* “Drug use, sudden weight loss, and fluctuating emotions are all potential red flag behaviors.”
—Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide by Henry Robins, MFT
† “Working with Feelings” —Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide by Henry Robins, MFT
‡ “List of Don’ts: Don’t make promises based on a subject’s emotions.”—Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide by Henry Robins, MFT
CHAPTER 5
September 10, 2010
Freshman Year
The lock clicked into place. Devon flinched at the sound. Hutch grinned like a little boy about to open his Christmas presents.
“That was exciting, wasn’t it?” he said. Hutch crawled out from underneath the table and extended a hand toward Devon, but she stayed on the ground.
“We’re officially screwed, aren’t we?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t say ‘officially.’ ” Hutch used both hands to pull Devon to her feet. “More like a temporary forced relocation.”
“You make us sound like refugees,” Devon said.
“Aren’t we? I mean out there,” Hutch pointed to the door. “Out there is kind of like war. Every day we gotta fight to keep up appearances, grades, athletic ability, but in here … in here it’s just you and me and Nutter Butter pancakes.” Hutch cracked an egg into the mixing bowl of batter. “Come on, you gotta crumble up the cookies.”
Devon pulled a cookie from the container and crunched it in her hand. Her over-analytical brain was working overtime on other matters. Were they stuck in here for the night? Had Hutch known this would happen? She thought he seemed disturbingly not disturbed by their situation. As far as she could track it, this night had gone from boring exciting romantic nerve-racking, all in a matter of fifteen minutes. Devon stayed frozen with her hand clenched above the bowl. Hutch tossed an eggshell into the trash at the end of the counter and noticed Devon’s pensive stare.
“Hey, we’re fine, you know. This night will end at some point; it’s just that how it ends remains to be seen. All we can do is enjoy the time we have now.” Hutch wrapped a hand around Devon’s wrist and slowly pulled her fingers back, letting the cookie fall into the bowl below.
Devon looked up at him. That spiky hair, his eyes brown or hazel, she couldn’t tell in this light, but they were deep, melted chocolate, standing out in contrast to his bushy eyebrows. And the way he looked at her—calm, unflinching, solid—made her relax.
“How are you so … so … you?” Devon asked. As soon as she heard the question out loud she knew it sounded as stupid as she thought. But she didn’t know how else to ask. How did this guy, this guy who theoretically had been alive for the same amount of time as she had, come to have such a different attitude? Hutch seemed to have the kind of calm people meditated for years to find. Here he was, fourteen and already a Zen master.
Hutch laughed and reached for another cookie. “How am I me?” He used two hands to crush a cookie into the batter. “Kind of an existential question, dontcha think?”
“No, come on, you know what I mean.” Devon crumbled a cookie now too. It felt better to be doing something with her hands, a reminder that she was still breathing. Like the stories she heard about people getting stuck on desert islands; it wasn’t the elements that could kill you, it was the boredom. Or was it the solitude? Either way, staying busy was the best way to avoid going stir-crazy, she was sure of it. “It’s like nothing fazes you.”
Hutch chuckled. “That’s my brother, Eric. Everything fazes him. He got the burden of being older and worried about what everyone thinks of him, especially our dad. That’s just not me. I don’t care what anyone thinks. I refuse to bend over backward for everyone else until I’m broken like he is. I’m broken in my own way, I guess.”
Devon noticed that as he stared into the batter bowl, the top of his jaw twitched just in front of his ears. He had an over-analytical brain, too. “Aren’t we all?” Devon said back. She sounded more cynical than she’d planned. She didn’t want to. She wanted to make Hutch comfortable, like he had for her.
“Oh yeah? How are you broken?” Hutch stopped crushing the cookies and gave Devon his full attention.
“I don’t know.” Devon thought back to a therapy session her mom made her attend over the summer: a preemptive strike against any teenage rebellion that might have been brewing. “Well, I