They Wish They Were Us

by Jessica Goodman

  “What did you find out?” she asks.

  “Well, nothing,” I say. “I have no proof.”

  “But you have a hunch?”

  “Remember that rumor that was going around? About Beaumont hooking up with a student?” My stomach turns even saying the words out loud. I try not to picture them behind the theater.

  Rachel goes silent like she’s trying to think, to recall the before. When she speaks she sounds frantic, like she’s desperate and exhausted. “Well, shit.” She pauses. “I’m actually on my way out to Long Island to give the letter to the lawyers. Can you meet me there? They need to hear how we got it.”

  “I—”

  “Look, it’s not breaking and entering if you had a key, okay?” Rachel doesn’t wait for me to respond. Instead, she rattles off an address and a time but my brain spins. It’s all happening so fast. Is it really possible Mr. Beaumont hurt Shaila? That he killed her and blamed it on Graham?

  But then I remember what he said to me in his office.

  I know what goes on.

  Within hours, I’m at some boxy, ugly corporate office building. It’s a nondescript gray compound just off Route 16 in Port Franklin, eleven miles from Gold Coast. Rachel meets me in the parking lot with huge, unblinking eyes. Her face is thin, too thin, like she’s lost a few pounds she couldn’t spare since I saw her last week.

  I only have to talk to the lawyers for a few minutes. Pleasantries, really. They’re tall scrawny guys in expensive-looking suits and slick haircuts. They’ll test the handwriting. They’ll dig into Beaumont. Apparently, he’s had a few DUIs in the area so it won’t be hard to bring him in for questioning, they say.

  I won’t even be named. No one will see me here. No one will know I was involved.

  It’s only when I get home, curled up on the couch with my study guide, that I start to feel uneasy, like I planted a bomb and am now just waiting for it to go off. To witness the carnage.

  My phone explodes and I drop my notes on the couch.

  !!!, Rachel writes. Then she sends a link to a tweet from the Gold Coast Gazette.

  GOLD COAST PREP TEACHER BROUGHT IN FOR QUESTIONING RELATED TO LOCAL KILLING. WATCH NOW!

  I tap the link and hold my breath as a video loads. When it does, the picture takes up my whole screen. The clip is dark and grainy. A house or an apartment building, maybe. No, that’s not it. It’s the Gold Coast Police Department illuminated only by the moon. No street lamps in sight. Just a short stretch of concrete. Some sand in the background. I can hear waves crashing faintly in the distance. Then a chyron appears on the lower third of the screen.

  A female newscaster in a pressed pantsuit walks into the frame and I pump the volume.

  “What are you—” Mom yells, padding into the living room.

  “Shh!”

  Mom leans down and looks at my phone. “Oh my . . .” she mutters as she watches over my shoulder.

  The reporter’s words are crisp and clipped through my phone’s speaker.

  “The Gold Coast Police Department brought twenty-eight-year-old Logan Beaumont in for questioning tonight after receiving new information that Beaumont may have been involved in the murder of Shaila Arnold, a fifteen-year-old girl who was killed here in Gold Coast three years ago. Her classmate and boyfriend Graham Calloway was convicted of the crime soon after she was found dead. Calloway now proclaims innocence.”

  Mr. Beaumont’s school photo flashes on the screen. His jaunty smile and tousled hair make him look young and hot, like a teacher who was on our side, a teacher whose students would have crushes on him. A teacher who might be capable of manipulation, of abusing his power.

  Graham’s and Shaila’s class pictures appear, too. They match in their Gold Coast blazers. Side by side they look like siblings.

  “The police have no comment at this time,” the reporter continues. “But we’re joined now by Neil Sorenson, an attorney who represents Graham Calloway. Mr. Sorenson, how does this affect your client?”

  One of the lanky city slickers I met earlier now stands next to her. He’s dressed in the same suit, his tie still perfectly in place around his thin neck.

