They Wish They Were Us

by Jessica Goodman

  The whole meeting was about ten minutes, just enough time to show he cared, but not enough time to ask too many questions or uproot real issues. He didn’t ask about why we were all together that night, or what had happened just before. He didn’t want to know.

  After that he let us go back to our homerooms, where we packed up our stuff and left Gold Coast Prep for three months.

  I forgot all about that meeting until today. Nikki, Marla, and I never spoke about it. I don’t even know if Quentin, Henry, and Robert had one, or if they did, why Weingarten chose to separate us by gender.

  Now I wonder what version of Weingarten I will find. The intimate one who spoke to us then. The formal one who addresses the school every week in Monday morning assembly. Or someone else entirely, the stern authoritarian I had only heard about through whispers in the halls from the bad kids. The ones who got detention and were in danger of not graduating on time. The ones who got suspended, whose parents donated hundreds of thousands of dollars just to keep them here semester after middling semester. Graham was summoned after the Spring Fling debacle. But he never mentioned what was said.

  “Miss Newman, please come in.” Weingarten stands up from behind his desk and motions for me to take the chair across from him. “Shut the door behind you.”

  I perch on the lip of the seat and wait.

  “Well, well, well.” He smiles, baring all his teeth. “I have to admit I never thought I’d be calling you in here. But it seems like we have something to discuss, young lady.”

  My legs are heavy and I try my best to cross them, but they stay still. I am paralyzed completely.

  “I have to ask you, Miss Newman. You’ve been digging into the past. Why?”

  Weingarten leans back in his chair and his eyebrows shoot up, like he’s waiting to be dazzled.

  My heart stops. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve shown great promise while at Gold Coast. Nearly a ninety-six average three years in a row. Well past the requirements of your scholarship. Captain of the Math Olympiad team. Science Bowl champion. Early acceptance into Brown. The Women in Science and Engineering program. Oh, how delightful!” He sucks in a gulp of air then lets it out in one whoosh. “Then why, dear, are you on a mission to ruin the integrity of this school?”

  “What? I’m not,” I stammer.

  Weingarten raises one finger and wiggles it. “But of course you are,” he says. “Pointing fingers at Mr. Beaumont. Digging up your dear friend, Miss Arnold, from the grave.” He leans in and I can smell his breath. Musty, like an old towel or the inside of a shoe. “This school was almost destroyed when Miss Arnold was killed. Did you know that? We almost lost our donors, our investments. It could have been a disaster.” My stomach sinks. How does he know I had anything to do with Beaumont?

  “But the whole thing was handled so swiftly, thank heavens for the Arnolds, and so we were spared,” he says. “But now, Miss Newman, you are threatening to dismantle everything we have built.”

  My head spins as I try to untangle his words and find their true meaning.

  “I know you’ve been having some issues with your friends. Maybe you are feeling lost and unwelcome here at Gold Coast Prep. You may have convinced yourself that you found out something dark and dirty swirling beneath the surface of what you thought you knew about Miss Arnold. Your teacher.” Weingarten rubs his temples with his forefinger and thumb. “But let me be very clear, Miss Newman. You will not ruin this school’s reputation. After everything we have done for you.”

  “But—” I sputter.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” he says, holding up one hand. “I asked you here so we could have a little chat about your final weeks at Gold Coast Prep. About your future.” Weingarten leans forward and picks up a hefty manila folder filled with little blue exam books I filled out only hours before. “Your exam.” He drops it back on the desk with a thud.

  I have to force myself from leaping up to snatch it from his wrinkled hands.

  “Did you grade it?” I ask, my voice small.

  Weingarten laughs, the sound coming from deep within his belly. “Of course not. That’s for the university to do.” He gestures to the exam books in front of him. “But I would hate for this all to be a lie.”

  His eyebrows shoot so far up on his forehead and his blue eyes are icy, no longer gentle. He knows. He’s always known.

  “They don’t look kindly on cheating in the Ivy League.”

