They Wish They Were Us

by Jessica Goodman

Before I can think too hard about it, I push the door open with my fingertips.

  Kara’s room is immaculate. It looks like it belongs to a chic twentysomething. Everything is marble or glass. Necklaces decorated with precious stones lie flat in a jewelry case on top of a massive dresser. Black-and-white photographs hang on the walls. They’re signed by Robert Mapplethorpe. I have to stop myself from laughing, it’s all too wild.

  The only thing that signals she’s in high school is the varsity tennis trophy sitting on a top shelf.

  I tiptoe around her bed, trying not to make noise against the hardwood floors, until I’m at her nightstand next to the wall. My stomach drops. There in a simple black frame is a photo of Kara and Shaila. They must be in elementary school because Shay looks younger than I ever knew her. The camera is trained on them, but they face each other, sitting on a wooden bench with the beach in the background. They’re each holding ice cream cones and smile with wide, messy mouths. They look like two girls who share secrets, who keep them, too.

  Kara may seem like she has her shit together, but I’m guessing she’s just as messed up from all of this as I am.

  “You lost up there?” Kara calls from downstairs.

  I inhale sharply. “Coming!” I head for the stairs, trying to leave the door just as it was when I entered.

  “Weirdo,” she says when I return to the living room. Rachel’s back, propped up in a velvet teal armchair.

  “So what do you think?” Rachel asks.

  “Whatever Shaila told me was in confidence,” Kara says, lifting her chin. “It’s the least I can do for her now.”

  “Cut the bullshit,” Rachel says. “Just tell us what you know.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because we have evidence that Graham is innocent, that someone else killed Shaila.”

  A flicker of shock passes through Kara’s face, but it’s gone in an instant.

  “Because you’ve known Graham and me just as long as you knew Shaila,” Rachel continues, “and you owe allegiance to him as much as you owe it to her. You couldn’t save Shaila, but you can try and help save Graham.”

  “Shit,” Kara says, biting her perfect red lip. “My mom would kill me.” She rubs her palms over her face and leans back into the couch. “Shaila was cheating,” she says with an unsteady voice.

  “Do you know who she was with?” Rachel asks.

  “She never told me.” Kara jabs a finger at Shaila’s handwriting. “Just like she says here, he told her not to tell and she didn’t.”

  “That’s it?” Rachel asks. “That’s all you know?” Her voice is frantic, desperate.

  Kara sighs and leans forward. She rests her elbows on her knees and her dark hair falls around her face. “Fuck it,” she mutters. “There was one thing. Toward the end of the year, just a few weeks before she died, Shay said this guy was getting a little creepy. He was a little too into her. Obsessed, almost.”

  “Really?” My heart is racing.

  “He got her a pair of diamond earrings.” Kara pushes her hair behind her own studs. “I guess she told him she loved mine so he found a set just like them. I think that was too much for her. I mean, these are each two carats. My dad got them for me when he left us.” She shakes her head. “Some consolation prize. But they made Shaila uncomfortable. She said she could never wear them, that people would ask too many questions. Shay gave them back to him and he freaked out. He said she was ungrateful. I think that’s when she wanted to end everything. That’s what she told me, at least.”

  Kara tucks her feet under her. Curled up like that, she looks young, like we live on the same planet at least.

  Rachel and I lock eyes again. If Shaila was about to dump this rando mystery dude, then that’s a perfect motive.

  Kara checks her watch. “You guys have to go. My mom’s going to be back soon.”

  Rachel begins to stand but I’m hesitant to leave.

  “Wait,” I say. “She sent you other letters, right? Could we read some of them? Just to see if we’re missing anything?”

  Kara starts to open her mouth, but I know it’s my last shot.

  “I loved Shaila as much as you did. She was my best friend,” I say. “I just want to know what really happened.”

  Kara’s brow furrows and she shakes her head no.

  “Why?” Rachel blurts out.