  “For some time now, we’ve believed that Graham Calloway’s confession was coerced, that he didn’t commit this heinous crime. We’ve been building Graham’s case for appeal and while doing our jobs, we stumbled upon new leads that might bring about the truth of what really happened to Shaila Arnold.” Mr. Sorenson looks directly into the camera. The dude’s clearly had media training. “We just hope the Gold Coast Police will do their jobs, whether that means investigating Logan Beaumont or someone else. We all just want justice for Shaila Arnold.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sorenson. We have also just received a statement from Gold Coast Prep, the elite K through twelve private school where Logan Beaumont currently teaches and where both Shaila Arnold and Graham Calloway were students. The statement reads as follows: ‘Mr. Beaumont is a respected and beloved member of the Gold Coast community. We have never received any credible reports of wrongdoings since his employment began. We will be conducting our own investigation at this time.’ There you have it, Gold Coast. Reporting live from the GCPD, I’m Linda Cochran.”

  The clip cuts off and my screen goes dark.

  When I turn to face Mom, her hand is over her mouth and she’s scrolling through her phone at a rapid pace. “My gosh,” she murmurs. “Did you know about this?”

  I shake my head. She slams her phone on the coffee table and eases onto the couch next to me, resting her hand on my shoulder. I resist the urge to flinch or pull away.

  “Sweetie,” she starts. “Did Mr. Beaumont ever touch you? Did he ever hurt you?” I picture his hand burning mine in his classroom, the way his breath smelled like toothpaste and cigarettes. I feel dinner climbing up my throat.

  I shake my head no. Never.

  Mom squeezes my bare skin. “I have to call Cindy Miller.” She retreats from the room. The silence hurts my ears and my brain fizzes.

  I pick up my phone with a trembling hand.

  Did you watch? Rachel writes. This could be IT!!!!!!

  I can’t bring myself to text her back but there’s another message. This one from Quentin, also sharing a link to the tweet.

  Is THAT why you asked me about Beaumont???? he texts.

  Yes.

  Shit!! Is this for real?

  I don’t know, I type. What if . . .?

  FUCK!!!!!!!!! Quentin responds. School’s gonna be BATSHIT tmrw. Weingarten’s gonna investigate. Did you see that???

  Wonder what he’ll find.

  Wonder what the police will do. If anything.

  I bite my lip and type, knowing my next words could smash what’s left of our friendship into bits. But I want to know where he’s at. I hit send.

  Wonder if Graham is innocent.

  He waits a beat.

  And then another.

  Finally he begins typing. The words appear.

  He might be.

  My brain starts to crackle, like it can’t connect the dots fast enough. I shove my phone under the couch cushion, just to get away, but it buzzes again. When I fish it out and look at the screen I see Adam’s name. My heart steadies and already I feel calmer, knowing he’s on the other end.

  Did you see this clip about Beaumont? This is wild . . .

  I’m so confused . . . I type back.

  Same, he responds.

  Then another text pops up. I wonder if Rachel is behind this. Did you ever end up talking to her?

  My whole body tenses. The one thing I can’t tell him. The one act of betrayal. I said I’d drop it so many months ago, that I wouldn’t believe a thing she said. But here she is just a few text messages away. Something tugs inside me and I know I have to lie to him. No one can know I was involved.

  Nope.

  NIN
ETEEN

  THE SUN SLOWLY creeps into view through my window, but I’ve already been up for an hour trying to memorize equations from my Brown scholarship exam study guide, the one I actually made myself. Numbers and facts swim on the page, but I can’t concentrate. Not today.

  I set down my folder and flashcards and close my laptop for the morning. There’s no use in pretending to study. Not when something is nagging me about this Beaumont thing. How was I so oblivious back then? There must have been clues—some sort of sign that Shaila left behind.

  I tap over to the photos on my phone and scroll frantically, looking for Shaila’s face. Tell me, Shay. Tell me what I missed. When I hit my most recent pictures, there we are. Me, Marla, Nikki, and Shaila getting ready for Spring Fling. The photo I saw in her room. The formal was notorious at Gold Coast Prep. We had been looking forward to it since middle school. Adam had told me that the school spirit council would go all out, renting a fog machine and a fancy DJ. That year’s theme was masquerade.

