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