“Bye, Mom,” I called.
I skipped out the door and forced myself to slow my walk so I wouldn’t sprint to the passenger side. But when I went to pull the door open, Jake was there, too. He rolled down the window and flashed a sly smile.
“Get in the back, Newman.”
Shame warmed my neck and my skin felt sticky. I sunk into the leather and tried to catch Adam’s eye. But he kept his gaze straight ahead. I leaned forward to make out what they were saying above the music, but it was hopeless. Their voices were drowned out by the wailing chorus coming from the stereo.
So, I sat back and stared out the window, trying to figure out what to do with my hands. It was a short ride, though, and soon we were back at Adam’s house.
“Fam’s in the city,” he said. “Come on.” He motioned for Jake and me to follow him to the big wraparound porch.
I took a seat on the swing and felt the floor shift as it rocked me back and forth, floating in space. Adam sank down next to me and the wood creaked.
Jake propped himself up on a wicker armchair and pulled out a bottle of something dark from his jacket pocket.
“Here, Newman,” he said.
I took a sip and it tasted like poison. Then I took another and forced myself not to grimace.
“Told ya she could take it,” Adam said. He nudged my shoulder with his and I tried to smirk, like I thought this little get-together was so normal that it was boring. Adam reached for the bottle in my lap.
“All right, kid. You must be wondering why you’re here,” he said.
Before I could speak, Jake chimed in. “We’re meeting with everyone individually before we hit you guys with the harder pops.”
Makes sense, I thought, though I wondered why I was alone with them, why they didn’t wait to do it when Rachel, Tina, and the others were around, too.
“We just want to hang out, see what makes you tick, who you really are,” Jake continued. “Adam here has told me all about you, but I want to get to know you myself. So spill it, Jill,” Jake said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “What’s your deal?
Adam tapped me on the shoulder with the bottle and I took another swig. Courage. The taste was getting more bearable and my throat had almost stopped burning. So I started to speak. I launched into some stupid word vomit about how I love astrophysics and how I had spent the summer up in Cape Cod with the best telescope on the East Coast. Adam looked down and kicked against the floorboards, sending us swinging back and forth. The momentum turned my stomach.
Jake shook his head. “Tell me something interesting, Newman. Got any deep, dark secrets?”
“What? No.” I laughed. I hadn’t done anything worthy of secrecy. I was boring through and through.
“Come on. There has to be something. We won’t tell. You’re a Player now. Or . . . you might be. We’re all in this together,” Jake said. Adam nodded along but didn’t meet my eyes. “How about . . . what’s your biggest fear?”
The wind had picked up and I wrapped my arms around my stomach. I thought for a second, tilting my head to the sky. It was covered in blinking, bright stars. Adam’s porch light was on, but we didn’t need it. I found the dippers, sitting like nesting dolls, just below the North Star. I took a deep breath.
“I’m scared of the dark,” I said finally. I tried to laugh but the sound that came out was chalky and strange. “That’s why I love astronomy so much. There’s no such thing as absolute darkness in the night sky.”
Jake didn’t laugh. Neither did Adam. And I finally felt calm. Like I had passed a test. Jake leaned forward. His eyes were black and wide and they held my gaze with a ferocity that scared me. He put his hand on the swing to stop us from moving. “Where does that come from?”
“What are you, a shrink?” I asked. But no one chuckled. I took another sip—rye whiskey, I’d decided—and just said, “I don’t know. My dad introduced me to the constellations when I was a kid and they always made me feel safe. I even have those stupid glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling. Can’t fall asleep without some light, you know?”
“Go deeper, Newman,” Jake said. His eyes narrowed and he leaned in further so his fingertips grazed my knees.
“Maybe . . .” I started. “Maybe it’s because I’ve always felt inferior.” The words were bubbling now. Things I never even let myself think, let alone say out loud. “Like I don’t belong at Gold Coast Prep. Like I have something to prove. Like I have to be perfect.” I thought of my anxiety nightmares, the ones that started after I came to Prep and now ruined my sleep on the nights before big tests or presentations. How the thought of not measuring up to my brilliant peers made me want to run and hide.