  “I didn’t,” I breathe. “I studied. I had no help. I did that on my own.”

  Weingarten holds up a hand. “Maybe this time,” he says. “But not all the others.” He clasps his hands behind his neck and puffs out his stomach. “You think we don’t know what goes on? That we don’t know who’s a liar, who’s a cheat?”

  My stomach drops and my mouth grows dry.

  “It would be very easy to convince Brown that you had some extra help on this exam, that you’ve cheated on every exam. Your life would be ruined. All that time and money your parents have spent would be wasted.”

  I swallow hard and try to force the tears to stay put.

  “You have been so lucky, Jill Newman.” Weingarten stands and walks to his window. From my perch, I can see his gaze land on the lower schoolers, kindergartners maybe, climbing on the pristine jungle gym in their plaid Gold Coast uniforms. They’re still fearless.

  “But not anymore. You have been ungrateful. Bringing Mr. Beaumont into all of this. Tsk tsk.”

  “How did you—” I start to ask.

  Weingarten laughs. “You think I don’t know every police officer in this town? That I don’t have people all around Gold Coast just dying to share information with me, to trade secrets to get their children into Prep? And that lawyer Miss Calloway hired, Mr. Sorenson? Gold Coast Prep Class of 1991, of course. A star pupil. He gave me a heads-up about Logan that very day.”

  My cheeks burn and I squeeze my knees together to keep my legs from shaking.

  “Miss Newman, I want to be very clear,” he says. “You are ruining our reputation. I will not have any more negative attention brought to this school. The past is in the past and you are in danger of blowing up our entire future for a little fishing expedition.”

  Weingarten’s face is flushed and the corners of his mouth are wet with saliva. He sits back down and pulls another manila envelope from the corner of his desk. It’s thinner. New. “Let’s see. Jared Newman. Looks like he pulled his biology grade up from barely passing to a ninety-two with his midterm. Well done, Mr. Newman!” His eyes linger on mine, playful and menacing. “Wonder how that happened.”

  His message is clear. If I keep going, if I keep shitting all over Gold Coast Prep, bringing unwanted onlookers to our campus, he will ruin my chances of going to Brown. He will expose me. He will expose Jared. And he will let all the others get away with what we do just to prove a point. If I had doubts about continuing to help Rachel and Graham before, they’re all but certain now. I just can’t risk it.

  “Mr. Beaumont had no part in Shaila’s death. Graham Calloway is a murderer. Those are the facts. I need you to drop your little investigation. We can’t have any more black marks upon this school. Do you understand what I’m saying, Miss Newman?”

  “Yes.” My voice is clear and urgent and I do my best to look him dead in the eyes.

  “Good girl.” He smiles and drops Jared’s folder onto his desk, sending my little blue books flying. “Well, then. Glad we had this little chat. I’ll send your exam to Brown this afternoon.” He waves his hand and spins in his swivel chair so his tweed-covered back is to me.

  I stand with shaking legs and turn toward the door.

  “Oh, and Jill?” Weingarten looks over his shoulder at me. “Send my regards to Miss Calloway. Always such a promising young woman. Such a shame. Such a shame.”

  * * *

  —

  Mom swi
ngs the door open before I even make it up the driveway. Dad’s head peeks out behind the frame. “Is that her?” he asks.

  My stomach drops and I can’t bear to face them. All I want to do is hide.

  “Hi,” I muster as I push past them through the door.

  “Well?” Mom asks. She’s wearing a linen tunic and a big chunky necklace. Her face is warm and hopeful. She wants to talk about the test.

  “We won’t know for a while,” I mumble. “You know that.”

  Dad clasps his hands together behind his back. “Did they say when?” he asks.

  “No.” I drop my bag with a thud in the hallway and march upstairs to my room, hoping they get the hint. I just can’t deal with their questions right now.

  I shut the door, collapsing onto my bed. I stare at the stars on my ceiling and notice for the first time that they’ve faded into a pale yellow, no longer neon against the darkness. A faint knock raps on the door. “Sweetie? Can we come in for just a sec?”

