My stomach flips with the thought of Rachel and Adam talking about me all those years ago. What else did he say? Did he really believe all that? Then I remember what he said at Diane’s.Rachel is nuts.
“You’re the only one who would want justice for her,” she continues. “Who would be willing to fight for it. Just think about it.”
The room feels small, like a dollhouse. Her apartment is closing in on me and I notice for the first time that there are no windows in her living room. I wonder how peoplelivein New York City. These homes aren’t made for that. They’re made for survival. “I need to go,” I say.
I push open her flimsy door and start down the stairs. Rachel calls behind me. “Just think about it.”
I don’t stop until I reach the bottom floor, where I twist the tarnished metal doorknob and suddenly, finally, break free. Her street smells of city garbage and sticky beer, but I breathe indeeply, trying to swallow as much air as I can, to shock my system, to know the last hour wasn’t a dream.
I’m miles from the train station, even farther from home, but I start walking. Anywhere that’s far away from clinical terms likeevidenceand ragged, hollow half possibilities.
I turn her words over in my head until they become bland mush, and then again until I start to see her motives clearly. Rachel doesn’t want justice for Shaila. She wants it forGraham. And if I believe her, it means someone else we know is guilty. Which truth is worse?
TEN
IT’S EASY TOpretend that Rachel never hit me up. That she didn’t plant life-altering theories inside my brain. That she’s still cemented in my mind as Adam’s ex, the sister of a killer, the enemy—not a potential coconspirator.
All I need to do is agonize about college decisions, like every other senior. I’m due to hear back from Brown in a week, and the only antidote to the stress, it seems, is to go into full Player mode. Obsess, as I have for the last three years, over the weekly check-ins and insane ideas for pops, all theworkthat Nikki huffs and puffs about now.
After intro night, we told the freshmen to clear their weekends for the rest of the year. They were only exempt from Player stuff if they had a family emergency or a Bat Mitzvah or something. For their first test, they had to memorize facts about the Players and recite them back to us on the beach behind Nikki’s house. Wrong answers resulted in being squirted with ketchup and mustard. Rinse-offs in the frigid bay were optional. The next week we made them cook an entire Thanksgiving meal at Quentin’s after eating pot brownies. Bryce set off the fire alarm with aburnt turkey but Jared nailed the brussels sprouts.
And last week, on the first Saturday in November, Henry devised a new task. He made them wash the Players’ cars while singing my favorite eighties songs on repeat. I threw some Stevie Nicks solo tracks on the playlist. Cher made an appearance, obviously. All along, they were forced to do little things, like carry Player packs—little fanny packs filled with Player essentials: Juuls, mints, tampons, pencils, mini Snickers, condoms, Advil. They were our walking drugstores. “Gum me,” I’d say when passing Sierra McKinley in the hall.
They were on call 24/7, available to do morning runs to Diane’s, to clean out our gym lockers, to do basically anything we wanted. Nikki even made Larry Kramer sort her laundry one Sunday just to see him blush when he folded her lacy thongs. It was easy stuff, harmless shit that brought them together as a class. Nothing they wouldn’t experience in college times ten.
Still, I dreaded these tasks when I was a freshman. I was always so sure I would mess it all up. Shaila’s reaction was more annoyed than scared. She would whine like hell when Rachel would text her, requesting a dozen pow-do—those totally addicting little powdered donuts from Diane’s—at 9 p.m. on a Tuesday. We’d go together, of course, making up excuses to our parents, and as we rode there on our bikes, Shaila would call out behind her, “Nothing brings you closer than being made to feel like someone’s little bitch!”
That was the unofficial Player motto.
There was only one time when I was really, seriously scared by one of the supposed-to-be-easy pops. It was a mild Friday night just before Thanksgiving and Rachel texted, asking for a case of Bud Light and a pack of Twizzlers. Shaila and I rode ourbikes to the gas station next to Diane’s, which is still famous for selling underage kids beer on the DL.
Shaila made a beeline for the refrigerators, retrieved what we needed, and placed the cardboard box full of cans right up on the counter without uttering a word. The cashier looked her over once, twice, and then nodded. She handed him a crisp bill, smiled sweetly, and said, “Keep the change.”
I had been standing in the candy aisle with my fists clenched, holding my breath. When Shaila pulled the beer off the counter, I let out a rush of air. But then the bell on the door chimed.
“Jill? Shaila?”
The voice was deep and familiar. I spun around and my heart sank. Mr. Beaumont was standing right in front of us, his collar askew and his shirt tails untucked. He looked... cute. Not like a teacher. Not like the person who was about to ruin my life and get me thrown out of Gold Coast Prep for buying beer.
“Hey, Beau,” Shaila said first, casually. She held the cardboard box in both hands and didn’t bother to hide it. “How you doing tonight?”
“Not as well as you girls,” he said, laughing. His cheeks were flushed and he ran a hand through his hair.
Shaila giggled. “Are you gonna rat us out?”
Mr. Beaumont reached into his pocket and pulled out an empty cigarette pack. “Just here for a refill.”
“Weingarten hates smokers,” Shaila said in a singsong voice.
“I won’t tell if you won’t?” Mr. Beaumont cocked his head and his mouth turned into an amused smirk.
Shaila smiled. “There’s no one like you at Prep,” she said.
Mr. Beaumont laughed again and shook his head. “You too, Shaila.”
My heart was beating fast, like it was going to burst out of my chest.
“See you tomorrow.” Shaila skipped out of the gas station and I darted behind her, making a run for my bike. My arms were shaking as I gripped the handles.