Jake leaned back into his chair, seemingly satisfied. But I felt like he needed more.
“I know I’m not good enough but I’m scared everyone else will find out.”
That made him smile. “Do you think other people feel that way, too?”
I turned over the question in my mind, thinking of Nikki and Shaila. “I don’t know. I guess everyone’s scared of something,” I said. “Like Shaila, you’d think she’s not afraid of anything. But really, she can’t do heights. Not at all. She wouldn’t even go on the Oyster Fest Ferris wheel with me.”
“Oh yeah?” Jake asked.
I nodded. “She’s a baby when it comes to that stuff. We’re all scared of something, I guess. Maybe she has some deeper reason why, too.”
Adam kicked the ground again and sent us rocking back and forth. Neither of them said anything for a while and I tilted my head to stare up at the blanket of stars in silence.
After a few minutes, Adam finally spoke. “I’m hungry, dude. Should we get a pizza?”
Their conversation continued as they debated the merits of Mario’s and Luigi’s, the two competing slice spots in town.
But I stayed quiet, turning over what I had just revealed about my own shortcomings, and, inadvertently, Shaila’s. She would have her own meeting like this, too. Everyone would. What would she say about me? Would it be by accident or on purpose? Had I said too much?
I tried to push the guilt down into the pit of my stomach, to convince myself that I hadn’t betrayed Shaila’s trust. But I knew, somehow, that I had just given the Players ammo. And they would use it. I just didn’t know when. Or that it would somehow lead back to Shaila’s last night alive.
* * *
—
I’m sluggish and tired all week, my thoughts scattered. Marla was probably right about pretending everything’s fine, but I’m still thinking about Rachel’s text, the one I left unanswered, and about the look in Nikki’s eyes as she grew more vicious during the Show. When Henry texts me on Friday night, it’s exactly what I need to take my mind off things.
Date night? My place? he asks.
A few moments pass.
The parentals are gone.
I bite down on my lip and smile. Henry has been extra sweet since the other night at Nikki’s, finding the easiest pops for Jared to complete and looking after him at the all-boys nights. He’s the only one of us who refuses to talk about college acceptances—or rejections—which come in next week. Says it’s too stressful and we should all just freakin’ chill. Seeing him would be such a welcome distraction from Rachel and Graham and Shaila, too. They’re all characters in my nightmares these days. I could use a night without them.
Plus, Henry’s so obvious in a way that’s easy, comfortable, reliable. He can so quickly shift between newsboy prodigy and all-American boy. His only real fault is the never-ending need to please his parents. That’s what he used the Files for, to get those math study guides. It’s his weakest subject, but he knew he needed A’s in calc, stat, and econ to get into Wharton. And even though he sneers at the idea of working for “the man,” just like his father, we all know he will.
Sometimes I look at him and I think I
can see his entire future: a business degree, a fancy internship, a spacious apartment in the city. He would be riddled with what ifs, consumed by the fact that he gave up on his dream of reporting on the front lines to work until midnight worrying about spreadsheets. But he’d still have it all: the wife with big tits and impeccable taste, the mansion in Gold Coast and a place out east. Sometimes I wonder if that wife will be me and if we will stay together forever simply because of Shaila. How could I be with someone who had not known her? How could you make a life with someone who never knew a whole chunk of you?
But then again, the thought of that life, of having everything pre-prescribed, makes my stomach spasm. I push the idea of grown-up, unfulfilled Henry out of my mind and read his texts again. I only have to think about the right now, that’s all. My mouth twitches into a smile.
Tonight, when everything else seems to be a question mark, hanging at Henry’s for a while isn’t my worst option. At least I won’t have to think about the freshmen, or Graham, or Rachel, or whose blood stained an ugly shirt three years ago.
Be over at 7, I respond.
