They Wish They Were Us(62)

I snap my mouth closed. Instead of being pleased with myself, I feel sick.

“We only have a few months left,” she stammers. “Are you ready to throw everything away now?”

I shake my head like I’m Aries the ram. Menacing. Unruly. “I already did.”





SEVENTEEN





I’M STANDING AT the edge of Ocean Cliff. The wind is so powerful it rocks me back and forth, threatening to toss me over the edge. But I can’t move. I can’t get to safer ground. I spot Nikki off in the distance and try to wave but my arms stay by my sides. I try to call her name but my mouth won’t open. Then, suddenly, she rushes toward me, her eyes fiery and furious, her mouth a black hole, and in one motion, she pushes me.

I’m falling, so far, so fast. I’m all alone, plummeting into darkness.

Until a thundering sound wakes me. My eyes blink open and I rest my hand on my heart. Just another dream. Another nightmare. But the noise goes off again, a thick vibration.

I fumble for my phone. Rachel’s name flashes on the screen. Quick question: Did Shaila ever write you letters?

Yes, I type back. Over the summers. When we were apart. Why?

I found one she sent me back in middle school. I wondered if she wrote to other people . . . told them about you know what

My fingers freeze. I’m still not sure I believe Graham’s innocence, but the idea that Shaila was cheating almost seems plausible. Were there any hints in one of her letters? There’s no way. She only wrote them when we were away from each other, and we were together for her entire last year.

Not to me, I type.

No duh. Anyone else?

I don’t know, I say.

Is there a way to find out?

I mean, probably if we snuck into her house or something, I type, a joke, clearly.

Would you actually do that????? Her parents go to Palm Beach every winter. There’s probably no one home! Rachel responds.

You can’t be serious.

??????

I drop my phone on my duvet. Would it be worth it? What could I find?

The thought stays with me all through school, while I sit in the library alone, studying for the Brown scholarship exam—my new favorite activity—during the Math Olympiad meeting, and still, at the dinner table, as Jared gives me the silent treatment over salmon and roasted sweet potatoes, while Mom and Dad drone on and on about their work and how awful the weather is this year.

I tap my foot under the table, restless and jumpy. I can’t take it anymore. I lift my head. “May I be excused?” I say. “I forgot a book at school and have to go back and get it before they lock the doors for the night.”

Mom and Dad don’t even look up. “Of course,” Dad says. “Come right back, okay? It’s getting late.” Dad fishes his keys out of his pocket and hands them to me.

I nod and head for the door. My brain spins, turning over what I’m about to do. If someone’s home, I’ll just leave. That’s what I tell myself.

I haven’t been back to Shaila’s house since before she died, but I know the route by heart. It’s like muscle memory. I drive down East End Street, past the light, then up Grove Avenue, through town via Main Street. I pass the spin studio Adam’s mom loves, the Garage, and farther out of town, on the wooded back roads, I drive by the horse stables where Shaila took lessons as a kid. I brake slightly as I make my way over the little bridge that separates the Arnold estate from the rest of Gold Coast and suddenly, I’m at the mouth of their massive tree-lined driveway. I stop and turn the engine off.

I grip the steering wheel to keep my hands from shaking. Am I really going to do this?

I squeeze my eyes shut and rack my brain for the millionth time. What would Shaila do? She would keep going. I know she would.

My legs are wobbly when I climb down from the car, and the wind whips at the exposed skin along my neck. All the cars are gone. A sure sign the Arnolds fled town for winter.

If Mr. and Mrs. Arnold really were off in Palm Beach, they would have left a key in a lockbox attached to the guest house in the back. Their code to everything was always Shaila’s birthday, 0316. I inhale the cold air deeply and let it fill my lungs, give me courage.

Then I sprint. First through the thick-wooded grove that divides their property between lawn and forest, so I’m out of sight, away from the security cameras they installed after Shaila died. It’s so dark, I can barely see my feet below me. Fear pounds in my chest, but I tell myself this will all be over soon. I’m almost there. I can see the glow from the moon spotlighting the house a few hundred yards away. I dart through the trees and emerge in the Arnolds’ backyard, an expansive field that fits a pool and a tennis court.

From here, I can see Shaila’s bedroom window, pitch-black, just like the rest of the mansion. I take a deep breath and creep to the far corner of the yard where the cottage sits untouched. The lockbox is still there, mounted on the front door. I keep my gloves on as I key in Shaila’s birthday with shaky fingers. The light changes from red to green and the latch swings open. I gasp.

The key is right where it always was, just waiting to be used.

I grab it and make a break for the side door of the main house, the one that’s hidden and only used for deliveries or the caterers when the Arnolds held fancy cocktail parties. It wasn’t for invited guests. When I reach the entrance, I peel off my jacket and my boots and leave them in a heap outside the house. Can’t track mud or dirt in here.