  I don’t answer but the door opens ever so slightly. “We just want to talk,” Dad says softly.

  “Fine.” I relent. They both come to sit on the foot of my bed.

  “We know you have a lot going on . . .” Mom starts to say. But that’s when I lose it. A volcano erupts in my stomach and fire rises into my throat.

  I sit up. “You have no idea what’s going on,” I cry. “You have no idea how hard I’ve worked or how much pressure I’m under.” My hands start to shake like my nerves have been shocked. “I know how much you’ve sacrificed so we could be at Gold Coast and all I’m trying to do is make sure that you don’t have to sacrifice even more. I’m trying my best and it might not be good enough. You’re just going to have to deal with that, okay?” Dad shifts backward, as if I’ve shot an arrow right at him.

  “Sweetie,” Mom starts. “I understand . . .”

  “No,” I say. “You don’t understand. You have no idea what it’s like every day to walk in there knowing I could lose everything in a split second. And all you’ve ever wanted is for things to be better for me. For me to succeed.” Snot runs down my face now and I hate myself for digging into them like this. They’ve done nothing wrong, but I’m so mad. I’m so overwhelmed. I just need to get it all out. “It’s fucking hard!” I yell. “And I’m trying. That’s all I can do. Just . . . try.”

  “Oh, Jill.” Mom raises her hand to my hair and strokes it. Dad comes to sit beside me and together they gather me up into a hug so tight I think I can’t breathe. At first I try to pull away, to free myself from their grasp. But they hold on tighter.

  “I’m so sorry,” Dad whispers. “This isn’t how we wanted things to go.” He pulls away and his eyes are wet.

  “We grew up so different from all of this,” Mom says, motioning outside. “Your father’s family lived paycheck to paycheck and my parents didn’t care if we ever went to school. We wanted you to have it so much better than we did.”

  “But maybe it was too much,” Dad says. “We put too much pressure on you to be . . .”

  “Perfect.” Mom gives me a sad smile.

  Dad nods. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be you.”

  It sounds like a greeting card, but his words make me cry even harder. “What if I don’t get the scholarship?” My words sound soapy and wet, like bubbles ready to burst.

  “So what? We’ll live.”

  “But then I won’t go to Brown.” It’s a fact we all know is true.

  Mom nods. “Sweetie, you already have a full ride to State’s honors program.” She smiles wide.

  “You won’t be disappointed?” I say.

  Dad brings me in for a hug that’s even tighter than before. “Never.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  “I’M OUT.”

  The words sound harsher than I want them to. Final. Destructive. But I don’t regret them. Not even when Rachel’s bottom lip trembles and her eyes reflect a hint of rage.

  “You’re what?” she asks.

  “I can’t do this anymore,” I say. “I’m just a few weeks away from graduation. I’m trying to work things out with Nikki and . . . it’s just too much.” I shake my head and my hair swings around my shoulders. I decide to leave out the whole I was threatened by our headmaster thing.

  Here in some overpriced coffee shop in Alphabet City I feel anonymous and a little emboldened. No one knows me except her. I can speak freely. Except my words are really a cop-out. Just like that night in the sauna, I’m choosing to protect myself instead of fighting for Shaila. The guilt will eat at me, but I have to remind myself this isn’t just about me. It’s about protecting Jared, too.

  “So that’s it? One false lead and you’re dropping this?” Rachel leans back against the rickety wooden chair. The tiny Formica table between us wobbles, causing our lattes to seesaw back and forth in mugs the size of ice cream bowls.

  “It’s not like we have any other potential suspects,” I say. But Rachel doesn’t react. “You’re not in Gold Coast every day. You don’t know what it’s been like.” Weingarten’s face appears in my brain, red and furious, wagging a gnarled finger at me.

  Rachel narrows her eyes. “Explain it to me, then.”

  “I’m the one who showed you the letter. Who has to deal with the fallout from Beaumont.”

  “Just say it,” Rachel hisses.