Yes! he writes. I’ll order sushi.
Henry lives in the new part of town, close to the water, where families have their own private boat slips, where backyards are basically football fields, and where the pool houses have full kitchens and clawfoot bathtubs. I arrive at the mouth of his driveway and punch a few numbers into the code box, triggering the wrought-iron gate to open. When I get to the front door, a quarter-mile later, Henry is waiting outside, wearing his CNN hoodie and holding a plastic bag of takeout.
“Hey, babe,” he says. He envelops me in a hug and plants a wet, hungry kiss on my mouth. I follow him into the house and through the marble foyer into the wide, airy kitchen.
Henry rummages through the bag and pulls out an enormous amount of food—maki rolls and shiny pieces of bright sashimi nestled inside plastic containers, little cartons of seaweed salad and salted edamame pods. My stomach grumbles at the sight.
“Someone went ham,” I say.
Henry blushes and shrugs his shoulders up to his ears. “I couldn’t remember what you liked, so I just got a little of everything.” He hands me a pair of wooden chopsticks and looks at me with those big, sincere eyes.
I pop piece of a spicy salmon roll into my mouth. “It’s perfect,” I say, without bothering to chew.
“Good.” He leans his arms on the marble counter in front of him and his forearms look like tree trunks descending from his button-down, rolled up to his elbows. “Wanna go upstairs?” he asks, a glint in his eye. Hopeful. Confident.
My insides tingle, like I’ve had too much seltzer, but I need to get Graham and Shaila out of my head. “Definitely.”
Henry grabs my hand and we take the stairs two at a time. When he opens his bedroom door, it’s clear he has a vision for tonight. Soft music floats from his speakers and Christmas lights twinkle over his perfectly made bed. They bounce off the framed newspapers on his wall, front pages from the day he was born. Even a candle burns on his windowsill, right next to the photo of him shaking Anderson Cooper’s hand. It’s all so . . . sweet.
“Dork,” I say, hiding my pleasure that he did all this for me.
Henry’s cheeks turn a little bit red. “C’mere.”
His hands are strong and thick, calmer than they should be. He wasn’t always like this, not when we first started hooking up. We’d both done stuff with a few other people, other Players in other classes. But neither of us had been with someone before. There had never been an opportunity to learn or ask questions in a way that felt safe or free of judgment. So when we were together, every session was a new adventure, a new line to throw ourselves across.
One night, after fumbling to unlatch my bra under the stars aboard his boat, Olly Golucky, Henry announced he wanted to get better at this, at all of it. “I want to make you feel good,” he whispered in a voice that turned my guts into soup. “Show me,” he said, breathing hot air onto my neck.
So I did, guiding his hand to where only I touched when I was alone. I showed him how I moved my own fingers and how he could mimic the motion. I was timid at first, embarrassed that he would know I had done these things by myself, that I had found pleasure when it seemed so unattainable. But Henry listened and tried with his gentle, tender attempts. His brow furrowed in determined concentration until I gave him affirmation and then consent to go further, to keep exploring. He began to study me and my body like a textbook, harder than he had for any other test. By the end of the summer, he was earning A’s—and not just for effort. He said my reactions were what excited him most. It all made me quiver, too, his relentless pursuit of my enjoyment.
Now, in his bedroom, he knows exactly what to do. Soon, his hands are on my face and then my neck, rubbing the soft part of my back nearly hidden beneath my shirt. His lips wander from my mouth to my ear and then to my collarbone, tracing an invisible constellation down to my neckline, and then lower.
I sink into the bed, wrapping my legs around his waist. It’s easy to let him take charge, to say yes, right there and over a little. Henry wants to please. He’s eager to see ecstasy on my face, to dazzle me. In moments like this I’m so grateful that my first, my real first, was with someone who treats my body like something to be amazed by, to traverse—but only with a guide. He knows it’s not his to conquer.