  Shaila and I spent the entire week talking about what we would wear, what kind of music would be played, and who would hook up behind the risers. She and Graham were still in such a good place at that time. At least I thought they were. The whole night would live up to the hype, we were sure of it.

  Shaila dismissed Graham’s suggestion for us all to pregame together, and instead invited Nikki, Marla, and me over to her house to get ready.

  “Don’t you want to show up with your boyfriend?” Marla asked.

  “I’ve got plenty of time to hang out with him,” Shaila said. “We only get one Spring Fling as freshmen and I want us to enjoy it together.”

  My face flushed from excitement and the four of us sat in a little circle on Shaila’s carpeted floor, rubbing gold glitter onto our cheeks. Shaila gave us all matching cherry pouts with a Chanel lip gloss she swiped from her mom.

  When I asked for an updo, she piled my hair high on my head in an elaborate curly mess. “Audrey Hepburn with some edge,” she said wickedly. “So you.”

  “Do me!” Nikki squealed.

  Shaila twisted Nikki’s long mane into a low bun and pulled out some tendrils in the front. “Very nineties-chic.” Then she coiled Marla’s white-blonde hair into a braid crown, making it look like a halo.

  When we arrived, Nikki and Marla sprinted into the hazy gym ahead of us, but Shaila looped her arm in mine so we could strut in side by side. When we passed by the trophy case and saw our reflection, she held my gaze in the glass. “Confirmed,” she said. “We’re fabulous.” The gym was dark, and covered in neon balloons so the wooden rafters were just barely visible. Every so often, confetti floated to the floor, making the shiny basketball courts slick. Everyone tied lace masks around their faces, shielding themselves from reality. Shaila marched us to the corner where the rest of the Players gathered in a small section of the bleachers. “Wow,” Henry said when we arrived. He had on a charcoal gray suit, his shirttails hanging over the front. He looked adorable.

  “Where’s Graham?” Shaila asked.

  “Over there.” Henry pointed to a buffet of punch bowls and cups. “But I’d let him breathe for a bit.”

  Shaila’s pink lips turned to a frown. “Why?”

  “Well, for one, he’s kind of pissed that you guys didn’t come over before this.”

  Shaila rolled her eyes. “He’ll get over it.”

  “But, two, Jake just gave him a brutal pop.” Graham was huddled close to Jake, who seemed to be handing over an oversized unmarked water bottle full of clear liquid.

  “What’s he doing?” I asked Henry.

  “Jake tasked him with spiking the iced tea.”

  My gaze shifted to the snacks table. The physics teacher, Dr. Jarvis; the librarian, Mrs. Deckler; and a handful of other faculty crowded around it like bodyguards.

  “Isn’t that kind of risky?” Nikki said softly in my ear.

  I swallowed hard and nodded. But everything was risky at that point. A ball of terror had developed in my stomach after the sauna incident and it never really went away. There was always something else coming.

  Shaila tilted her head toward the rafters. “His funeral,” she said. I assumed she was pissed at him for being pissed at her. Shaila then called out to Marla.

  “Come on. Let’s have some fun.” Shaila tossed her hair behind her shoulder and walked ahead to the dance floor. None of us protested.

  Shaila extended her hands and we all joined together, forming a circle in the middle of the gym. Her brow softened and she threw back her head, shaking her honey waves down her back. As the song peaked, she pulled us to her and hugged us hard.

  “Look around. Look at everyone else,” Shaila whispered into the huddle. “They wish they were us.”

  Marla giggled and Nikki beamed. I loved them all in that moment. I loved that Marla didn’t need so much. I loved that Nikki just wanted to have as much fun as humanly possible. I loved that Shaila was quick to forgive, and that she did so with her whole heart. I loved that she kept things so wildly interesting, that she kept us entertained, on guard. I loved that there were eyes burning holes into our backs. I loved that we were special. We were watched. We shouted out the chorus and Shaila twirled us around and around, one by one, like we were little ballerinas in a music box. And when I faced outward, toward the rest of our peers, I repeated Shaila’s words in my head. They wish they were us.

  Until my gaze drifted to the corner of the room, where Graham shifted his balance from one foot to the other. The bottle was gone from his grasp. My chest tightened.

