“The parking lot behind the theater...” she says. “Isn’t that the staff lot?”
EIGHTEEN
I NEVER UNDERSTOODpeople who didn’t want to be liked, who said they didn’t care what people thought of them. Of course I fucking cared. I wanted—still want—to be liked and included, respected and admired. That’s why I spent freshman year carting around expertly poured cups of beer and buying seniors pow-do from Diane’s on school nights. Why I laughed at jokes even if they weren’t funny, or were at our expense. Why I stuffed empty bottles in trash bags after parties while the boys continued playing flip cup or beer pong. Why I salivated over nuggets of Gold Coast Prep gossip that weren’t about me. Better to fuel the rumor mill than be the subject of it.
So when, one night at the beach during freshman year, Tina Fowler whispered, “Can I tell you a secret?” I nodded emphatically. I was thrilled to be her willing audience. We were lying side by side and Tina rolled over, sending flecks of sand flying into my hair. She leaned in close.
“I heard one of the teachers is sleeping with a student. They did it in his caratschool, after hours.” Her eyes looked manic while she said it, thanks to some clumpy mascara and too-darkliner. She never did know how to apply makeup, but always looked cute thanks to a tiny gap between her two front teeth. Everyone called her adorable.
“Whoa,” I said, and looked over at the bonfire that raged a few feet away. The boys stood around the flames in a circle, throwing sticks, cardboard, and whatever else they could find into the heat. Their laughter floated above the crashing waves. It was early April, so we were all wearing flannels, wrapped in fleece blankets toted out from various SUVs to keep warm.
“So messed up, right?” But her face didn’t look like she thought it was fucked up. She smiled so wide I could see her canines. They were sharp like fangs.
“Totally,” I said.
“I bet it’s Mr. Scheiner,” she said, scrunching up her nose like she smelled something rotten. “He looks like a pedo with those wire glasses.”
I giggled. “Or Coach Doppelt. Shaila reported him for being creepy in the locker room.”
Tina slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God! Rachel said he was a lurker, too!” She leaned into me, knocking my shoulder with hers. “Ugh, wouldn’t it be amazing, though, if it were Mr. Beaumont? Dude’s a fox.”
At that time, Mr. Beaumont was still sorta new. He’d slide into class just before the bell rang and chug an enormous iced coffee, no matter the weather, while perched on a desk in the front row. Usually Shaila’s. Sometimes Nikki’s. Never mine. As he asked us about our weekends, his big goofy grin would spread across his face in a way that made it seem like hegotus. He was on our side. We were all just there to stick it out together.
“Seriously.” Tina took a swig out of the bottle next to her.“I’d die to hook up with him. He’s like barely twenty-five. It’s doable.”
“Maybe next year,” I joked.
“Thisyear for someone, apparently. Get it, girl!” she hollered. A few pairs of eyes turned to us and we collapsed into a pile of laughter, falling back into the damp sand. I was just happy to be near her, to be included, to not be called astupid little undieor be made to recite everyone’s middle names in alphabetical order frontward then backward. Gossiping about the hot teacher didn’t matter. It was practically sport. All that mattered was being on Tina’s good side, at least for a night. She was aseniorand I was as tiny as a tadpole.
That little moment seemed totally insignificant then. It was just a stupid rumor. People stopped talking about it by spring break. Moved on to something new. Lila Peterson giving a hand job in the auditorium, I think. That one followed her around until she graduated. Of course, I can’t remember who the boy was. Funny how that works.
But... what if the Beaumont rumor was true?
There’s one person who would know. One person who memorized Gold Coast history like he’d be quizzed on it. But he’s also not speaking to me. I need him, though, which is why I wait next to Quentin’s hatchback after school on Monday like a stalker. It’s the first warm day in months, so sunny I have to shield my eyes with my hands.
Quentin sheds his blazer and loosens his tie as he walks toward me. When he looks up, he stops in his tracks and throws back his head. “Ugh, Jill. What?” The harshness in his voice makes me wince.
“I just want to talk,” I say.
“Haven’t you noticed I’m not doing that with you anymore?”
“I thought maybe you’d make an exception, just once?” I flash him a smile, a pleasing one, I hope.
Quentin rolls his eyes. “Get in.”
I scramble into the passenger side and buckle in while Quentin revs his engine. He makes a hard reverse and peels out of the parking lot like a stuntman. “Scared to be seen with me?” I joke.
“Kinda.” His mouth is in a hard line.
“I need your help. It’s about Graham—”
Suddenly Quentin slams on the brakes. We’re in the middle of Breakbridge Road, a narrow, dangerous stretch between school and Gold Cove, but Quentin rests his head on the steering wheel, making no motion to move.
“Come on, Jill. I don’t want to rehash this. We all decided to let it go.”
“I know, but...”
His hard voice cuts me off. “Someof us want to leave this in the past.Someof us want to move on, to get the fuck out of here and forget what happened.”
