When the ambulances came, they found her huddled with Rachel, awake and woozy. They were sitting next to me, telling me to hang on, while Adam lay passed out on the sand. Nikki told the cops the truth, that she hit him to stop him. Rachel backed her up.
They handed over Adam’s confession right there on the beach. That’s when they found Adam’s pulse. He was alive. Alive and guilty.
Nikki watched as they loaded him into the ambulance and handcuffed his wrist to the stretcher. His head bobbed about and he groaned, coming to.
“I hope he rots in jail,” I say, almost a whisper.
Nikki looks up at me through glassy eyes. Spit and snot pool around her nose and she wipes her face on her paper-thin hospital gown.
“I know you lov—” She cuts herself off. “I’m so sorry, Jill. I’m so sorry.” She rocks back and forth in the chair next to my bed.
I squeeze her hand so hard my knuckles ache. I repeat the words she once told me.
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
TWENTY-SIX
I DECIDE TOreturn to the Players’ Table one last time. Word has spread by now. The details were splashed on the front page of theGold Coast Gazette. Local news trucks swarmed the school. In a way, it’s good. We don’t have to explain ourselves.
No one asks about the plum-colored bruise under my eye, or the bandage taped to my forehead. No one questions my and Nikki’s plastic hospital bracelets we refuse to take off. They’re our reminders that this was all real.
Rachel went up to Danbury as soon as she could. She texted me that Graham will be out soon. He’s going to live with her in the East Village, reacclimate to real life before taking a few college classes over the summer. I’m not ready to see him. I don’t know if I ever will be. Adam was transferred to the county jail where he awaits trial. The Millers were ready to cough up a million in bail, but the judge denied it. It hurts too much to think about him now.
Today, Nikki and I walk together through the cafeteria for our final lunch at Gold Coast Prep. The sea of students parts, but this time the air around us is still. The frenetic energy is gone, replaced by a simmering sense of wariness and disbelief.
I grab a turkey club, a banana, and a piece of raw cookie dough for Shaila. We pay for our food in silence and walk straight toward the center of the room where all eyes turn to watch us sit down. I slide into my seat, nestled in between Quentin and Nikki. I look around, at Henry, whose tender eyes meet mine, at Marla, who cocks her head in sympathy, and even at Robert, who’s zoned out completely.
“Well, this is awkward,” I start.
Quentin lets out a snort. He wraps his arm around my shoulder and squeezes me to him.
Nikki’s eyes are dark and sad, but the corners of her mouth perk up. “One last Players’ tribunal?” She doesn’t wait for anyone to speak. “I call this meeting of the Players to order.” She taps a fork against her tray and a few of the undies turn their heads to listen.
“Tonight,” she says, raising her voice. “Bonfire at my house.” She turns in her seat to Topher, who leans in so close, he’s basically sitting on Quentin’s lap. “Spread it around, okay?” He nods.
Nikki faces us. “Let’s burn it all down.”
—
When Jared and I push through the front door, Mom is already in the kitchen, puttering around the island, prepping an enormous pot of linguini with clams.
“Jill?” she calls. Her maternal senses have moved into overdrive. For good reason I guess.
Mom appears in the hallway, her hands covered in oil and flecks of parsley. “Something came for you.” She gestures to the side table where the mail piles up.
A large, thick envelope with my name on it sits on top of the stack. The return address says Brown. My stomach flips.
“Do you want to open it?” she asks.
Jared inhales sharply behind me.
I reach for it and feel the weight heavy in my hand. The paper is made from fine cardstock, thick and embossed with ink. I stop myself from ripping it apart and instead close my eyes and remember everything that’s happened this year, everything that I lived through.I lived.
It all becomes so clear.
“Well?” Mom asks.
I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “I’m not going to Brown.”
