“Hi.”
Graham drops to a seat at a small circular table and I follow suit, mirroring his movements.
He throws me a sheepish smile, as if we haven’t known each other since before puberty. As if I don’t know all of his secrets.
“Um, how are you?” I ask because I don’t know what else to say.
At first the words are sparse and he stumbles, as if he’s trying to remember how people are supposed to converse or make small talk. He chats about the weather and points out other people around the room, kids about our age, talking to older folks who look like their parents or siblings. He motions to an Asian American boy who sits in silence as his mom plays a recording off an iPhone. “That’s from his brother,” Graham says. “He refuses to come visit, but Andy misses him so much.” Rachel nods and purses her lips.
He doesn’t say where these people came from or what they did to get here. He rambles on about the food, and how chickentikka masala night is his favorite, but he used to look forward to spaghetti Bolognese night. He mentions how he’s learned to play cricket from some of the British counselors in his “cohort,” and that he’s taken an interest in architecture. “I’ve read just about everything we have about Norman Foster and Zaha Hadid. I can’t wait to visit the bridge she built in Abu Dhabi—it’s, like, legendary,” he says.
“So, you actually think you’re getting out?” I say.
Graham’s eyes dart to Rachel’s and she nods, giving him the go-ahead. It’s a ritual I’m not part of. A signal between them. Graham’s mouth gets small. He hunches lower in his seat and curls his limbs into his body.
“I didn’t do it, Jill.” His voice is low and measured, deep and full, like he’s practiced this line over and over. He’s trying to be convincing. He runs a hand through his hair again.
Rachel leans in and rests her arms on the table. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?” she says. Her eyes are wide and nurturing, motherly but urgent.
Graham nods and takes a big breath. He squeezes his mouth shut. Then the words tumble out.
“I don’t remember much about everything that happened after,” he says. “But I remember everything leading up to... that. Don’t you?” His dark eyes make direct contact with mine. It’s almost too intimate to bear.
A lump forms in my throat.
“You do, right?” he asks again. I nod once.
I do. The light spring breeze coming in from Ocean Cliff. Air so salty it stung my pores. No bugs yet. It was too early for mosquitos. Relief when I realized what I had to do. How every sip felt like poison sliding down my throat. Then, completedarkness swallowing me, filling me with paralyzing fear. It was all so much worse than I thought it would be.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to make out Shaila in all of this. I picture her gnawing at her ragged nails when she realized whatshehad to do. The moment her face went from determined to terrified.
“Yes,” I whisper.
Graham’s face goes cold. “Do you remember my initiation pop?”
How could I forget? Jake came up with all of them, we were told. “You were scared of spiders, right?”
“Tarantulas,” Graham says. He shivers. “They brought out a dozen of ’em and I had to stand with them crawling all over me in that glass shower for hours.”
“Four,” I say. “Four hours.” That’s how long mine was, too.
“Huh,” he says. “Two. Mine was only two.”
Rachel mutters something under her breath.
“What?” I ask.
“The boys’ were shorter. They were always shorter,” she says softly, her head down.
Of course they were.
Graham keeps talking, though. “I begged for something to drink. Anything to take my mind off it. Obviously, they complied.”
An image of Graham standing in the shower creeps into my brain. I hadn’tseenit, of course. I was too busy trying to survive my own initiation. But I imagine they had sequestered him in another section of the pool house, dropping furry, creepy creatures on his head while feeding him cups of cheap tequila over the glass doorframe.
I glance at Rachel, but her face is in her hands.
“After that, I barely remember what came next,” Graham says. “One minute I was crying like a baby, the next I was somewhere down the beach covered in blood. Can you imagine what that felt like?”
