Authors: Margaux Froley
“Doesn’t Reed actually own this hill?” Devon asked, watching the lights from the Keaton dorms grow closer, a deceptive warm campfire-like glow that promised comfort before the whole place went into full lockdown mode.
Bodhi considered the question for a moment. “I think there’s a line here that divides the property. Hutchins and Keaton. Like an actual
line
. But Keaton and Reed were buddies all those years, so who knows? Maybe it was just a gentleman’s handshake about the whole thing.” Bodhi downshifted as the car crept up the slope below Bay House. The clock on the dashboard read 9:56. Devon would have to run to slip inside before curfew. Or sprint, more like it. Ms. Hadden was on dorm duty, and she purposely locked all the side doors in the building so there was only one way to get inside. She would be firmly parked at the main entrance with her clipboard in hand, checking each girl off her list as they filed in for the night. A faux-blonde jail warden in a Lacoste sweater.
The car lurched to a stop.
“Thanks for the ride,” Devon said. She opened the door.
“I really don’t think you’re crazy,” Bodhi said. “I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you. You should know that. I mean … it means a lot to us that you’re so concerned about Reed. But this research stuff, I want to—we want to do it.”
“Um, thanks. That’s good to know.” Her voice sounded funny in her ears. Bodhi was staring at her with a strange intensity.
Before Devon understood what was happening, he had leaned across the center console and reached for her. With a hand on the back of her neck, he pulled Devon toward him and kissed her. A soft kiss at first, as if testing the waters. His dreadlocks brushed her cheeks; she was conscious of how they felt so much softer than how they looked. Then another, longer kiss, his fingers threaded through her hair, giving it a slow tug. He pulled away.
“I’ve thought about doing that for weeks,” he whispered.
Devon glanced at the dashboard: 9:58.
Her heart thumped. “Shit, I gotta go.” She grabbed her backpack and jumped out of the car. Her lips were still warm and tingling from the kiss. She took a few steps but caught herself before going further. “Bodhi?”
He leaned out his window. His eyes glittered in the moonlight. He was smiling, but there was sadness there.
“I’m glad you did,” she said.
His smile brightened. “Night, Devon.”
“You, too.” Devon turned and dashed up the hillside, her own smile as wide as the distance to her waiting dorm.
The phone woke Devon the next morning. She had been dreaming about surfing … or rather, sitting on a surfboard in the ocean while the waves bobbed around her. The metal spyglass from the yacht floated nearby, but no matter how hard she paddled and kicked, she couldn’t reach it. The ringing merged with the purr and snarl of the waves, growing louder and louder until it finally pulled her out of sleep.
“Hi, Mom.” She groaned and slumped back into her pillow.
“Morning, sunshine. Sorry to wake you.” Devon could hear her mom rustling through the kitchen at home. A cupboard slammed; the coffee machine beeped.
“Extra-strong brew?” Devon asked.
“Mmmm, you know the morning drill. Gotta fuel up for those fourteen-hour shifts.” More cupboards slamming, plastic rustling.
“Listen, hon. Sorry I didn’t call you back until now. You said something in your text about your scholarship?”
“Yeah, ummm.” Devon took a deep breath. She needed some oxygen to get her brain running at capacity. And this was a tricky situation. She obviously couldn’t tell her mom that she’d visited Hutch’s murderer brother. But what was the best way to clue in her mom on the cryptic information Eric had divulged?
“I wanted to write a thank-you note or something to the people that help with my scholarship. You don’t know anything about them, do you?”
“I know about as much as you do, hon,” her mom said matter-of-factly. “It’s a trust or something set up by the alumni association.”
“Just one alum? Or a bunch? Wouldn’t their names be listed somewhere?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s one of the truly generous people left in the world, someone who doesn’t need to be recognized for their generosity. Why the sudden interest now? You never mentioned this before.”
“So it’s one alum who’s responsible for the scholarship,” Devon pressed.
“Honey, what’s this about?” her mother asked. The puttering around the kitchen had stopped. There was dead silence on the other end.
Devon swallowed. “I don’t know. I guess it’s like how adopted kids suddenly decide they want to find their real parents, you know? Thinking about college and knowing I’ll be leaving eventually, and that my whole Keaton experience is due to someone else’s generosity and stuff.” She closed her mouth. She was babbling.
