In My Dreams I Hold a Knife

by Ashley Winstead

  “There’s no way,” I said. “He’d never.”

  “Jack helped him. Whenever Frankie had to take a drug test, Jack would pee in a cup.”

  Jack? Rule-abiding, church-boy Jack? He wouldn’t dream of it. Unless…unless he’d really loved Frankie. Enough to risk not just scandal but expulsion.

  Caro’s voice turned soft, her gaze drifting to the wall above me, like she was looking through a porthole into the past. “Senior year, Heather found out. You remember what she was like. Everyone always had to do the right thing. Or whatever she thought that was. She told them they had to stop. Frankie begged for a little more time, just one more test. But she told them they had to quit, or she was going to tell Frankie’s coach. She was so mad at Jack. I’ll never forget the look on her face.”

  I started to speak, to ask about Heather, but then the strangeness of her words caught me. I’ll never forget the look on her face. A frost spread over my body, my hands turning cold, as if the blood was slowly draining from them. “Wait…Caro. How did you find out?”

  She paused, those dark eyes and that silvery hair making her a surreal creature—Caro, but uncanny. Close to the person I remembered, but just a hair off. And I knew in that moment that whatever came next was the real secret, the truth that had launched her across the night, from her hotel room to my doorstep.

  “Sometimes I used to watch you,” she said. “When you didn’t know I was there.”

  Chapter 24

  December, senior year

  Caro

  Here was the truth, no matter how much Caro hated it: even within the East House Seven, among supposed equals, there were hierarchies. Mint was at the top, of course, and then Heather and Jack, well known and liked by everyone. Frankie, a little less high, but he had the shine of an athlete. Jess, squarely in the middle. She was Caro’s best friend, but also Mint’s girlfriend, so she was caught in between, always on the verge of plunging or ascending. There was Coop, who didn’t care about things like hierarchies. And then, at the bottom, there was Caro.

  It didn’t used to be that way. Freshman year, when she’d suggested they build their dorm’s Homecoming float together, each and every one of them had thrown themselves into it, working day and night, rallying around her idea, even after Courtney complained about it being a stupid arts-and-crafts contest. And look what happened—the East House Seven was born as a direct result. Secretly, she’d always believed it was her doing and felt a certain possessiveness: by right, they were hers.

  If she was being truly honest, sometimes it felt like the lonely girl she’d once been had dreamed them into being: Mint and Frankie, the perfect brothers; Heather, preternaturally confident, just like the girls she used to stare at in high school; Jess, the sister she could tell secrets; Coop, the one who gave them all an edge; and Jack, the one who understood, whose upbringing seemed so painfully close to hers.

  In the beginning, the novelty of having these friends—the sheer relief of it—was enough to sustain her. After so long watching from the sidelines while other kids, then other teenagers, had sleepovers, trick-or-treated, went to prom—things her parents didn’t approve of—it was a wonder to finally belong. Especially to the East House Seven, which was the loudest kind of belonging, almost showy.

  But over the years, the precious tightness of their circle had loosened, stretching to accommodate other friends, other interests, the occasional spring break with other people. Maybe it was only natural—inevitable—but Caro hated it. Everything felt so precarious, like one gentle nudge was all it would take to send it shattering.

  Charles Smith had been the one secret she’d kept from the rest of them since freshman year—since the night she’d gone to Chapman Hall to steal his float keys, then spent the night, surprising herself, then never stopped, surprising them both. All the time Charles wanted her to go on trips, be his formal date, meet his parents. But what he didn’t understand was that ever since the East House Seven was born, since the float debacle freshman year, in Caro’s mind it was us versus them, with them being everyone else, and especially Chapman kids like Charles.

  Charles was nice, Charles was handsome, Charles was funny and athletic. But he was still, in some fundamental way, the enemy. She would never choose him when she could choose them.

  The problem was, her friends didn’t feel the same way.