  Kara’s eyes begin to well and she sighs deeply before speaking. “My mom took them,” she says. “I kept them all in a box and after Shaila died she said I shouldn’t live in the past, that it would only bring me heartache. I don’t know where she put them, if she even kept them.”

  “Kara . . .” I start. “I’m so sorry.” I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t have a little piece of Shay left in my life.

  Kara shakes her head. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s not. But what can I do?”

  I nod. I know what it’s like to feel powerless.

  Rachel’s about to say something when we all freeze, hearing the sound of footsteps approaching the front door. Then a key turns in the lock.

  “Shit, that’s my mom,” Kara says. Her eyes go wide with fear. “Hurry, you can sneak out the side door,” she says, ushering us through the gleaming kitchen. She opens the door slowly so that it doesn’t make a sound. Without warning, Kara hugs us both tight—a far cry from when we first arrived—and presses Shaila’s letter into my palm. “Catch him, okay?” Before I can respond, she releases us and shuts the door gently.

  “I’ll walk you to the train,” Rachel says, her voice barely a whisper.

  We make our way out of the narrow alley, back to the street, and trudge along the sidewalk silently for a minute or two before Rachel speaks.

  “We’ve gotta show the letter to the lawyers next week,” she says. “Can I see it again?”

  I unfold the paper and hand it to her. Rachel takes her time with it, reading each sentence once, then twice. She gasps.

  “Look,” she says. “This line right here.” Rachel reads it aloud. “‘It all began one day after school, in the parking lot behind the theater.’ She also says he’s more experienced.”

  I stop short. “Oh my God. Shit.”

  “The parking lot behind the theater . . .” she says. “Isn’t that the staff lot?”

  EIGHTEEN

  I NEVER UNDERSTOOD people who didn’t want to be liked, who said they didn’t care what people thought of them. Of course I fucking cared. I wanted—still want—to be liked and included, respected and admired. That’s why I spent freshman year carting around expertly poured cups of beer and buying seniors pow-do from Diane’s on school nights. Why I laughed at jokes even if they weren’t funny, or were at our expense. Why I stuffed empty bottles in trash bags after parties while the boys continued playing flip cup or beer pong. Why I salivated over nuggets of Gold Coast Prep gossip that weren’t about me. Better to fuel the rumor mill than be the subject of it.

  So when, one night at the beach during freshman year, Tina Fowler whispered, “Can I tell you a secret?” I nodded emphatically. I was thrilled to be her willing audience. We were lying side by side and Tina rolled over, sending flecks of sand flying into my hair. She leaned in close.

  “I heard one of the teachers is sleeping with a student. They did it in his car at school, after hours.” Her eyes looked manic while she said it, thanks to some clumpy mascara and too-dark liner. She never did know how to apply makeup, but always looked cute thanks to a tiny gap between her two front teeth. Everyone called her adorable.

  “Whoa,” I said, and looked over at the bonfire that raged a few feet away. The boys stood around the flames in a circle, throwing sticks, cardboard, and whatever else they could find into the heat. Their laughter floated above the crashing waves. It was early April, so we were all wearing flannels, wrapped in fleece blankets toted out from various SUVs to keep warm.

  �
��So messed up, right?” But her face didn’t look like she thought it was fucked up. She smiled so wide I could see her canines. They were sharp like fangs.

  “Totally,” I said.

  “I bet it’s Mr. Scheiner,” she said, scrunching up her nose like she smelled something rotten. “He looks like a pedo with those wire glasses.”

  I giggled. “Or Coach Doppelt. Shaila reported him for being creepy in the locker room.”

  Tina slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God! Rachel said he was a lurker, too!” She leaned into me, knocking my shoulder with hers. “Ugh, wouldn’t it be amazing, though, if it were Mr. Beaumont? Dude’s a fox.”

  At that time, Mr. Beaumont was still sorta new. He’d slide into class just before the bell rang and chug an enormous iced coffee, no matter the weather, while perched on a desk in the front row. Usually Shaila’s. Sometimes Nikki’s. Never mine. As he asked us about our weekends, his big goofy grin would spread across his face in a way that made it seem like he got us. He was on our side. We were all just there to stick it out together.

