His words sting. How could he want to forget Shaila?
“If you could stop being so self-centered right now, you’d see that we’re all just trying to make it out of herealive,” he sputters.
I shake my head. “Self-centered? Are you kidding me? I’m the only one thinking about Shaila right now. I’m the only one who cares about finding out the truth.” I feel the hot tears swell in my eyes. The crushing loneliness I’ve been feeling for the past few months hits me.
Quentin jabs his foot at the pedals and we’re moving again, climbing up the Cove. Ocean Cliff is just visible through theclouds. “Well, while you’ve been off doing who knows what, quitting the Players, obsessing over Shaila, some of us have been trying to figure out a way to actually get out of here, to go to college.”
“What do you mean?”
Quentin had gotten into Yale’s prestigious fine arts program back in the fall. He had been thrilled that week, just like everyone else.
“Not everyone at this school is rich, you know? Not everyone has a fancy dad—or even a dad at all. It’s not like everyone can justpaytheir way through everything.” His voice cracks. “It’s like, my life is incredible. I am so freaking lucky to have my mom and the Players. I’m among the most privileged people in the world. I know that. And still, relative to everyone else here, I’m still made to feel like shit because we don’t have like... six houses. No one here has any goddamn perspective. Marla and I talk about this all time.”
My heart splits in two. Those of us whoseemedto have money never talked about if weactuallydid. With some people it was obvious, like Nikki and Henry. You could usually tell based on houses and cars or vacations and jewelry, and because Quentin’s mom was a bestselling novelist, because they owned one of those colonial homes up in Gold Cove, I just thought...
He must think the same about me. He doesn’t know I’ve been busting my ass every day, using my solo lunches to study for this stupid Brown scholarship exam.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me,” he barks. “But I don’t want to spend senior year thinking about the past. It wasbad enough the first time. It’s just... exhausting. I have to think about the future.”
“Now who’s self-centered?” I say, hoping it sounds as jokey as I mean it to.
Quentin smirks and turns the radio to the eighties station he knows I love. “Alone” by Heart floats through the speaker and I let out a laugh. It’s so on the nose.
“I’m on scholarship,” I say. It’s the first time I’ve said it aloud to anyone. A piercing shame burrows deep in my stomach, not forbeingon scholarship but for feeling the need to hide it.
Quentin sits up straighter. “Really?”
I nod. “Merit-based. For STEM. I have to keep a 93 average.”
“I got the visual arts grant,” he says with a smile. “Full ride since middle school.”
“I don’t know how we’re going to pay for Brown, either,” I say softly. “There’s a test and if I come out on top, I’ll get tuition covered. That’s what I’ve been doing at lunch without the Players’ Table. Studying. But I don’t know how I can ace it. Not without help.”
“You think you need the stupid Files?” Quentin laughs. “You’re Jill Newman. You were born to be in that program. You just have to show them.” He stops at the red light and turns to face me. “Do the work, Jill. Earn it.”
Looking at his sloping splash of red hair and his perfect freckled complexion, my heart breaks for Quentin’s kindness and tears prick my eyes. I want more than anything to give him a hug. To rest my head on his doughy shoulder and curl up for aReal Housewivesmarathon. I want to tell him that it’s easier to worry about Shaila than to worry about the future and how we were going to live up to everyone’s expectations.Sometimes it’s easier to pretend like life ends after high school. Wouldn’t that make this all worth it?
Then I remember what I came here to ask him.
“I just want to know one thing,” I say. “Do you remember freshman year, there was that rumor going around that a teacher slept with a student?”
“Oh my God, yeah.”
“It was about Beaumont, right?”
“Yep,” he says without skipping a beat. “I was volunteering in the admin department that year. Once I overheard the secretary, Mrs. Oerman, take a call from a pissed-off parent. Someone who said their kid was talking about how Beau waswitha student. Mrs. O. was so freaked out she couldn’t stop babbling about it all day. She definitely told Weingarten. She had to. I mean, someone claimed there was abuse going on at Prep. That’s no joke.”
“Did he ever look into it?”
Quentin shakes his head. “Nah. You know our dear headmaster. Always pretending like everything’s fine. He didn’t want to deal with any drama, make a scene, find out something he’d rather not know.”
Quentin’s right. That’s just another gross fact about Prep. Always sticking to the status quo. It’s the same mentality that results in so few people of color getting accepted every year. The administration doesn’t like to discuss it, but the swath of sameness is there, glaring and obvious. Sure, there are diversity initiatives, outreach programs, but as Nikki said once, “Those are clearly just for show.” If Weingarten wanted more perspectives in our classrooms, wouldn’t he have them? Hire more teachers of color, too? Just another reason I can’t wait to get out of this place.
My heart pounds in an electric thump that I can feel in the tips of my toes. I suddenly remember the gas station. The wink Shaila gave Beaumont. How he watched Shaila ride away with a case of beer on her handlebars. A smile danced on his face. Were they speaking their own secret language?
“You okay?” Quentin asks. “You look like shit. No offense.”