  She could feel them pulling away, and feared, as the person at the bottom, that she didn’t have the power to draw them back. What would she have if she no longer had them? The anxiety notched, forming a pit of dread in her stomach. She was certain, on her worst nights, that she would lose them and be alone again. She wanted assurances. She wanted to be close. She wanted to know where they went and what they did all those times they didn’t invite her.

  And so, sometimes—rarely, but sometimes—she watched, and followed, and listened. Just to know. And in some small way, be a part of it.

  Because of the December chill—beanies pulled low, masking students’ faces, and a sea of identical dark peacoats bundled against the wind—Caro almost didn’t spot them walking across campus. She was turning from the coffee cart, warm cup in her hands, exhaling a crystal cloud of breath, when out of the corner of her eye, she recognized a familiar parting of the crowd.

  She’d always wondered if they knew what they looked like. All of them, even Jess, even Coop, even Frankie, with his muscled shoulders and stiff gait. When they were together, they moved like a flock of birds, in perfect sync, legs extending, arms swinging in unison. It had an effect. Other people moved out of their way, allowing them to glide through spaces with a buffer, move as freely through campus as if they owned it. Caro always paid attention to the cadence of her steps when she walked with them, but try as she might, she could never hold the beat for long.

  Today they carved like a knife through the winter hats and coats: Heather, Jack, and Frankie. But something was off. Heather strode ahead, the point of the triangle, her face grim, eyes locked forward; Jack and Frankie behind, forming the base, eyeing each other every few steps, their shoulders hunched.

  What was going on? Where were they going? Caro hadn’t received any calls or texts about meeting up.

  She hitched her backpack higher and set after them.

  After a minute, it was easy to predict where they were going: Heather was beelining straight for Bishop Hall. Caro wondered if she was taking Frankie and Jack to their suite, where Caro couldn’t follow without being obvious. But to her relief, and surprise, Heather marched across the Bishop lobby, past the groups studying for finals, and straight into a meeting room in the administrative wing. It was one of those all-purpose rooms the college reserved for less popular student groups that didn’t warrant their own dedicated space: the student jugglers, improv actors, The Simpsons trivia group. Caro had been there once, just to try the Society of Christian Feminists, but she’d never gone back again.

  With her breath held, she slipped inside after Heather, Jack, and Frankie. It was dark as she crept along the back wall, so she heard them before she saw them.

  “You’re lucky we’re not having this conversation in the middle of football practice!” Heather said, her voice heated. “Or out in the lobby, where everyone can hear.”

  Jack’s voice was soothing. “Calm down. Let’s talk this out.”

  Caro crouched behind a nearby chair, peeking carefully around the side. In the middle of the room, there was an empty space with chairs encircling it, meaning improv had to have been here last. In that space stood Heather, arms crossed and jaw locked. It was a bulldog scowl Caro recognized—the one Heather wore when she wasn’t going to let go of an argument. Jack faced her, arms reaching out, but Heather leaned away. Frankie was slumped in one of the chairs, head in his hands.

  “Talking sounds great,” Heather said viciously. “Talk about this, then.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a Ziploc, waving it at Jack. Caro had to
squint to see, but through the plastic she could make out one of those cups doctors gave you at annual checkups. She was confused until Heather spoke again, voice rising. “Why did I find a urine test with Frankie’s name on it hidden away in your bathroom? And before you say it, Frankie, don’t even try to tell me you decided to walk all the way across campus to pee in a cup in Jack’s bathroom instead of your own, because I’m not an idiot.”

  Jack’s eyes fell to the floor. Frankie didn’t move his head out of his hands.

  “Why is Jack taking your drug test? I know for a fact you’ve been a puritan about not smoking pot for four years, because it’s been really annoying. What exactly are you doing that’s so bad you need Jack to cover for you?”

  Jack looked at Frankie, so Caro did, too. All of Frankie’s muscles were tense, arms flexed tight as he bent over. He’d worn his dark hair buzzed ever since they were freshmen, but this year, he’d let it grow a little longer. Trying out new things, he’d said, and Caro remembered the absurd flicker of sadness she’d felt when he said it, the desire to tell him nothing needed to change.

