In My Dreams I Hold a Knife(54)

In the beginning, the novelty of having these friends—the sheer relief of it—was enough to sustain her. After so long watching from the sidelines while other kids, then other teenagers, had sleepovers, trick-or-treated, went to prom—things her parents didn’t approve of—it was a wonder to finally belong. Especially to the East House Seven, which was the loudest kind of belonging, almost showy.

But over the years, the precious tightness of their circle had loosened, stretching to accommodate other friends, other interests, the occasional spring break with other people. Maybe it was only natural—inevitable—but Caro hated it. Everything felt so precarious, like one gentle nudge was all it would take to send it shattering.

Charles Smith had been the one secret she’d kept from the rest of them since freshman year—since the night she’d gone to Chapman Hall to steal his float keys, then spent the night, surprising herself, then never stopped, surprising them both. All the time Charles wanted her to go on trips, be his formal date, meet his parents. But what he didn’t understand was that ever since the East House Seven was born, since the float debacle freshman year, in Caro’s mind it was us versus them, with them being everyone else, and especially Chapman kids like Charles.

Charles was nice, Charles was handsome, Charles was funny and athletic. But he was still, in some fundamental way, the enemy. She would never choose him when she could choose them.

The problem was, her friends didn’t feel the same way.

She could feel them pulling away, and feared, as the person at the bottom, that she didn’t have the power to draw them back. What would she have if she no longer had them? The anxiety notched, forming a pit of dread in her stomach. She was certain, on her worst nights, that she would lose them and be alone again. She wanted assurances. She wanted to be close. She wanted to know where they went and what they did all those times they didn’t invite her.

And so, sometimes—rarely, but sometimes—she watched, and followed, and listened. Just to know. And in some small way, be a part of it.

Because of the December chill—beanies pulled low, masking students’ faces, and a sea of identical dark peacoats bundled against the wind—Caro almost didn’t spot them walking across campus. She was turning from the coffee cart, warm cup in her hands, exhaling a crystal cloud of breath, when out of the corner of her eye, she recognized a familiar parting of the crowd.

She’d always wondered if they knew what they looked like. All of them, even Jess, even Coop, even Frankie, with his muscled shoulders and stiff gait. When they were together, they moved like a flock of birds, in perfect sync, legs extending, arms swinging in unison. It had an effect. Other people moved out of their way, allowing them to glide through spaces with a buffer, move as freely through campus as if they owned it. Caro always paid attention to the cadence of her steps when she walked with them, but try as she might, she could never hold the beat for long.

Today they carved like a knife through the winter hats and coats: Heather, Jack, and Frankie. But something was off. Heather strode ahead, the point of the triangle, her face grim, eyes locked forward; Jack and Frankie behind, forming the base, eyeing each other every few steps, their shoulders hunched.

What was going on? Where were they going? Caro hadn’t received any calls or texts about meeting up.

She hitched her backpack higher and set after them.

After a minute, it was easy to predict where they were going: Heather was beelining straight for Bishop Hall. Caro wondered if she was taking Frankie and Jack to their suite, where Caro couldn’t follow without being obvious. But to her relief, and surprise, Heather marched across the Bishop lobby, past the groups studying for finals, and straight into a meeting room in the administrative wing. It was one of those all-purpose rooms the college reserved for less popular student groups that didn’t warrant their own dedicated space: the student jugglers, improv actors, The Simpsons trivia group. Caro had been there once, just to try the Society of Christian Feminists, but she’d never gone back again.

With her breath held, she slipped inside after Heather, Jack, and Frankie. It was dark as she crept along the back wall, so she heard them before she saw them.

“You’re lucky we’re not having this conversation in the middle of football practice!” Heather said, her voice heated. “Or out in the lobby, where everyone can hear.”

Jack’s voice was soothing. “Calm down. Let’s talk this out.”

Caro crouched behind a nearby chair, peeking carefully around the side. In the middle of the room, there was an empty space with chairs encircling it, meaning improv had to have been here last. In that space stood Heather, arms crossed and jaw locked. It was a bulldog scowl Caro recognized—the one Heather wore when she wasn’t going to let go of an argument. Jack faced her, arms reaching out, but Heather leaned away. Frankie was slumped in one of the chairs, head in his hands.

“Talking sounds great,” Heather said viciously. “Talk about this, then.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a Ziploc, waving it at Jack. Caro had to squint to see, but through the plastic she could make out one of those cups doctors gave you at annual checkups. She was confused until Heather spoke again, voice rising. “Why did I find a urine test with Frankie’s name on it hidden away in your bathroom? And before you say it, Frankie, don’t even try to tell me you decided to walk all the way across campus to pee in a cup in Jack’s bathroom instead of your own, because I’m not an idiot.”