Her mom sighed. “Hmm, I never thought of it that way.” She took a sip of coffee, apparently placated. “I’m sure if you wrote a note to the administration, the school would make sure it went to the right person.”
“Yeah, I could do that.” Devon closed her eyes. If her worst fear
was true, that her scholarship was paid for by the Hutchins family, then writing a letter of thanks to them wouldn’t just be offensive, it would be plain stupid.
Thanks for my education. Oh, and sorry about exposing that your son murdered your other son over money. Cheers!
No way.
“Hey, you ever hear of the Hutchins family?” she heard herself ask. “I mean, before everything happened with Hutch?”
The movement on the other end came to another standstill. Devon’s mom’s voice was quieter now, more measured. “I feel so horrible for those poor parents. No parent should have to go through that.”
“So you don’t think they could secretly be super generous?”
“Why would you ask that? You think they’re connected to your scholarship? Devon, I’m not sure I like where you’re going with this—”
“I only want to find out if they’re really generous,” Devon said defensively, and mostly to herself. “I don’t think that’s a terrible thing to be accused of.”
A long sigh, and longer silence on the other end. “I’ve got to get to work.” Her mother’s voice was sharp now, tired. “Whoever provided your scholarship chose to remain anonymous, and we have to respect that choice. So please, let’s just be grateful for someone’s generosity and drop it. If you want to write a letter for the school, I’m sure they’ll get it to the right person.”
“Or people. Like you said, you don’t know it’s just one person—”
“It’s not our business, Devon.”
“This is my forty-thousand-dollar-a-year education. How is that not my business? Why are you being so weird about this?”
There was a sharp rattle; her mother must have put down her mug extra hard on the counter. “You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said. I can hear you getting worked up. That’s not what we need.”
“We? Are we speaking in the royal ‘we’ now?”
“Devon, I have to go. Enjoy your Sunday. I love you, sunshine.”
“
We
love you, too, Mom. Bye.” She hung up and closed her eyes again.
Was her mom mad at her? She seemed touchy about the questions, or could Devon have been imagining that? No, her mom had definitely seemed off. Better question: Was her own mother sick of Devon’s questions? Or worse, was her mom keeping a secret from her, too? No, Mom was just playing the role of the grown-up. Respect the benefactor’s wishes, no questions asked.
Maybe Dr. Hsu was right. Maybe Devon was starting to get paranoid. But, could anxiety be considered paranoia if there were really good reasons for it? Or is that what paranoid people told themselves to justify further paranoia?
Now “we’re” in a downward spiral of paranoia
, Devon thought with a groan.
Lying in bed wasn’t going to help her get more answers. It was Sunday morning, and she had someone she needed to talk to.
C
LEO
’
S ROOM WAS EMPTY
, along with over half the other rooms in Morgan House. The black Calvin Klein bedspread was tucked in without a wrinkle. Cleo’s makeup was gone from her dresser, too. She must be out of town for the weekend. But she’d have to be back at some point today.
Devon caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on Cleo’s closet door. Her hair was spilling in all directions from her ponytail, and she had a pillow crease denting her left cheek. Yet it was just last night Bodhi had his fingers threaded through her hair while they kissed. Devon needed to see Cleo before she could think about Bodhi anymore. Was she to blame for Bodhi and Cleo breaking up?
No, that was impossible. Besides, both of them had told her the same thing in different ways, reiterating what she already knew: they were very different people, fashion vs. ocean, airbrush tan vs. year-round natural tan. It didn’t seem like Cleo was especially
heartbroken over Bodhi. She was the one who’d gone off in search of Eli, their mysterious dimpled waiter.
So why did kissing Bodhi feel like a betrayal?
It didn’t matter. Cleo probably understood Devon better than anyone on campus, better even than Presley. Besides, Devon couldn’t wait to tell Cleo the dirt that she had on Eli, thanks to the Elliot siblings. Though, knowing Cleo, the fact that Eli was a hired evildoer might even make her like him more.
Devon scribbled on a Post-it pad on Cleo’s desk.