  Frankie finally lifted his head, meeting Jack’s gaze. Something passed wordlessly between them, leaving Frankie wincing. He took a deep breath. “I only use sometimes, before really big games. When I have to be better than everyone else. It’s not permanent, I swear. I’m going to stop after this season.”

  Use what?

  “Bullshit,” Heather spat.

  “You have no idea how much pressure he’s under,” Jack insisted. “And other people do it. It’s practically an open secret in college ball. If he didn’t, he’d be at a disadvantage.”

  “I can’t believe you.” Heather’s eyes widened at Jack. “Defending Frankie’s steroid use. Your parents would be so proud.”

  Caro nearly lost her grip on the chair. Frankie couldn’t be using steroids. He was on posters around campus. He was so important he had lunch sometimes with the chancellor. There was a real chance he was going to make the NFL, especially if Duquette won a Bowl game. Caro owned his jersey and went to his practices religiously, just to cheer him on.

  She felt a stabbing pain, deep in her heart. He’d been keeping a secret.

  “That’s a low blow,” Jack said, anger creeping into his voice.

  “It’s cheating, Jack. You used to be better than this. What’s happening to you? You’re like a different person this year.”

  Was he? For all her careful attention, Caro hadn’t noticed anything different about Jack. She was seized again by the certainty that she was failing, that her friendships were going to dissolve, leaving her alone. The pain in her heart sharpened, and her palms started to sweat. Calm down. Don’t panic.

  Frankie stood. “Leave Jack alone. All he’s guilty of is being a good friend. Your issue is with me.”

  But Heather was not intimidated. “Damn straight it is. What are you thinking? If you and Jack get caught, you’re both going to get kicked out. I know you don’t want that, but Jack”—she waved a hand at her boyfriend—“he can’t get kicked out. Do you understand? He can’t go home; he’ll get trapped there. His insane pastor barely let him come to Duquette in the first place. Can you imagine what his parents would do if he was involved in a scandal? He’d never see the light of day again.” She turned to Jack. “I don’t want to lose you.” Back to Frankie: “How can you be so selfish?”

  Frankie’s face flushed red. “If I get caught with drugs in my system, then I get kicked out and my career is over. My whole fucking life is over. I’ll be a public disgrace.”

  “Then why take them in the first place?”

  “Because I have to,” Frankie shouted, and Caro’s blood pumped faster, hotter, until she could feel sweat gathering at the nape of her neck under her jacket. “You have no idea what kind of pressure it is. From the school, from all of you, from my dad. I have to play better than anyone else, I have to get drafted. There’s no other option.”

  The hard expression on Heather’s face melted, her brown eyes softening. “But the side effects—what if it permanently messes you up? Are you even thinking about that?”

  “It’s worth it,” he said gruffly. “I’d pay any price.”

  Silence stretched around Frankie’s confession. Any price. The anxiety was making it hard for Caro to breathe quietly. She wanted to tear off her jacket, take a big gulp of air, scream at the top of her lungs. But they couldn’t know she was here. So she only squeezed her eyes shut and crouched lower.

  “I can’t let you do this,” Heather said. “Not to yourself, and especially not to Jack. Come clean with your coach, Frankie. He’ll help you. It’s in his best interest to keep it quiet, anyway.”

  “I can’t.” Frankie sounded desperate. “I just need to pass this last test with Jack’s help, get us to a Bowl game. And then I’ll stop. I just need this last time.”

  “I’m sorry.” Heather’s words had a ring of finality. “That’s not good enough. If you try to use Jack to cover for you, I’m going to tell your coach.”

  Jack was astonished. “What’s wrong with you? Normally you couldn’t care less about following the rules. What’s this really about?”

  She turned to him. Even in the dim light, Caro could see her eyes were clear and resolute. “It’s about right and wrong. It’s that simple.”

