They Wish They Were Us(48)

“See?” Nikki says. “Stop being dramatic.” I swear I can feel my heart break. My chest throbs and my throat tightens. And, then, suddenly, I don’t care. About the Players, about Nikki or Marla, or any of this. None of it makes sense. None of it is real. I see everything so clearly now.

“Jesus, Nikki,” I say. “Take a look at yourself. Gallivanting around like you run the Players, like you run Gold Coast. You know the only reason you’re class president is because Shaila died and you took her place. If she were still alive, if we had protected her, she’d have gotten elected sophomore year. And junior. And senior! She’d be Toastmaster. And you’d just be regular.”

Someone gasps and the air around us grows still and tense. Nikki’s eyes are wet and black, full of rage and fury. Her fists are clenched but she doesn’t say a word. She knows it’s true. I’ve struck a nerve and I can’t go back.

I know what I have to do.

I steady myself. “You know what?” I say slowly. I scan the circle, meeting eyes of people I’ve doused in ketchup, forced to perform vile skits, goaded into doing bitch work, into cheating on exams. Something deep inside my chest bursts into a million shards. “This is all bullshit.”

I pause and close my eyes, breathing in the cold night.

“We’re all just following rules and we don’t even know where they came from. We’re just trying to feel alive, to run away from everything. But none of this matters. It’s all made up. It’s all a lie.” I pause, realizing tears and snot are dripping down my nose. “We said this year was going to be different.” A snort escapes me. “But Shaila is still dead. Graham is off somewhere claiming innocence and we’re all just . . .” Gasps ring out around the circle and I catch myself. No one knows about the blood, that someone else could be guilty.

Someone here, even.

I turn my head to the sky. It’s cloudy now, ominous and foreboding. I can’t see a thing. No one says a word and the only sounds come from the ocean crashing violently on the sand behind Nikki’s house. It beats like a heart. For the first time in a long time I am totally sure of the words that are about to come out of my mouth.

“I quit.”

They’re quiet but echo into the night. Nikki’s eyes narrow and she takes a step back. Marla’s mouth drops open in shock. Only Quentin speaks and when he does, he just lets out a slow, low “Whoa.”

I avoid looking at Henry, whose reaction I can’t quite stomach. I wait a beat and turn, walking slowly to the road, away from all this.

I quit.





FOURTEEN





WAKING UP ON Monday morning is like emerging from a fog. It only takes a second before I remember what I have done, the line I have drawn, and who I have to face in just a few hours. No one has spoken to me since Road Rally. Not Jared, who stayed locked in his room yesterday, faking sick. Not Nikki, whose absence I already feel deep in my stomach. Not even sweet Henry, who I thought, out of everyone, might have my back and ask to talk it out.

The enormity of my decision has pushed aside any worries I had about paying for Brown, about Graham, Rachel, or Shaila, and I inhale, sipping shallow breaths. No one has ever quit the Players before. No one has come close. But I don’t feel like a pioneer. I feel lost and abandoned, even though I’m the one who did the leaving. I wonder if I overreacted, if the Jell-O shots and the cold made me so mad. If I made something that was just so not about me . . . totally about me.

But when I remember the photos, my baby brother’s flesh bleeding into someone else’s, and then seeing him laugh at Sierra, the sting of betrayal beats into my brain. Marla would freak if we ever made a pass at one of her brothers. Siblings are a no-go. Incorruptible. And Jared is becoming someone different. Someone who scares me, who reminds me of that terrible night and how the boys’ presence dominated everything they touched. Someone I recognize and hate.

So instead of making amends, I reach for my phone with shaky hands. I pull up Rachel’s texts before I can convince myself not to. I look at our last exchange and conjure the smell of her apartment, of her new life. It feels like a doorway. Responding doesn’t mean forgiving, I think.

I squeeze my eyes together and hold my breath, trying to summon Shaila, willing her to let me know if she approves, if she, too, would cave to curiosity, the possibility of redemption. I let all the air whoosh out of my mouth and try to find Shaila’s voice within my own. What would Shaila do?

There’s no time to know. Mom beats a fist on my door. “Henry’s here! You’re gonna be late!”

I exhale and my heart steadies. Someone’s still on my side. Henry just needed some time to cool off. But he’s back. We’re good. So, I pull on my Gold Coast uniform, even though it feels like a straitjacket, and push through the front door, where Bruce idles in the driveway. Just another Monday. I’m still Jill Newman, I tell myself. No one can take that away from me.

I heave my backpack into Bruce and climb in.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hi.”

“For a second I thought you weren’t going to talk to me again.” Tears prick my eyes. I didn’t know I needed this. Him. But I do. I so do.

“I thought about it,” he says. His face is round and forgiving and the edges of his mouth turn downward. “But it’s okay. Everyone will forgive you. We all say things we don’t mean. It’ll blow over.”