Miss me? Find me when you’re back. –D
.
With that, Devon hurried from Morgan House and walked to the edge of the hillside. Her eyes traced the sloping green lawn that met with thick bushes, giving way to pine trees and redwoods, the wilderness below. Dark gray clouds rolled in from the ocean. Cotton-like wisps of cloud crept through Reed’s grapevines.
She wondered if Bodhi was working in the guesthouse.
What was going to happen with her and Bodhi now? Had he thought that kiss through? What if she’d said no or pulled away? Would it have ruined their friendship? Too many hypotheticals to consider … She needed something to distract her busy brain. And she knew exactly what that distraction needed to be. The kiss had made her forget a very important piece of business—namely, that she still hadn’t opened Reed’s diary.
D
EVON
’
S BACKPACK WAS STILL
on the floor where she had left it last night.
She frowned as she picked it up, thinking of how red her face must have been when she’d dashed into the dorm thirty seconds before the curfew bell rang. Ms. Hadden had frowned out the door while it swung closed, as if expecting to see a boy running back to
his dorm with a blanket over his shoulder. But no, there was no boy. None that she could see, anyway.
Devon Mackintosh, on time. Check
.
Next time, Devon wouldn’t wait until 9:50 to dash. She flopped on her bed and pulled out the diary, careful to avoid creasing the brittle paper.
Jan. 1, 1942
Dr. Keaton has changed my life a second time. First when he accepted me into his physics program at Berkeley. Now he has invited Athena and me to stay and work with him on a top-secret new project for the war effort. I’m probably not even supposed to say the words “top secret,” but it is a secret, even from us. Dr. Keaton doesn’t even really know the true nature of our work, but he believes that is for our safety, which I’m happy to believe
.
It’s hard to describe our new home. Near Santa Cruz and up the hillside some. An Army jeep manned by a Corporal Grayson drove Athena and me over from Berkeley. Dr. Keaton’s lab wasn’t much more than a tent with wooden planks for floors and metal tables stacked with boxes
.
“We’re getting the buildings put up in the next month or so. Would hate to have our work affected by the elements, you see.”
Those were his exact words, the words I remember most clearly. The rest is a fog of excitement. He asked Athena and me to quit Berkeley and live up here and work with him. I am so honored. It is the noblest opportunity
.
And he did share
one
secret
.
He introduced us to someone, a woman, when he invited us for tea in another tent. She wore tan riding pants and was putting cups and a teapot on a tray. I could hear a faint whistle from the metal kettle on the stove
.
“Hana, we have guests,” Dr. Keaton said to her.
Instantly we realized she was Japanese. She had a milky complexion, more fair-skinned than the Chinese workers I was used to seeing around Oakland. He knew that Athena and I would be shocked, and he wanted to gauge our reaction. And it’s not like we have anything against a Japanese person. It’s just that since the bombing of Pearl Harbor last month, the whole country is looking at Japanese people differently
.
Hana led us to a nearby picnic table, where she poured tea for each of us. Dr. Keaton watched us the whole time. It wasn’t until then that we put it together that Hana was Keaton’s wife. Both of them wore simple gold wedding bands. Keaton kept a tender hand on her back while she poured
.
Once we were all served, Keaton asked if he could speak with me privately. I assumed he was going to discuss more logistics with moving Athena and me up to the hill, but no. He told me that he and Hana have been married for three years. She was born and raised in Oakland, but he feels like the anti-Japanese sentiment will only get worse in the city. He doesn’t need to convince me. I know how bad it is, but listening to him was tough. Last week the grocery store owner down the street from them wouldn’t even sell groceries to Hana until Keaton came and intervened
.
The Army has done a background check on Hana, and she was cleared to be here with Keaton, but he is not allowed to discuss his work with her. That’s why he wants to make sure Athena would come to the hill with me. Hana needs another woman around to talk to, a friend. They plan on making a permanent home on the hillside. But he needs to know we’re okay with Hana. What could I say? Of course we are
.
By the end of the conversation, Keaton had agreed to build a house for Athena and me, hired me at $25 a week, and confirmed that we would start by the end of the month. And I still don’t know what we’ll be doing
.