Hero Complex (2 page)

Another splash, and another girl went into the water. Her red dress fanned out around her like an oversized lily pad. A silver sequined heel clunked down against the bottom of the pool in slow motion, landing with a muffled thud. Devon reached up and could almost touch the glass above. It was like being inside a snow globe, except this snow globe was filled with leather banquettes and a revolving liquor cabinet.

“Pretty insane, right?”

A waiter in a white jacket stood at the entrance to the room, an empty tray hanging by his side. Devon dropped her hands, feeling like she’d been caught doing something wrong. But no, she was the guest here.

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, once you’ve seen one glass-bottomed pool on a yacht, you’ve seen them all, right?”

The waiter laughed a little, revealing a perfect dimple on each cheek. Cleo’s waiter. But where was Cleo?

“You don’t know where the navigation room is, do you? I got a little lost down here. I’m Devon, by the way.” She hurried across the room to shake his hand. Best to be formal.

“Eli,” he said with a puzzled smile, giving her hand a quick shake. “You mean, this room?” He pressed a panel in the white lacquered wall next to Devon, and it popped open. “I gotta get back to the bar, but happy New Year, Devon.”

Eli gave Devon one last glance at those dimples before disappearing back into the hallway.
Typical Cleo
, she thought.
Of course there was a secret door and she didn’t tell me. Probably watching from some hidden camera while I figure it out
.

Devon stepped past the panel. Screens glowed in the small dark room: black-and-white footage of various parts of the yacht. Another screen, all in blue, displayed graphs charting the yacht’s trip, knots traveled or something else water related. Devon didn’t speak “yacht.”

On a shelf at eye level was an antique spyglass. Copper with hints of green, fighting the oxidation from the salty sea air. In her imagination, yachting still involved things like spyglasses and rum and wooden legs. Okay, maybe she was just thinking of pirates now.

She looked again at the screens, where a blinking dot slowly moved in the bay. She shook her head; staring at the screens was making her vision blurry. Or was it the champagne? She felt a chill from the outside air. There across the room was another door, and beyond it probably Cleo sitting on a balcony, flirtatiously taking a drag off a waiter’s cigarette. Devon steadied herself against the wall of monitors. She wished Cleo had warned her that wearing heels while yachting was a bad idea.
Is yachting even a real verb?

“Were you trying to lose me?” she asked as she opened the balcony door.

But she was talking to empty sea air. No Cleo. No smokers’ lounge for the waiters. The party continued to roar on the other side of the boat, and the wind whipped past her ears, loud and cold. Before she could turn around, Devon felt a hard crack against the back of her skull. The pain deep, yet distant. As a tremor shot through her body, the moon went fuzzy, and everything sounded thick, an underwater dream in Devon’s personal snow globe. A flicker in her vision, and the green metal spyglass flew overboard and landed in the water. The splash was absorbed by the moving boat. Shoes squeaked on the deck behind her. White, rubber. White sleeves opening a door. Someone had hit her and left. And now the metal railing was coming toward her. Fast.

Put a hand out. Catch yourself!
she commanded her body. But her hands didn’t respond. And when her cheek connected with the railing, the pain was immediate. A flash of red light, the image of the
HAPPY NEW Y
tiara.
Happy New Y, indeed
.

“But I still don’t understand why Mr. Robins isn’t here.” Devon ran her hand across the blue suede couch cushion. Stacks of books on the floor leaned against the wall in mini towers. One push and they would all fall like dominoes. Her cheek burned at the thought of falling. The bump under her right eye had subsided, but the bruise was still a deep purple. And the large lump under her hair on the back of her head still ached if she pressed it hard enough.

Across the small office, Dr. Jocelyn Hsu tucked her legs under her in the large leather chair. She pulled a knitted throw blanket across her lap and took a sip of her tea. “Well, I can explain it again if you want. But there isn’t much more information I can give you. Headmaster Wyler and a few other concerned advisors, including Mr. Robins himself, thought he could use some additional support around here.”

Devon nodded. “Go on.”

“Well, given that you and Mr. Robins were working somewhat closely together last semester, it seemed appropriate that you now work with someone who might bring a fresh perspective to things. So that’s where I come in.” Dr. Hsu smiled warmly.

