They Wish They Were Us(67)

“Really?” My heart is racing.

“He got her a pair of diamond earrings.” Kara pushes her hair behind her own studs. “I guess she told him she loved mine so he found a set just like them. I think that was too much for her. I mean, these are each two carats. My dad got them for me when he left us.” She shakes her head. “Some consolation prize. But they made Shaila uncomfortable. She said she could never wear them, that people would ask too many questions. Shay gave them back to him and he freaked out. He said she was ungrateful. I think that’s when she wanted to end everything. That’s what she told me, at least.”

Kara tucks her feet under her. Curled up like that, she looks young, like we live on the same planet at least.

Rachel and I lock eyes again. If Shaila was about to dump this rando mystery dude, then that’s a perfect motive.

Kara checks her watch. “You guys have to go. My mom’s going to be back soon.”

Rachel begins to stand but I’m hesitant to leave.

“Wait,” I say. “She sent you other letters, right? Could we read some of them? Just to see if we’re missing anything?”

Kara starts to open her mouth, but I know it’s my last shot.

“I loved Shaila as much as you did. She was my best friend,” I say. “I just want to know what really happened.”

Kara’s brow furrows and she shakes her head no.

“Why?” Rachel blurts out.

Kara’s eyes begin to well and she sighs deeply before speaking. “My mom took them,” she says. “I kept them all in a box and after Shaila died she said I shouldn’t live in the past, that it would only bring me heartache. I don’t know where she put them, if she even kept them.”

“Kara . . .” I start. “I’m so sorry.” I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t have a little piece of Shay left in my life.

Kara shakes her head. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s not. But what can I do?”

I nod. I know what it’s like to feel powerless.

Rachel’s about to say something when we all freeze, hearing the sound of footsteps approaching the front door. Then a key turns in the lock.

“Shit, that’s my mom,” Kara says. Her eyes go wide with fear. “Hurry, you can sneak out the side door,” she says, ushering us through the gleaming kitchen. She opens the door slowly so that it doesn’t make a sound. Without warning, Kara hugs us both tight—a far cry from when we first arrived—and presses Shaila’s letter into my palm. “Catch him, okay?” Before I can respond, she releases us and shuts the door gently.

“I’ll walk you to the train,” Rachel says, her voice barely a whisper.

We make our way out of the narrow alley, back to the street, and trudge along the sidewalk silently for a minute or two before Rachel speaks.

“We’ve gotta show the letter to the lawyers next week,” she says. “Can I see it again?”

I unfold the paper and hand it to her. Rachel takes her time with it, reading each sentence once, then twice. She gasps.

“Look,” she says. “This line right here.” Rachel reads it aloud. “‘It all began one day after school, in the parking lot behind the theater.’ She also says he’s more experienced.”

I stop short. “Oh my God. Shit.”

“The parking lot behind the theater . . .” she says. “Isn’t that the staff lot?”





EIGHTEEN





I NEVER UNDERSTOOD people who didn’t want to be liked, who said they didn’t care what people thought of them. Of course I fucking cared. I wanted—still want—to be liked and included, respected and admired. That’s why I spent freshman year carting around expertly poured cups of beer and buying seniors pow-do from Diane’s on school nights. Why I laughed at jokes even if they weren’t funny, or were at our expense. Why I stuffed empty bottles in trash bags after parties while the boys continued playing flip cup or beer pong. Why I salivated over nuggets of Gold Coast Prep gossip that weren’t about me. Better to fuel the rumor mill than be the subject of it.

So when, one night at the beach during freshman year, Tina Fowler whispered, “Can I tell you a secret?” I nodded emphatically. I was thrilled to be her willing audience. We were lying side by side and Tina rolled over, sending flecks of sand flying into my hair. She leaned in close.

“I heard one of the teachers is sleeping with a student. They did it in his car at school, after hours.” Her eyes looked manic while she said it, thanks to some clumpy mascara and too-dark liner. She never did know how to apply makeup, but always looked cute thanks to a tiny gap between her two front teeth. Everyone called her adorable.

“Whoa,” I said, and looked over at the bonfire that raged a few feet away. The boys stood around the flames in a circle, throwing sticks, cardboard, and whatever else they could find into the heat. Their laughter floated above the crashing waves. It was early April, so we were all wearing flannels, wrapped in fleece blankets toted out from various SUVs to keep warm.

“So messed up, right?” But her face didn’t look like she thought it was fucked up. She smiled so wide I could see her canines. They were sharp like fangs.

“Totally,” I said.

“I bet it’s Mr. Scheiner,” she said, scrunching up her nose like she smelled something rotten. “He looks like a pedo with those wire glasses.”