  Mrs. Deckler then appeared at his side and grabbed him by the elbow. My jaw fell open as she whisked him away, down the hall.

  I stopped dancing and turned to Shaila. “Did you see that? I think Graham just got kicked out.”

  Shaila’s eyes followed mine to where Graham had just stood. “Jesus.”

  “What happened?” Nikki said, breathless.

  “Graham got caught,” Shaila said with little emotion. Her voice warbled for only a second.

  Nikki’s eyes widened. “Do you think he’ll get suspended?”

  Shaila rolled her eyes. “Don’t be dumb. He’s a Calloway. He’ll be fine.”

  Nikki’s shoulders collapsed and she just nodded her head before turning back to find Marla near the bowls of chips.

  “Let’s not let him ruin the night for us,” Shaila said. She looked worried, maybe even a little sad. “Come on.” We kept dancing until the overhead lights turned on, but it wasn’t the same. The electric joy had faded and soon we were in Mrs. Arnold’s Lexus heading back to Shaila’s for a sleepover. Shaila threw open her bedroom door. “I call the outside of the bed,” she said, tossing the covers back on her king-size mattress. She usually stuck to the wall, sandwiched between me and the cold plaster.

  “But I want my side,” I whined.

  “Nuh-uh. Mine for tonight. Just in case I need to get some water,” Shaila reasoned. Hours later, I turned over onto my stomach and awoke to a sliver of light shining from the bathroom, just off the side of her room. I sat up and saw Shaila’s hair through the slit. Her back was to me and she wore a ratty old T-shirt from the Beach Club. She was talking quietly, in muffled tones.

  “No,” she said, exasperated. “I can’t just leave. Jill’s here. She’s sleeping.” She sighed and went quiet for a few seconds, listening to whoever was speaking on the other end. Graham, I figured.

  “I want to see you, too, it’s just . . .”

  Another quick silence.

  “Okay.” Her voice softened. “You’re coming here?” She paused. “Fine. Meet me at the end of the driveway.”

  She kept the phone to her face and turned to the mirror. I saw her then, pale and without makeup. She looked so young, like the Shaila I first met in sixth grade. She stared intently at her reflection, puckering her lips and smoothing her brow. “I love y
ou, too,” she whispered into the phone.

  I pretended to be asleep as Shaila tiptoed around the room, gathering a sweatshirt, her wallet, and a pair of flip-flops. I watched as she crept out of the room. I tried desperately to trace her faint footsteps as she made her way to the front door. I imagined her bounding down the driveway, away from me and toward something so much better, so much more alive.

  At the time, I thought Graham had snuck over to make amends for getting kicked out of the dance, for being mad at her. They returned to normal when he got back to school after a two-day suspension. I thought, maybe this is just how relationships work. You fight in public, make up in private, and pretend like nothing ever happened.

  But now it’s so painfully obvious: she was meeting someone else, someone she was hiding from us all along. Someone . . . like Beaumont. Maybe actually Beaumont.

  I shiver thinking about his callused fingers and his unshaven face—all of it too close to Shaila.

  But now that the truth could finally be coming out, I actually want to go to school for the first time in months. I want to catch whispers, hear the chatter of what people think could be true.

  I take my time getting ready. I lather moisturizer on my face, take a tweezer to the middle of my brow, and make my bed with tight hospital corners. I tuck my thick white button-down into my plaid skirt and smooth it over my thighs.

  When I look in the mirror, I know I’m still me.

  “Wild, huh?” Jared appears in the doorway, half-dressed. His tie hangs loose around his neck and his shirt is untucked, flapping against his baggy khakis. He looks like the older boys, the Players. They’re the first words he’s said to me in weeks. “Mr. Beaumont, I mean.”

  “Talking to me now?” I ask, turning back to the mirror. I adjust my collar, curl a strand of hair around my finger.

  “C’mon,” he says. “Can I get a ride?”

  “Topher not picking you up?”

  Jared shrugs his shoulders up to his ears. “I don’t know. Figured we could hang a little. Take Mom’s car today.”

  I scoff. “All of a sudden, I’m worth your time again?”