For someone who seemed to enjoy cozy blankets, thick wool socks, and flowing blouses, Dr. Hsu’s hairdo was a surprisingly sharp and stylish bob cut. She probably had it done in San Francisco as opposed to the hippie salons in Santa Cruz, Devon thought. That was definitely not a ten-dollar Monte Vista barbershop visit.

“Do you think you’ll be okay with that?” Dr. Hsu smiled again, but Devon could see her pressing her lips together, waiting for an answer.

Devon had been noticing that smile a lot lately. From her mom, holding her hand at the hospital while asking her to explain the yacht attack yet again. From Presley, urging Devon to tell her anything she wanted. Everyone wanted Devon to talk about the assault over and over again. From the police and doctors, too—everyone had a different version of the “understanding smile.” In the short week since her attack, Devon had told the story more times than she could remember.

Thankfully Cleo had stepped in and soaked up most of the attention in her role as Devon’s Knight in Shining Armor. She’d found Devon unconscious on the deck that night, the one place on the yacht without security cameras. Naturally there would be no proof of Devon’s claim that someone had clubbed her from behind. There seemed to be a quiet understanding between Cleo’s father and Devon’s mom that Devon had sneaked a few glasses of champagne, gotten tipsy, and fallen down. Devon’s insistence that she didn’t “eat rail,” as Presley termed it, just brought on more tight smiles. The police had real cases to solve, and Cleo’s father didn’t want any bad publicity about an underage girl getting drunk at his company’s yacht party.

But Cleo alone had never given Devon an understanding smile. She knew there was nothing to be patient about, nothing to politely endure while the story unfolded. No, what had happened was somehow personal and deliberate. Cleo knew, too, that this wasn’t an accident. Devon also suspected—though Cleo never admitted as much—that Cleo might have even felt responsible. She’d let Devon out of her sight. She’d traipsed ahead, happy and drunk, oblivious to lurking danger.

Besides, the attack had shaken the politeness out of Devon. Life was too short to follow rules anymore. She needed to get answers and wasn’t worried about stepping on anyone’s toes along the way.

“You don’t have to pretend that I have a choice in this,” she said to Dr. Hsu.

The woman’s smile didn’t falter, but she tilted her head to the side. “Oh, of course you have a choice whether you want to see me or not. Except you’re smart. You also know that your choice comes with conditions. Keaton can’t reinstate the peer counseling program until I’ve given my vote of approval.”

“What else is new? I play ball with you guys, or I can kiss my Stanford rec letter goodbye.”

Dr. Hsu shrugged but kept smiling. Professional yet understanding, Devon thought. The recipe for a good counselor. “Who says I even want to be a peer counselor again?” Devon asked.

“I don’t know. No one. You, maybe. It’s your choice.”

“Choices again. Nice.” Devon let out a short laugh.

Dr. Hsu sipped her tea. Waiting. Devon knew the waiting game. Let the subject talk about what they want; it’s more revealing. Dr. Hsu’s haircut was too expensive for someone who didn’t take this job seriously. Hell, she’d earned a PhD in psychotherapy; she probably wouldn’t cave until Devon said something first.

“You want me to talk about the attack, huh?”

“If you want.” Another sip of tea.

“I didn’t see him. I didn’t notice anything weird earlier in the
night. I’ve been through all of that. Someone hit me. There’s nothing else to tell.”

“There’s still you, your experience of the night. Plus, we know that you were drinking at the time, so maybe your experience is, let’s say,
heightened
.”

Devon blinked rapidly. “Heightened? You ever been attacked? It happens so fast, but time slows down. It’s hard to explain. One minute I can’t find Cleo, another I’m on some secret deck, and someone hits me hard. I could have gone overboard. It would have been so easy. ‘Girl gets drunk, falls over side of boat at night.’ No noise, no light. I wouldn’t be here. I’m sure that was their plan. Someone didn’t want me to be here.”

“And by someone, you mean your
attacker?
”

Devon shook her head and laughed. “I see what you did there. You say
attacker
like it’s in quotes. Like that part is still up for debate. My
alleged attacker
.”

Dr. Hsu leaned forward, gripping her mug with both hands. “Well, let’s discuss the facts. Cleo found you; there was a 911 call. The yacht immediately came back to shore. What happened then?”