  No. Anger seized Caro. What Frankie was doing was wrong, yes, but Heather would destroy his life if she told his coach, get him expelled. Which meant she would destroy the East House Seven.

  Abruptly, Heather shoved the Ziploc with the cup back in her bag and spun away, moving fast, straight toward Caro. She barely had time to crawl deeper into the chairs, away from Heather’s line of sight, before the girl swept past.

  “Heather, please,” Frankie begged.

  “You’ll ruin him,” Jack said, his voice thick.

  “Not if you do the right thing,” Heather said and flung the door open and burst out of it.

  “I can’t,” Frankie said to Jack. Caro couldn’t see them anymore, hidden as she was, but the fear in his voice made her panic spike. She tried to concentrate on breathing: In, out. In, out.

  “I know,” Jack said simply. “Come on, let’s get out of here. This room feels wrong for some reason. Almost sentient. It’s creepy.”

  In, out; in, out. Caro matched her breathing to the patter of feet as they walked past. Jack’s eyes roved, searching for the source of the wrongness, but mercifully they didn’t light on her. Finally, the door swung behind them, leaving Caro squatting in the thicket of chairs.

  Breathing heavily, she tore at her jacket with clumsy fingers, ripping it off, then unbuttoned her shirt, desperate for cool air. She used to blame this kind of anxiety on the fact that she’d been so sheltered her whole life, but she was going on four years of college and it hadn’t changed. She didn’t know what was wrong with her, but she did know that Heather was going to ruin Frankie’s future. How could one member of the East House Seven do that to another? Heather would destroy the only friends Caro had ever belonged to. Send her right back to the sidelines.

  Her panic kept rising until a single thought interrupted. It gripped her, ice-cold and powerful enough to slow her galloping heart, cool her burning skin, fill her with a sense of conviction so strong it felt almost like faith. Heather wouldn’t take away anything. Alone in the dark, she brought a hand to the cross at her throat, feeling the metal ends stab her fingertips, the pain like a promise. Caro wouldn’t let her.

  Chapter 25

  Now

  We didn’t plan to stow away on Frankie’s float, the six of us. But it was a madhouse outside the stadium, the Homecoming crowd an ocean, tides pulling, impossible to navigate. And though we looked like everyone else, dressed head to toe in crimson and white, we were a world apart, skittish with anxiety, with the weight of our questions for Frankie.

  I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was
missing something; couldn’t stop looking at Caro every time she turned her back, thinking of her raw face in the morning light of my hotel room. Imagining her ten years ago, watching us from across campus. Determined to know us better than we’d let her, terrified of being left behind.

  Where had she followed me?

  Everyone had things they were ashamed of. Caro was still the same person. But as we pushed through the crowd, she turned, catching me staring. And I could feel her confession like an electric charge between us, buzzing my skin.

  So when we got to Frankie’s float—the football float, where the grand marshal rode, first in line—I didn’t think before I leapt onto it, propelled by the discomfort of being around her. Everyone followed, Eric included, and we huddled behind a six-foot replica of Blackwell Tower, agreeing to grab Frankie once we spotted him among the swarm of football players, tug him off the float to talk. But then there was a giant thrust, a roar from the crowd, and suddenly we were moving.

  “Oh god,” Caro said, face paling. “It’s starting.”

  I looked over the railing. Waving, cheering fans, young and old, a sea of crimson and white. I felt nauseous. “We have to get off.”

  “Don’t be crazy,” Mint said. “Everyone will see us. Let’s just stay here and hide, and confront Frankie once the parade’s over. It’ll be fine.”

  “Mint?” A big voice—Frankie’s—boomed from the other side of the tower. “What are you doing here?” Resplendent in the grand marshal’s blood-red cape and scepter, his mouth agape, Frankie looked like a very startled king of Duquette.

  “Uhh—” Caro looked desperately at Eric, waiting for him to take over the questioning, but he just arched an eyebrow, as if to say, This was your idea.