They Wish They Were Us(65)

“Fine.”

“I’ll keep you posted.”

We hang up but I know I won’t be able to sleep. Instead I pull up Instagram and try to find Kara. Who is she these days? Is she still as standoffish and pretentious as she was three years ago?

It takes just a few taps before I land on her profile. She has a few thousand followers and posts regularly from sceney city spots. There she is having brunch at Balthazar. Looking at massive installations at MoMA PS 1. Seated courtside at a Knicks game.

I scroll further until I reach a post from June. Shaila’s death anniversary.

There they are as kindergartners, sitting together on the beach, with their tanned legs outstretched in front of them. Kara’s dark hair fades into Shaila’s golden locks and their arms are wrapped around each other so tightly. To my best friend, my sister. Gone too soon. Forever yours, K. #ShailaArnold

I gag at the hashtag. What an opportunist. But still, I can’t drag myself away from her page. Instead, I scroll and scroll until I fall into a fitful sleep for good.





* * *



—

Meet me today at 11 am. 71st between Madison and Park.

The text comes while I’m downing waffles at the kitchen table and testing myself with flashcards I made for the scholarship exam. The house is empty and quiet since Mom, Dad, and Jared are all out, enjoying whatever Saturday activity Gold Coast has to offer. My fork clatters when I drop it into the sink and within minutes I’m out the door, walking the mile to the Long Island Railroad.

When I emerge from the subway on the Upper East Side, I’m shocked by how different it is from where Rachel lives. Each townhouse is perfectly kept, with beautiful metal gates and window boxes full of greenery even though it’s still winter. There’s not a piece of chipped paint in sight. Even the dogs are better dressed. Little fluffballs wrapped in tiny wool sweaters and shiny down jackets prance by, dragging their owners behind them. The streets are wide and the storefronts are airy and inviting. No wonder Kara never came to visit Gold Coast. It’s shocking how beautiful the city can be. But also how stifling.

“There you are!” Rachel barrels down Madison, clutching a thermos of coffee in one hand. My shoulders relax at the sight of her. With her bright red lipstick, oversize leopard-print coat, and neon beanie, she looks just as out of place as I do in my worn-out leggings and science camp sweatshirt.

Rachel pulls me in for a hug and her eyes are wild with excitement. “Her place is up this way.” She motions to one of the perfectly manicured townhouses. It’s made of silvery-gray stone, with tall windows that smile at us menacingly.

“Which apartment is hers?” I ask.

Rachel stares at me. “The whole thing. Her mom won it in the divorce settlement.”

“Whoa,” I breathe.

Rachel pushes a button on the intercom and I clench my fists.

“What?” a brusque voice answers.

“You know who it is, Kara. I know you can see me,” Rachel says. She lunges for the video camera on the door as if to scare her.

The door swings open and Kara stands in front of us, her arms crossed. She’s wearing a camel-colored cashmere sweater, expensive-looking jeans, and black leather mules with fur poking out the sides. Big round diamonds stud each earlobe. Her hair looks recently blown out.

“Hi,” she says curtly.

“Aren’t you going to invite us in?” Rachel asks sweetly.

Kara glares at her but turns on her heel and walks inside. Our invitation, I guess. Rachel’s eyebrows shoot up as she gives me a look over her shoulder. I follow her into the townhouse and try not to gasp. Artwork hangs on every wall. Not just random paintings picked up at some flea market or at Ikea. Real art. Art that could hang in a museum. Mural-size works depicting mid-century architecture on the West Coast. Huge canvases with swaths of colors that look like the Rothko pieces I saw in an AP Art History textbook.

Kara reads my mind, apparently. “Gifts,” she says. Her mouth turns into a satisfied smile. She points to a painting of a man standing in front of a swimming pool. “That one’s from David Hockney.” She pauses in front of another frame that looks like a poster. Big block letters spell out a phrase. I can’t look at you and breathe at the same time. “This one’s from Barbara Kruger,” Kara says. “She was Shaila’s favorite.”

An uncomfortable silence hangs between the three of us.

Rachel breaks the ice first. “Look, I know you’re not supposed to see me—”

Kara snorts. “That’s an understatement.”

“What?” I ask, looking back and forth between them.

But neither of them even glance at me. Instead their eyes are fixed on each other, like they’re preparing for battle.

“My mom would seriously kill me if she knew you were here.”

“Where is Mona anyway?”

“Out.” Kara collapses onto a plush suede sofa and crosses her arms over her chest. Then she turns to me. “My mom banned me from talking to Rachel, or basically anyone from Gold Coast, after everything happened. She didn’t want me getting caught up in anything . . . unsavory.” She pushes her shiny hair behind her ears. “Her words, not mine.”

Rachel rolls her eyes. “Whatever, Kar.”

“Hey, be nice. You’re lucky I even agreed to talk to you.”