“Look, I know it sounds far-fetched.” Devon maintained eye contact with Dr. Hsu. It was important that she not present like she was lying or uncomfortable with the truth.

“Devon, the police met the boat at the dock. Everyone was cleared. So either the attacker was a guest at the party, or what? He jumped overboard in the middle of the night in the bay? Yes, I’ll be the one to say it. What you’re proposing does sound far-fetched. That’s why people are worried about you. Do you want to talk about how much you had to drink that night? Have you been drinking beyond just that night?”

“That’s not the issue here.” Devon fought to keep her voice even. “What happened wasn’t random. I know there’s more to this; I just don’t know what yet. The last time I felt like this …” She didn’t finish the thought. It would make her sound paranoid.

“Yes, tell me about last time.” Dr. Hsu leaned back, adjusted the blanket over her lap, and took another sip of tea.

Devon paused. Dr. Hsu had clearly been warned about Devon. But how? Was the school pitching Devon as some sort of paranoid rogue they needed to tame? She had been right about Hutch despite everything Robins had said about her theories. Yet somehow she was being painted as the delusional one here still.

“You think I’m imagining things? Like, someone is out to get me?”

“No, not at all,” Dr. Hsu quickly replied. “If someone was out to get you, this is a very real post-traumatic stress reaction. I’m just trying to understand why you feel that one person is part of something larger.”

Devon lowered her eyes. “Last time, when Hutch died, no one believed me. This feels the same, like there’s more than just this one incident. I don’t know how I know, I just do. There’s more to it.”

Dr. Hsu nodded. “But this isn’t last time.”

“I didn’t say it was. It’s
like
last time.” Devon pushed her shoulders back and sat up straighter. Dr. Hsu was not going to twist her words around.

“Okay. Tell me more about Hutch. About your relationship with him.”

“I’m sure Headmaster Wyler told you everything you need to know about Hutch and what happened. It’s been in all the papers.”

“Yes, but I want to hear it from you.”

Devon bit her thumbnail. It was pointless to attempt to convince Dr. Hsu of anything. Apparently the brass at Keaton had a specific idea of what Devon’s issues were.

Fine, if she couldn’t change their minds, she might as well use their preconceived notions to her advantage. While their version of Paranoid Devon spun in circles, Real Devon could focus on finding her attacker. Raven and Bodhi were already hacking into the records of the yacht catering company. But that wasn’t appropriate
conversation for therapy, was it? No, she could be the Devon that Keaton wanted her to be right now.

For the first time, she smiled at Dr. Hsu.

Game on
.

Devon was one of the early arrivals in the dining hall on Saturday morning. She had been awake since 7
A.M.
Sleeping until noon would have been a luxurious waste of the day, but her body would not comply. So she’d rolled out of bed, pulled on her Keaton hoodie, retied the drawstring on her plaid flannel pajama pants, and slipped into her battered Uggs. It was Saturday morning; bras were optional as far as she was concerned.

The good news about Keaton was that weekend mornings were generally an all-out call for sloppiness. It’s not like they wore starched uniforms during the school week, but after five eighteen-hour days in a row, Saturdays warranted pajamas.

While the kitchen staff placed steaming potatoes and silver-dollar pancakes into the waiting vats at the food counter, Devon opted for the cereal island. Froot Loops, Lucky Charms, Cocoa
Puffs, Cheerios, granola, and Corn Flakes. All freshmen tended to fill up on the Froot Loops and Lucky Charms. Maybe it was that early taste of freedom from parents choosing healthier cereal—or just a sugar radar that was more finely tuned the younger you were—but everyone consistently started with the full-sugar cereals. When the rebellious fun dimmed, their breakfast choices became plainer. Devon had indulged in her Lucky Charms phase and was happy to put it, and the memory of all that purple milk, behind her. Now like most juniors, she was a Corn Flakes girl.

Seated at an empty table in the back, she dug into her bowl of cereal. From this vantage point she had a clear view of Presley—also in pajamas and Uggs—strolling through the doors and filling up a plate with pancakes.
Weird
, Devon thought with a smile. She expected Presley to be in a soccer uniform or running gear. Winter was her prime time to show off her athletic skills, and she usually spent her free time training.