“Come on!” Shaila shouted as she took off down the main drag toward the water, the case of beer rattling in her bike’s basket. But before I started pedaling, I glanced back. Mr. Beaumont stood right outside the storefront. He lit a cigarette and watched us ride away.
When we dropped off the provisions at Rachel’s, Shaila detailed every moment of our run-in, amping up the drama and tension. “We were almost expelled!”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “At least for a good cause, right?” She laughed, cracking open a can. She tossed one to Tina Fowler, who sat next to her on the big leather sofa, her strawberry-blonde hair piled on top of her head. “All these pops have a purpose, you know. To make you stronger. To bond you together forever.” Rachel would say that over and over throughout the year. They all did. And so we believed it and said it, too. “Nothing brings you closer than being made to feel like someone’s little bitch.”
Tonight’s event is one of the bigger ones, though. When we were freshmen they called it Showtime. But now we just refer to it as “the Show,” and it always happens a few weeks before seniors are due to hear back from their first round of college applications. That way everyone is on fire, ready to unleash hell and expend all that frustrated energy. Kind of messed up. Even Henry’s a little tense when he picks me up to take me to Nikki’s. Neither of us bring up Brown or Wharton.
“Thank God you’re here,” Nikki says, answering the doorin a rose-colored gauzy maxi dress, even though it’s freezing outside. “I need help!”
“With what?” I push past her and into the kitchen, ready to raid whatever snacks she has already poured into bowls. Henry trails behind me.
“This.”
I grab a handful of Cheez-Its and turn. “What the...”
Nikki has forgone the casual setups of Showtimes past, and has instead turned her living room into an arena, complete with stadium seating. In front of the massive TV, she’s built a makeshift stage out of crates, and covered the whole thing in glittery fabric.
“This isn’t Broadway, Nikki. They’re just reading corny sex scenes we’ve all heard a million times before.” I roll my eyes. The scripts had been handed down for years, laminated in the Toastmaster binder. But every senior class tweaked them just a bit, adding a new line of dialogue here, some dramatic stage direction there. According to Jake Horowitz, they wereactualscenes from sex tapes Players made back in the nineties when camcorders were a thing. But he only said that when he was trying to convince us that the pops used to besomuch worse.
Nikki balls her hands into fists and stamps her foot. “I want this to be better! Remember last year, no one could hear the stupid undies because everyone was laughing so hard. It was way too easy.”
“Whatever.”
The doorbell rings and Nikki just stares at me. “Can you get that?”
“Sure, your highness,” I joke. Nikki stomps away, unamused. Henry rolls his eyes.
“Whaddup, Jill!” Robert yells, clearly already a few deep. Quentin and Marla are right behind him.
“Whoa, sick,” says Marla.
“At leastsomeonegets my vision.” Nikki stares daggers at me.
I relent. “What can I do to help?” Nikki’s face softens and she starts rattling off instructions for how to set up the bar and which dimmers should be set on timers.
“C’mon,” Marla whispers to me. “I’ll help you.”
I mouththank youto her and we retreat to the far side of the living room to stack plastic cups and dump ice into buckets.
“She in a mood tonight?” Marla asks. Her hazel eyes are rimmed in thick liner and her nearly fluorescent hair is tied into a knot high on her head.
I snort and rip open a bag of ice. “Seems that way.”
Marla shakes her head. “Let’s just get this one over with.” Her gold hoop earrings jangle as she leans over the bar. Marla’s always been the steady one, the one who calls us on our crap. Perhaps because she’s less invested. She knows this is temporary. Out of anyone, she would be the one to root out the bullshit, which makes me wonder if she would understand why I went to talk to Rachel, if she has questions, too.
“I actually wanted to ask you something,” I say, lowering my voice.
“Shoot,” she says.
“I can’t stop thinking about Shaila,” I start. “About Graham. Don’t you think it’s insane no one wants to talk about how he could be innocent?” I hold my breath and Marla stops lining up bottles on the bar. She turns to face me, her head cocked to one side.
“One hundred percent insane,” she says. “But that’s GoldCoast. No one wants to stir anything up. We all just pretend like everything is perfect all the time.”
“Aren’t you curious?” I ask. I pick at a cuticle on my thumb.
“Of course,” Marla says. “But let me be real with you. Nothing you or I say or do will change anything. We’re not Arnolds or Millers or Garrys. We’re just lucky to be here.” Marla’s face softens and she resumes stacking cups. “My mom works double shifts at the hospital to make sure I can go to Prep. We haven’t taken a vacation in a decade. Why do you think all my brothers went to Cartwright? My parents are investing everything they have inme. My mom prays every single night that I’ll get into Dartmouth. The last thing they need is for me to get caught up in someLaw and Ordernonsense a few months before graduating.”
After more than three years of friendship, I can’t believe I don’t know this about Marla, that we’re both buried under an avalanche of expectations. But something stops me from telling her that. Instead I reach out and squeeze her hand. “You’re so right.”
