Free Keaton School 01: Escape Theory by Margaux Froley

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 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 bottleand 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