They Wish They Were Us(3)
“Shaila is no longer with us,” he says, “but her life was radiant, one we cannot forget. She lives on in her family, in her friends, and within these halls.”
Mr. and Mrs. Arnold nod their heads.
“I am here to tell you that Gold Coast Prep is, and will always be, a family. We must continue to protect one another,” he says. “We will not let another Gold Coast student be harmed.” Nikki’s elbow presses into my rib cage.
“So take this as a reminder,” Headmaster Weingarten continues. “At Gold Coast Prep, we strive to do good. We aim to be grand. We see ourselves as helping hands.”
Ah, the Gold Coast motto.
“Join in if you know it,” he says, smiling.
Five hundred and twenty-three Gold Coast Prep students, ages six to eighteen, raise their voices. Even the new kids, who were instructed to memorize the stupid words before they even set foot on campus.
“At Gold Coast Prep, life is good. Our time here is grand. We see ourselves as helping hands,” the chorus says in a creepy singsong.
“Very good,” says Headmaster Weingarten. “Now, off to class. It will be quite a year.”
* * *
—
We are no longer mourners when lunchtime rolls around. Paying tribute to Shaila is a hurdle we have cleared.
My stomach flips when I catch a glimpse of the senior Players’ Table. The juniors and sophomores have already assembled, but the perfect table, the one reserved for us, is empty and beckoning.
It occupies the best real estate by far, nestled smack dab in the middle of the cafeteria, so everyone has to pass us and bear witness to the fun we can have, even at lunch. The tables that ring around us are saved for the other Players, the undies, and then from there, how far away you sit from us determines everything.
My feet tingle with excitement as Nikki and I weave through the salad bar, dropping massaged kale, marinated feta, and hunks of grilled chicken onto our plates. When we pass the dessert table, I pluck a piece of raw cookie dough from the glass bowl. Having the little buttery ball on your tray has been a sign of cool girl vibes for decades. Shaila ate it every single day she was here. A bunch of freshmen let us cut them at the cashier, as they should, and we make our way to the table we always knew would be ours. Even now, I’m still surprised to find my spot empty, waiting for me. Seeing that open chair, the one that’s undoubtedly mine, still elicits a weird thrill. It’s a reminder. After all this, I belong. I deserve this. I survived.
Nikki and I are the first ones here, and when we slide into our seats, the familiar feeling of being in a fishbowl begins to take over. We know we’re being watched. That’s part of the fun.
Nikki flips her long black hair over her shoulder and unzips her backpack, retrieving a neon paper box. “I came prepared,” she says. The lid pops open, revealing dozens of mini Kit Kats in flavors like pumpkin, green tea, and sweet potato. Her parents must have brought them back from their recent business trip to Japan—without her, of course. A few sophomores crane to see what glamorous treat Nikki Wu has brought to school.
“Another gesture from Darlene,” she says, motioning to the brightly colored wrappers. Nikki rolls her eyes when she pronounces the second syllable of her mother’s name.
Nikki’s parents are textile magnates and they moved here from Hong Kong when we were in seventh grade. During her first semester at Gold Coast, she was mostly seen hunched over her phone, DM’ing with friends back home. She was totally disinterested in this suburban life. Her indifference to us gave her an untouchable chill factor. That spring, she became besties with Shaila while they were working on the middle school musical. Shaila had scored the lead role as Sandy in Grease, to no one’s surprise, and Nikki had signed up to work on costumes. That’s when we learned she was basically a fashion prodigy, designing slick leather leggings and poodle skirts that looked ready for Broadway.
When it became clear that I would have to share Shaila as a best friend, I tried to stomp out my jealousy. I was determined to navigate their newly shared tastes (“Bravo, not Netflix”) and catch up after they drank for the first time at the cast party (“beer before liquor, never been sicker!”). It worked, mostly, and by eighth grade, we were fused together.
But throughout Shaila’s last year, Nikki and I silently battled for Shaila’s attention, orbiting around each other. It was stupid though, because Shaila didn’t play favorites. She was loyal to us both. When she died, Nikki and I went from frenemies to inseparable. Our link to one another had been severed, so we forged a new one. It was like all that tension evaporated and we were left with just each other and the hungry need for intimacy. Ever since then, Nikki became my Shaila. And I became hers.
“Red bean’s my favorite,” she says now, unwrapping a bar and popping it into her mouth. I reach for the box and tear into a bright pink one. It’s sweet and sticky in my palm.
“Nuh-uh,” I say. “Strawberry forever.”
“Only when it’s paired with matcha.”
“Pfft. Snob.”
“It’s called having taste!”
“What about dark chocolate?”
Nikki chews, mulling over the suggestion. “Simple. Classic. I’m down.”
“It’s iconic.”
“Just like us.” Nikki flashes her megawatt smile then swipes a lavender-colored wrapper. “Life’s too short to have just one.”