notebook to a new page and took the lid off her pen. “Maybe, for the sake of clarity, let’s stick to English.”
“C’est bien. It’s better than getting kicked out, right?” Cleo let out a hollow laugh.
Devon smiled back. “Good point. So, do you want to start with what happened in Monte Vista?” Devon made a point to keep her face blank, eager to hear Cleo’s answer.*
Cleo checked her watch, even though she’d arrived right on time. Rose gold, chunky, men’s watch. Devon couldn’t see the brand but the diamonds on each number made a clear statement: You can’t afford this. Cleo’s uniform of black biker boots, skinny jeans, oversized black sweater, thick black eyeliner—it was straight out of a fashion spread in Vogue. Black is the new black! Her eyes wandered around the room, deliberately bored. “I’m tired of the Monte Vista story. Wouldn’t it be easier for you if I sat here and cried about Hutch being gone and contemplated the