They Wish They Were Us(37)

Tonight’s event is one of the bigger ones, though. When we were freshmen they called it Showtime. But now we just refer to it as “the Show,” and it always happens a few weeks before seniors are due to hear back from their first round of college applications. That way everyone is on fire, ready to unleash hell and expend all that frustrated energy. Kind of messed up. Even Henry’s a little tense when he picks me up to take me to Nikki’s. Neither of us bring up Brown or Wharton.

“Thank God you’re here,” Nikki says, answering the door in a rose-colored gauzy maxi dress, even though it’s freezing outside. “I need help!”

“With what?” I push past her and into the kitchen, ready to raid whatever snacks she has already poured into bowls. Henry trails behind me.

“This.”

I grab a handful of Cheez-Its and turn. “What the . . .”

Nikki has forgone the casual setups of Showtimes past, and has instead turned her living room into an arena, complete with stadium seating. In front of the massive TV, she’s built a makeshift stage out of crates, and covered the whole thing in glittery fabric.

“This isn’t Broadway, Nikki. They’re just reading corny sex scenes we’ve all heard a million times before.” I roll my eyes. The scripts had been handed down for years, laminated in the Toastmaster binder. But every senior class tweaked them just a bit, adding a new line of dialogue here, some dramatic stage direction there. According to Jake Horowitz, they were actual scenes from sex tapes Players made back in the nineties when camcorders were a thing. But he only said that when he was trying to convince us that the pops used to be so much worse.

Nikki balls her hands into fists and stamps her foot. “I want this to be better! Remember last year, no one could hear the stupid undies because everyone was laughing so hard. It was way too easy.”

“Whatever.”

The doorbell rings and Nikki just stares at me. “Can you get that?”

“Sure, your highness,” I joke. Nikki stomps away, unamused. Henry rolls his eyes.

“Whaddup, Jill!” Robert yells, clearly already a few deep. Quentin and Marla are right behind him.

“Whoa, sick,” says Marla.

“At least someone gets my vision.” Nikki stares daggers at me.

I relent. “What can I do to help?” Nikki’s face softens and she starts rattling off instructions for how to set up the bar and which dimmers should be set on timers.

“C’mon,” Marla whispers to me. “I’ll help you.”

I mouth thank you to her and we retreat to the far side of the living room to stack plastic cups and dump ice into buckets.

“She in a mood tonight?” Marla asks. Her hazel eyes are rimmed in thick liner and her nearly fluorescent hair is tied into a knot high on her head.

I snort and rip open a bag of ice. “Seems that way.”

Marla shakes her head. “Let’s just get this one over with.” Her gold hoop earrings jangle as she leans over the bar. Marla’s always been the steady one, the one who calls us on our crap. Perhaps because she’s less invested. She knows this is temporary. Out of anyone, she would be the one to root out the bullshit, which makes me wonder if she would understand why I went to talk to Rachel, if she has questions, too.

“I actually wanted to ask you something,” I say, lowering my voice.

“Shoot,” she says.

“I can’t stop thinking about Shaila,” I start. “About Graham. Don’t you think it’s insane no one wants to talk about how he could be innocent?” I hold my breath and Marla stops lining up bottles on the bar. She turns to face me, her head cocked to one side.

“One hundred percent insane,” she says. “But that’s Gold Coast. No one wants to stir anything up. We all just pretend like everything is perfect all the time.”

“Aren’t you curious?” I ask. I pick at a cuticle on my thumb.

“Of course,” Marla says. “But let me be real with you. Nothing you or I say or do will change anything. We’re not Arnolds or Millers or Garrys. We’re just lucky to be here.” Marla’s face softens and she resumes stacking cups. “My mom works double shifts at the hospital to make sure I can go to Prep. We haven’t taken a vacation in a decade. Why do you think all my brothers went to Cartwright? My parents are investing everything they have in me. My mom prays every single night that I’ll get into Dartmouth. The last thing they need is for me to get caught up in some Law and Order nonsense a few months before graduating.”

After more than three years of friendship, I can’t believe I don’t know this about Marla, that we’re both buried under an avalanche of expectations. But something stops me from telling her that. Instead I reach out and squeeze her hand. “You’re so right.”

“We’ll be out of here soon,” she says. “But until then, we just have to keep pretending everything’s okay.”

I nod and try to push images of Shaila and Graham and all that thick, dark blood out of my head. My chest tightens and I clench my fists into little balls.

Nikki’s doorbell explodes.

“They’re here!” she yells. “Let’s get this shit going!”

The door opens and a stream of Players enter Nikki’s living room. Suddenly, it’s a party. Nikki’s smile grows wider every time someone compliments her set design and I can’t help but be annoyed. It’s just the Show. I don’t know why she feels the need to go all out.