  “What do you mean?” My face begins to burn. I’ve seen this version of her before. Heard this voice. It’s how she was when she was a Player, urging us to drink, to dance, to perform. Her rage bubbles to the surface.

  “Say it.” She bares her teeth.

  I shake my head no and clench the mug in front of me.

  “You think Graham’s guilty. You think Graham murdered Shaila because that’s the easy way out. That makes everything go away and you get to go on with your life, pretending like nothing happened. That you once had a friend who died and, boy, did that suck. It’ll be something you wow your college roommates with next year, or talk about at parties to make yourself seem interesting. Shaila will just be a blip on your perfectly recorded life. Graham will be someone you used to know who just snapped.” She leans in so our faces are only inches apart. I can see the tiny little hairs between her eyebrows, waiting to be plucked. “But you know he didn’t do it. You know he’s innocent. You’re just too chickenshit to deal with it.”

  “Fuck you, Rachel,” I whisper through hot, fat tears. “You don’t know what I think.” The words come up like bile, sticky and sour. There’s a real reason why I’m so mad. Why I’ve been so angry for three long years. Initiation changed everything and it wasn’t just because someone killed Shaila.

  I steady my breath and continue. “You’re using me now like you all used us then. Playing God and pulling strings to make us do what you want, just so you can watch.” I say it again, letting both hardened syllables land with a deliberate thud. “Fuck. You.”

  Rachel leans back, her eyes wide. “That’s not what happened.”

  “That’s how it always happens,” I say.

  That was what we were told over and over and over again, as if somehow, that made everything okay. Those little words gave everyone permission. But they didn’t. No one had permission to do that to us. And we didn’t have permission to do it all over again.

  Initiation was the last time the eight of us were together.

  We gathered at Nikki’s at six in the morning and munched on toasted bagels with cream cheese in silence while we waited for the call, the signal that our months of hard work would be over soon. Our official entry into the Players was upon us. No more lineups. No more pops. No more Player packs. All we had to do was get through the next twenty-four hours.

  A big minivan pulled up to the house and we piled into the car in silence through wide double doors. Two hooded figures wrapped blindfolds around our heads and tied our hands together with zip ti
es. My stomach flipped and I pressed my shoulder into Shaila’s.

  We drove for what seemed like hours. The only sound came from the stereo, which blasted the same Billy Joel song over and over. I still can’t listen to it. Only the good die young. Such bullshit.

  Finally we pulled to a halt. Gravel crunched under the wheels and the air smelled heavy and salty, a little like the Fourth of July. Once we got out of the car, our shepherds removed the blindfolds. We were at Tina’s house, though we must have driven to the North Fork and back to pass the time. Her parents were gone for the weekend and all the other Players were standing around the massive remodeled farmhouse. We could hear techno music bumping from the backyard. Players’ voices rang out until one of our captors yelled for them to shut up.

  It will be fun, Adam had said to me the week before. Just enjoy it.

  We were led into the backyard, to everyone else, and then our drivers pulled off their masks. Rachel and Tina. My stomach settled. I was going to be okay. Rachel was the first person to be nice to me, to hand me the bio exam. She liked me because Adam liked me. And Tina, with her clumpy mascara and that little gap between her teeth, had always been soft. This was her house. She wouldn’t let anything bad happen here. I thought back to the moment we shared on the beach, giggling about Mr. Beaumont. I was going to be okay.

  But I was so, so wrong.

  A chant rang out, so full of elation it made me shiver. It took a minute before I could make out the word.

  “Draw! Draw! Draw!”

  Jake emerged from the crowd and turned to us, a smirk on his face. “You heard them. Draw!” He held out a stack of thick cardboard playing cards. There were eight of them. “Lowest number gets it worst.”

  So this was how it would all go down. We each had one final test.

  I searched for Adam’s steady gaze to anchor me. He was off to the side, whispering to someone else, but then he looked up. Adam gave me a slowly spreading smile. His dimple was on display. He’d make sure we would be all right.