His pants are off and his boxers are thin. I can feel every ridge of him as he lifts up my skirt and feels around with the soft pads of his fingertips. He knows where to press now, how hard to touch. I lean into him and let my hands roam, too, over his curved muscles and the tender skin above his waist. His hair is soft and he nuzzles my neck like a puppy.
But soon, I know this will be one of those times where I can’t stop my brain from going into overdrive. I try to push every thought out of my head, to meditate on the lovestruck boy in front of me. Instead, I start to wonder how well I scrubbed down there when I showered this afternoon, and if I smell like mildew, if I’m still tight. That stupid, meaningless word. Boys obsess over it. Was she tight? How tight? Bet she’s loose. The only thing worse than being loose is being gross.
Henry senses my hesitation and slows, moving his hands higher.
“You okay?” he asks. He pulls his head from my neck and looks at me with concern.
“Yes,” I say. “Let’s keep going.”
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Yes.” I bring my mouth to his and push my body closer so we are suctioned together. I want him to make everything disappear. “Do you have a condom?” I ask, knowing the answer.
Henry reaches over to the nightstand and pulls a foil wrapper from his drawer. He rips it open and the sound pierces my ears. I lean back into his pillows and watch his movements. He looks down at me with that sweet smile, his hair slightly askew. My heart swells and I want to mold into him at once. I’m lucky to be with him. This I know for sure.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, totally certain.
“You’re so beautiful.” His words are muffled into my hair and I squeeze my eyes shut.
“So are you.” I bury my face into his chest and picture someone with darker hair, with a smile that’s tilted at just a slightly different angle. But he appears in fragments, a series of starts and stops. He’s gone then and another image pops into my head. The photo of Shaila and Graham, wrapped around each other tightly in their Gold Coast uniforms. The picture that I tore.
Henry’s sweat drips onto me in wet plunks, and suddenly I’m over it. But Henry pumps overhead, mumbling sounds of excitement. He won’t let himself stop until he knows I’m good, I’m done, and so I moan and push into him. I do the things that have become our signals of completion. It’s easier than having to explain the madness in my brain, or why it’s there at all.
It only takes a moment or two before he releases, letting out a slow, l
ong shuddering breath. Henry collapses next to me. “Jill,” he whispers into my ear. I roll out from under him and our skin separates with a sweet, crackling sound. I’m grateful that my chest is covered and I pull his silky sheets up to my hip bones. He wraps an arm around my waist. “That was amazing.”
Back in eighth grade, Shaila and I looked up how to say orgasm in a bunch of different languages just for fun. Turns out the French call it la petite morte. The little death. We erupted into a fit of giggles when we found out.
“Oh my God,” Shaila said. “You know what that means, right?”
“What?” I asked, holding my aching stomach, sore from so much laughing.
“Every time a guy comes, a part of him dies. How twisted is that?”
I gasped. “No!”
“You know what that makes us?” she continued, not waiting for me to answer. “Strong. Powerful. Murderers.” She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue and together we fell back on her bed laughing even harder.
Now whenever this happens with Henry, I always think of Shaila. Of the little death.
“Hey, come back to me,” he says, pulling me to him. He places his hands on my cheeks and I look at him like I haven’t in weeks. His eyes are wide, searching, and his hair, normally perfectly in place, is just a little bit smushed, damp where it meets his forehead. His eyelashes are thick and long, like a cartoon’s. He trusts me completely, I think. He’s at his most vulnerable. All I want to do is run.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say.
That’s good enough for him because he wraps me in a deep hug so my chin rests on his shoulder, molded into muscle.
“You did, too, right?” he whispers into my hair.
“Mm-hm,” I lie, trying to imagine my own little death. “Of course.”
TWELVE
AS FAR AS Gold Coast parents are concerned, college planning starts as soon as you walk through the brass gates in your navy Prep blazer. During sports practices, students wear sweatshirts printed with the names of schools they consider. Yale, Harvard, Princeton. Penn if you wanted to have fun or make bank. Wesleyan if you were artsy. Stanford if you hated your parents and wanted to flee.
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