seasons as a verb, like “My family summers in the Hamptons” or “We winter in Aspen.”
Once again, Devon felt herself getting angry. She had spent her summer break listing many cogent psychological reasons about why she shouldn’t attend Keaton, which of course her mom chalked up to being “just an ungrateful teenager,” which only infuriated Devon more. Really? Couldn’t Mom come up with a more creative phrase to describe her only daughter? Sure, Devon was thirteen, and sure she was annoyed that her “mature” body hadn’t quite come in yet, but mentally she felt old enough to be in control of her own life: as in perfectly justified in not wanting to live in some upscale mountain penitentiary for the absurdly rich.
Next week Ariel would be headed to public school in Piedmont. Ariel: who made Devon feel like she belonged anywhere they went simply because Ariel acted like they belonged everywhere they went. No awkwardness about cliques or cafeteria seating. No first day jitters. New friends, new crushes on boys, new after-school hangouts; none of that fazed her.
And here was Devon, stuck at the top of a mountain at The Keaton School.
Ariel’s ease could never spill out of the photo and into her, no matter how hard Devon stared at it. She turned to the Target digital alarm clock (“Because you won’t have the Mom Alarm anymore,” her mom chided on a dorm room shopping trip), blinking 10:18 P.M. Twelve minutes until the bell rang and everyone had to be inside their dorms for the night. Twelve minutes until she could stop feeling bad about not socializing and reasonably crawl into bed, crossing off another day of her sentence at Keaton. Twelve minutes until roll call and Devon’s dorm head would peek in.…
Devon Mackintosh: check.
Where else would she be? Or more importantly, as Ariel would ask, whom would she be with? Keaton was perched above the small beach town of Monte Vista. It’s not like Devon could wander over to the nearest shopping mall and catch a late movie with some locals. No, Devon was physically trapped on the mountain. There was only one way up and one way down, as far as she knew. It was almost funny.
When they built these dorms Devon suspected that “durability” was the prime objective. The thin gray carpet could absorb any dirt, footprint, or stain. (And probably had. Yuck.) The cinderblock walls were painted a slick and glossy white, which made it virtually impossible to stick, pin, nail, or tape anything to the wall. But there was a single framed corkboard. Someone must have taken pity on the students and allowed them at least an iota of space to post mementos of their pre-Keaton lives. But apart from that teeny area of suggested self-expression, Devon’s twin bed, lean closet, and rickety desk was definitely more white-collar prison than the golden door of opportunity her mom described.
“Knock, knock. Devon?” came a sing-songy voice.
The Senior RA, June Chan, poked her head inside.
Devon sighed, but mustered a smile for June. Who actually says “knock, knock” out loud? June was from Taiwan and spoke Taiwanese, Mandarin Chinese, and English fluently. To Devon she seemed like an over-eager cheerleader who’d been at Keaton since birth. When Devon first arrived, June was there to greet all the girls in the dorm with a neon-bright smile and a bouncy ponytail. “Hi, I’m June. Like the month!” She spoke in exclamation points. Since that first day Devon had only seen June wearing dark green The Keaton School sweatshirts and sweats, like an athlete in training. But Devon could never figure out which sport. Maybe being at Keaton was the training itself.
Behind June, doors slammed. There was a burst of high-pitched giggling, the kind she and Ariel once reserved for slumber parties. A cry echoed down the hall—“Hey, that’s my bra, bee-yotch!”—followed by another round of laughter and footsteps. June smiled at the mayhem. She caught Devon’s gaze and turned back. Her mouth tightened into a thin, sympathetic smile.
Even June, the month, would rather hang out with them.
“Just checking in on you,” June said, sounding concerned yet upbeat all at once.
Yes, Devon was already the charity case. The girls in her dorm all seemed to have gone to volleyball camp or ski school together. Insta-Friends by the end of the first day. But somehow Devon missed her chance. Her Insta-Friend sponge pellet—the one that would turn her into a perfect friend if you just added water—turned out to be a dud.