  “Seriously.” Tina took a swig out of the bottle next to her. “I’d die to hook up with him. He’s like barely twenty-five. It’s doable.”

  “Maybe next year,” I joked.

  “This year for someone, apparently. Get it, girl!” she hollered. A few pairs of eyes turned to us and we collapsed into a pile of laughter, falling back into the damp sand. I was just happy to be near her, to be included, to not be called a stupid little undie or be made to recite everyone’s middle names in alphabetical order frontward then backward. Gossiping about the hot teacher didn’t matter. It was practically sport. All that mattered was being on Tina’s good side, at least for a night. She was a senior and I was as tiny as a tadpole.

  That little moment seemed totally insignificant then. It was just a stupid rumor. People stopped talking about it by spring break. Moved on to something new. Lila Peterson giving a hand job in the auditorium, I think. That one followed her around until she graduated. Of course, I can’t remember who the boy was. Funny how that works.

  But . . . what if the Beaumont rumor was true?

  There’s one person who would know. One person who memorized Gold Coast history like he’d be quizzed on it. But he’s also not speaking to me. I need him, though, which is why I wait next to Quentin’s hatchback after school on Monday like a stalker. It’s the first warm day in months, so sunny I have to shield my eyes with my hands.

  Quentin sheds his blazer and loosens his tie as he walks toward me. When he looks up, he stops in his tracks and throws back his head. “Ugh, Jill. What?” The harshness in his voice makes me wince.

  “I just want to talk,” I say.

  “Haven’t you noticed I’m not doing that with you anymore?”

  “I thought maybe you’d make an exception, just once?” I flash him a smile, a pleasing one, I hope.

  Quentin rolls his eyes. “Get in.”

  I scramble into the passenger side and buckle in while Quentin revs his engine. He makes a hard reverse and peels out of the parking lot like a stuntman. “Scared to be seen with me?” I joke.

  “Kinda.” His mouth is in a hard line.

  “I need your help. It’s about Graham—”

  Suddenly Quentin slams on the brakes. We’re in the middle of Breakbridge Road, a narrow, dangerous stretch between school and Gold Cove, but Quentin rests his head on the steering wheel, making no motion to move.

  “Come on, Jill. I don’t want to rehash this. We all decided to let it go.”

  “I know, but . . .”

  His hard voice cuts me off. “Some of us want to leave this in the past. Some of us want to move on, to get the fuck out of here and forget what happened.”

  His words sting. How could he want to forget Shaila?

  “If you could stop being so self-centered right now, you’d see that we’re all just trying to make it out of here alive,” he sputters.

  I shake my head. “Self-centered? Are you kidding me? I’m the only one thinking about Shaila right now. I’m the only one who cares about finding out the truth.” I feel the hot tears swell in my eyes. The crushing loneliness I’ve been feeling for the past few months hits me.

  Quentin jabs his foot at the pedals and we’re moving again, climbing up the Cove. Ocean Cliff is just visible through the clouds. “Well, while you’ve been off doing who knows what, quitting the Players, obsessing over Shaila, some of us have been trying to figure out a way to actually get out of here, to go to college.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Quentin had gotten into Yale’s prestigious fine arts program back in the fall. He had been thrilled that week, just like everyone else.

  “Not everyone at this school is rich, you know? Not everyone has a fancy dad—or even a dad at all. It’s not like everyone can just pay their way through everything.” His voice cracks. “It’s like, my life is incredible. I am so freaking lucky to have my mom and the Players. I’m among the most privileged people in the world. I know that. And still, relative to everyone else here, I’m still made to feel like shit because we don’t have like . . . six houses. No one here has any goddamn perspective. Marla and I talk about this all time.”

  My heart splits in two. Those of us who seemed to have money never talked about if we actually did. With some people it was obvious, like Nikki and Henry. You could usually tell based on houses and cars or vacations and jewelry, and because Quentin’s mom was a bestselling novelist, because they owned one of those colonial homes up in Gold Cove, I just thought . . .

