They Wish They Were Us(33)
I shake my head and inhale sharply. “Robert’s talking so much shit about the freshmen.” Nikki’s face contorts, pissed.
“Sorry,” I say, but she rolls her shoulders back like it doesn’t matter, like she doesn’t care that he’s already forgotten her. She flips her hair over her shoulder and readjusts her blazer.
“That’s just how he is,” Quentin says. “He’ll get bored with it soon.”
“We said we would change things,” I sputter. “And so far, we’ve done everything the same.”
“We will,” Nikki says, her mouth in a straight line. “Just relax for now. We’ll figure it out together. We’re in this together.”
“We are, right?” I say, pleading with them.
Quentin wraps both of us in a hug. “Of course.”
I let myself believe him—it’s easier than not. Their supportive, sweet faces make me want to tell them the truth. “There’s something else,” I say quietly, motioning for them to lean in close. “I can’t stop thinking about Graham. What if he’s, you know, innocent? What if someone else killed Shaila?”
The question hangs heavy between us. Quentin and Nikki glance quickly at each other. “Jill, come on,” she says. “We agreed. It’s over. Let’s let it lie.”
“But what—” I start. Out of everyone, I thought she would understand.
“Let. It. Lie,” Nikki says through gritted teeth.
Quentin shakes his head. “It’s just not worth it to get involved. We don’t need everyone finding out what happened that night.”
My whole body tenses, but I force my head to nod, to pretend like I agree and that I, too, will let this whole thing go. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Come on, let’s get you back to the caf.” Quentin swings an arm over my shoulder and I let them drag me back to the Players’ Table where I zone out for another twenty-three minutes, wondering how the hell I ended up here.
When French rolls around, I breathe easy as I realize the midterm has the exact same questions as the study guide I memorized. I breeze through the first section, then etch out a translation. Thank God I’d actually studied on my own for this part. If I only get a few points off here, I’ll land a 96, just what I need to solidify a 95 average for the semester. Perfect.
When Madame Mathias calls time, I drop my exam on her desk and retreat into the hallway.
“Did you see Jill Newman?” I hear a voice say behind me. “She was done like twenty minutes in.”
“Always,” someone else says. “I heard she and that whole stupid table have all the answer keys from, like, years ago. It’s bullshit.”
“None of them are actually smart.”
“So fucking unfair.”
“They’re all gonna get into Harvard or Yale, too. They always do. Stealing our spots with fake-ass work.”
“Ridiculous.” Heat creeps up my neck and I peek around my shoulder to find two girls from the debate team shooting daggers at my back. They clamp their mouths shut when they see me and quickly turn on the heels of their leather loafers, retreating in the other direction.
My skin burns with shame, a reminder that I don’t deserve what I’ve been given. But even if they don’t know what I’ve been through to get here, I know it comes with a cost. I paid my dues. I suffered, too. They don’t know I’m here on scholarship, that every day at Gold Coast is a fight.
Tears prick my eyes and I blink them back, eager to get out of here, to do what I’ve been waiting to do all week.
When the final bell rings, I push the heavy metal doors open and feel the cold wind against my face, sea salt blowing into my hair. It bites. But I’m finally free. Until a heavy arm slinks over my shoulder, throwing me off my step. I fall sideways, right into Henry.
“There you are. I was looking for you after lunch.” His fingertips graze my chest, hardening my nipple, even beneath layers of clothes. I shiver. “Sorry Robert was such a shit. You know that’s just how he is.”
“That’s not an excuse,” I say. I just want to forget about Robert’s comments, what those debate girls said, and everything inside Gold Coast’s walls. “But it would be nice if you could stand up for me.”
“You’re totally right,” Henry says, throwing his head back. “I’m sorry. Next time, okay?” He leans down and his lips touch my forehead quickly, almost chaste, before changing the subject. “What’s up for tonight?”
I had hoped to avoid this—lying to him. A trapdoor opens inside me and I will my stomach not to drop through it. “I gotta do some family stuff,” I say.
“Really?” Henry cocks his head. “I thought Jared was going over to Topher’s. The juniors are throwing that whole Super Pong thing.”
Shit. I try to picture my brother standing behind a beer pong table covered in dozens of red cups, as he tries to sink a little plastic ball. It isn’t so hard to imagine anymore. “Just a me and Mom thing. Gotta put in some quality time, you know?”
He nods. “Totally. See you tomorrow?”
I swallow hard and force a smile. “For sure.”
* * *
—
It’s 7:59 p.m. and I’m standing in front of what must be Rachel Calloway’s apartment. Only two miles from her parents’ fancy Tribeca loft, her front door looks janky, like anyone could walk right in without a key. Weekend revelers shout at one another from the many bars that line the street and notes of piss waft over from a phone booth that looks like it hasn’t been used since the nineties. There must be dozens of people laughing out here, smoking cigarettes and huddling close together, but I’ve never been more alone. I pull my parka closed and peer at the cracked intercom until I find 6E.