My skin burns with shame, a reminder that I don’t deserve what I’ve been given. But even if they don’t know what I’ve been through to get here, I know it comes with a cost. I paid my dues. I suffered, too. They don’t know I’m here on scholarship, that every day at Gold Coast is a fight.
Tears prick my eyes and I blink them back, eager to get out of here, to do what I’ve been waiting to do all week.
When the final bell rings, I push the heavy metal doors open and feel the cold wind against my face, sea salt blowing into my hair. It bites. But I’m finally free. Until a heavy arm slinks over my shoulder, throwing me off my step. I fall sideways, right into Henry.
“There you are. I was looking for you after lunch.” His fingertips graze my chest, hardening my nipple, even beneath layers of clothes. I shiver. “Sorry Robert was such a shit. You know that’s just how he is.”
“That’s not an excuse,” I say. I just want to forget aboutRobert’s comments, what those debate girls said, and everything inside Gold Coast’s walls. “But it would be nice if you could stand up for me.”
“You’re totally right,” Henry says, throwing his head back. “I’m sorry. Next time, okay?” He leans down and his lips touch my forehead quickly, almost chaste, before changing the subject. “What’s up for tonight?”
I had hoped to avoid this—lying to him. A trapdoor opens inside me and I will my stomach not to drop through it. “I gotta do some family stuff,” I say.
“Really?” Henry cocks his head. “I thought Jared was going over to Topher’s. The juniors are throwing that whole Super Pong thing.”
Shit.I try to picture my brother standing behind a beer pong table covered in dozens of red cups, as he tries to sink a little plastic ball. It isn’t so hard to imagine anymore. “Just a me and Mom thing. Gotta put in some quality time, you know?”
He nods. “Totally. See you tomorrow?”
I swallow hard and force a smile. “For sure.”
—
It’s 7:59 p.m. and I’m standing in front of what must be Rachel Calloway’s apartment. Only two miles from her parents’ fancy Tribeca loft, her front door looks janky, like anyone could walk right in without a key. Weekend revelers shout at one another from the many bars that line the street and notes of piss waft over from a phone booth that looks like it hasn’t been used since the nineties. There must be dozens of people laughing out here, smoking cigarettes and huddling close together, but I’ve never been more alone. I pull my parka closed and peer at the cracked intercom until I find 6E.
Buzz.A deep, instantly familiar voice crackles. “Hello?”
“It’s Jill Newman,” I say, suddenly feeling my nerves in my throat. Do I sound young? Can she sense the sweat collecting between my fingers?
“You made it,” she says. “Watch the steps, they’re steep as fuck.”
The lock unlatches like a switchblade and I push inside, coming face-to-face with a set of rickety stairs that look like a fire hazard. She wasn’t kidding.
I dart up, moving one foot in front of the other, afraid if I stop now, I’ll stop forever. And finally, when I reach the top floor, Rachel is standing barefoot, leaning with her back propped up against a purple doorframe. She’s wearing baggy acid wash jeans and a thin, nearly see-through white T-shirt. Her hair is wavy and shaggy, with big, voluminous layers hanging around her face. She’s somehow prettier than she was in high school, vivid and kinetic with sparkly dark eyes and round pink cheeks. I want to reach out and touch one finger to her chin, just to see if she’s real.
“Jill Newman,” she says slowly, cocking her head. I wonder how she sees me. If I look older or different. She didn’t stick around for the after, to see how everything changed or didn’t.
“Rachel Calloway.”
“C’mon in.” Rachel turns and leads me into her apartment. The space is tiny, and I can see the entire place from the entryway. Stacks of books line the brick wall, and a mid-century maroon couch, covered in thick wool blankets, has been shoved to one side. Her walls are bare save for an oversize watercolor painting of bold, abstract flowers that’s been tacked to the plaster with thumbnails. It looks like an unfinished art project. Leafy plants hang in macramé swings on either side of the sofa.
“Welcome to the real world,” she says, offering me a smile. “Want some tea?”
I nod and follow Rachel into her kitchen, which is really just a narrow hallway that happens to have both a stove and a fridge.
She squeezes honey into two ceramic mugs painted with outlines of curvy female bodies. Their nipples are just pink points.
“Cute,” I say.
“Thanks. My girlfriend made them.”
I try to hide my surprise but Rachel laughs. “Yep, queer. Started telling people a few years ago,” she says. “I guess no one from Gold Coast would know.” She pauses. “My girlfriend’s name is Frida. She’s a coder. Lives around the block.”
“That’s cool,” I say. I mean it, too. She and Adam never really seemed to fit together. But obviously I thought that.
“It’s good to see you.”
“You too,” I respond because what else is there to say? Standing in front of Rachel makes me long for the past, for the months leading up to Shaila’s death and our initiation. I want to burrow inside those weeks when we were all bonded together. Even when it felt like torture, when we were pushed to the absolute brink and I thought I would explode from the adrenaline and the fear, I knew, I hoped, it was worth it. We were holding on to a thread that was always at risk of unraveling.
