They Wish They Were Us(63)

The key turns and the door unlocks. I wait a beat, for an alarm or . . . something. But nothing happens. I step inside Shaila’s house. The air is stiff and stale and I wonder when her parents were here last. No one has seen them since the first day of school. Not around town or at the supermarket. That’s normal, though. They stopped socializing after Shaila died.

I tiptoe through the first floor, more out of curiosity than anything else. Everything is as it was the last time I was here three years ago. The good china is still stacked on display in a large wooden cabinet in the grand dining room. The Steinway piano is polished so well I can see my reflection. The spiral staircase is still decorated with red and green holiday-themed runners even though it’s the middle of February.

And Shaila is everywhere. Her face, captured at her first communion, peers out at me from a painting in the living room. Her fifth grade class photo hangs in the hallway. There she is in her Easter best, grimacing with her parents, on the stairs.

I start up the steps I know by heart, sliding my hand along the banister. I turn right at the landing and creep down the hall. But at her bedroom, I stop.

I press my forehead to the door and feel Shaila behind me, urging me forward. You can do this. You should do this. You have to do this. I twist the hard wooden knob and push, stepping into Shaila’s world. It’s so dark in here that I can’t see a thing. I fumble for my phone and turn on its flashlight, casting a spotlight in front of me. When everything comes into view I gasp. Shaila’s room is exactly the same as the last time I was here.

Her dark wooden bed, the one with the carved spiraling posts, sits in the middle of the room, its massive headboard pushed against the far wall. The lilac silk comforter with delicate buttons sewn into every square is perfectly in place. A stuffed pig, the one Shaila adored in elementary school and then tossed aside when she got her period, sits in front of the pillows staring into space.

My throat feels scratchy and I resist the urge to curl up with Shaila’s duvet to see if it still smells like her. I have a mission and force myself to stay on track, to look for something, anything, that could tell us if she ever told anyone about cheating on Graham. I move first to her walk-in closet, where she often hid half-full liquor bottles and vape cartridges. I rummage through her stack of Tshirts, her volleyball kneepads. No letters. I shut the doors and move to her armoire, but it’s only filled with Shaila’s old Gold Coast uniforms, pressed with starch. They don’t smell anything like her.

I take a few steps toward her dresser, where we stood so many times, painting eyeliner and lipstick on our faces, watching ourselves transform in her mirror. It is still speckled with flecks of red hair dye from the time Shaila insisted on coloring her tips in middle school, just a little, just for fun. I run my fingers over the glass and try to scratch off the dots, but they stay put, stained. Tucked into the corner of the mirror is a photo, a snapshot of Shaila, Nikki, Marla, and me, getting ready for the Spring Fling freshman year. We wore glittery dresses and too much makeup. Shaila had done our hair that night and I had never felt more gorgeous.

My heart pounds looking at our big smiles. Shaila’s arms are wrapped around Nikki and Marla, and I cling to Nikki’s side. We all look so happy. We didn’t know Shaila would be dead within a month.

I open the camera on my phone and take a photo, wanting to remember it forever. Then I extend a hand and pull at the edges, wiggling it out from the corner of the mirror. But it’s stuck, tucked so deeply into the tiny opening. Careful not to tear the picture, I inch it out slowly, bit by bit, until something else comes into view.

A piece of lined notebook paper, folded neatly into a tiny square, over and over onto itself. It was wedged in between the photo and the mirror, causing the photo to stay in place.

But now, with nothing to anchor it, the paper drops. I pick it up and open it with shaking fingers. Shaila’s loopy handwriting is so recognizable, I almost lose my breath. My heartbeat pounds in my ears and I have to steady myself against the dresser as I unfold the page. I scan the words quickly but nothing makes sense, not at first. I force myself to breathe in, then out, and start from the very beginning.



* * *



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April 1

KARA! Something major has happened. I am in love. LOVE!

But . . . it’s not with Graham. Please don’t hate me. I already hate myself for getting into this situation. It’s torture! You’re the only person I can tell. He said it would ruin everything and that we’d have to end it if people found out. That both of our lives would be O-V-E-R. That he would get in serious trouble. Like massive, life-ruining trouble.

But, oh shit, I am bursting with excitement and tingling sensations. I don’t want to keep this hidden. I want to tell the whole world. My love for him tears through everything. I can’t breathe when we are apart and it kills me when I see him in the hallways or walking around campus and I have to pretend like there’s nothing between us.

It all began one day after school, in the parking lot behind the theater. He told me I was maddening. It was the most remarkable word I’ve ever heard and I can’t believe he used it to describe me. Then he leaned in and touched his lips to mine. They were so soft and tender. I wanted more immediately. But the thing was, I wasn’t embarrassed by my want. He seemed to like it. I guess that comes from experience. Graham always seems so scared by it.

The next time, he asked if I wanted to do it and I said yes. It hurt just a little but he made these moaning sounds in my ears that set me on fire. And then it started to feel incredible. He said I was the softest in the world. That made my brain ache.