  He must think the same about me. He doesn’t know I’ve been busting my ass every day, using my solo lunches to study for this stupid Brown scholarship exam.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me,” he barks. “But I don’t want to spend senior year thinking about the past. It was bad enough the first time. It’s just . . . exhausting. I have to think about the future.”

  “Now who’s self-centered?” I say, hoping it sounds as jokey as I mean it to.

  Quentin smirks and turns the radio to the eighties station he knows I love. “Alone” by Heart floats through the speaker and I let out a laugh. It’s so on the nose.

  “I’m on scholarship,” I say. It’s the first time I’ve said it aloud to anyone. A piercing shame burrows deep in my stomach, not for being on scholarship but for feeling the need to hide it.

  Quentin sits up straighter. “Really?”

  I nod. “Merit-based. For STEM. I have to keep a 93 average.”

  “I got the visual arts grant,” he says with a smile. “Full ride since middle school.”

  “I don’t know how we’re going to pay for Brown, either,” I say softly. “There’s a test and if I come out on top, I’ll get tuition covered. That’s what I’ve been doing at lunch without the Players’ Table. Studying. But I don’t know how I can ace it. Not without help.”

  “You think you need the stupid Files?” Quentin laughs. “You’re Jill Newman. You were born to be in that program. You just have to show them.” He stops at the red light and turns to face me. “Do the work, Jill. Earn it.”

  Looking at his sloping splash of red hair and his perfect freckled complexion, my heart breaks for Quentin’s kindness and tears prick my eyes. I want more than anything to give him a hug. To rest my head on his doughy shoulder and curl up for a Real Housewives marathon. I want to tell him that it’s easier to worry about Shaila than to worry about the future and how we were going to live up to everyone’s expectations. Sometimes it’s easier to pretend like life ends after high school. Wouldn’t that make this all worth it?

  Then I remember what I came here to ask him.

  “I just want to know one thing,” I say. “Do you remember freshman year, there was that rumor going around that a teacher slept with a student?”


  “Oh my God, yeah.”

  “It was about Beaumont, right?”

  “Yep,” he says without skipping a beat. “I was volunteering in the admin department that year. Once I overheard the secretary, Mrs. Oerman, take a call from a pissed-off parent. Someone who said their kid was talking about how Beau was with a student. Mrs. O. was so freaked out she couldn’t stop babbling about it all day. She definitely told Weingarten. She had to. I mean, someone claimed there was abuse going on at Prep. That’s no joke.”

  “Did he ever look into it?”

  Quentin shakes his head. “Nah. You know our dear headmaster. Always pretending like everything’s fine. He didn’t want to deal with any drama, make a scene, find out something he’d rather not know.”

  Quentin’s right. That’s just another gross fact about Prep. Always sticking to the status quo. It’s the same mentality that results in so few people of color getting accepted every year. The administration doesn’t like to discuss it, but the swath of sameness is there, glaring and obvious. Sure, there are diversity initiatives, outreach programs, but as Nikki said once, “Those are clearly just for show.” If Weingarten wanted more perspectives in our classrooms, wouldn’t he have them? Hire more teachers of color, too? Just another reason I can’t wait to get out of this place.

  My heart pounds in an electric thump that I can feel in the tips of my toes. I suddenly remember the gas station. The wink Shaila gave Beaumont. How he watched Shaila ride away with a case of beer on her handlebars. A smile danced on his face. Were they speaking their own secret language?

  “You okay?” Quentin asks. “You look like shit. No offense.”

  “Mm-hm,” I say. I want to say so much to him, to tell him about Kara and the letter and the earrings. But instead I just ask, “Are we okay?” Quentin glances my way and the corner of his mouth twitches into a smile. He places his hand in the console between us, palm side up. I grasp it and squeeze, holding on for dear life.

  * * *

  —

  When I call Rachel, she’s breathless with excitement.