They Wish They Were Us(68)

I giggled. “Or Coach Doppelt. Shaila reported him for being creepy in the locker room.”

Tina slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God! Rachel said he was a lurker, too!” She leaned into me, knocking my shoulder with hers. “Ugh, wouldn’t it be amazing, though, if it were Mr. Beaumont? Dude’s a fox.”

At that time, Mr. Beaumont was still sorta new. He’d slide into class just before the bell rang and chug an enormous iced coffee, no matter the weather, while perched on a desk in the front row. Usually Shaila’s. Sometimes Nikki’s. Never mine. As he asked us about our weekends, his big goofy grin would spread across his face in a way that made it seem like he got us. He was on our side. We were all just there to stick it out together.

“Seriously.” Tina took a swig out of the bottle next to her. “I’d die to hook up with him. He’s like barely twenty-five. It’s doable.”

“Maybe next year,” I joked.

“This year for someone, apparently. Get it, girl!” she hollered. A few pairs of eyes turned to us and we collapsed into a pile of laughter, falling back into the damp sand. I was just happy to be near her, to be included, to not be called a stupid little undie or be made to recite everyone’s middle names in alphabetical order frontward then backward. Gossiping about the hot teacher didn’t matter. It was practically sport. All that mattered was being on Tina’s good side, at least for a night. She was a senior and I was as tiny as a tadpole.

That little moment seemed totally insignificant then. It was just a stupid rumor. People stopped talking about it by spring break. Moved on to something new. Lila Peterson giving a hand job in the auditorium, I think. That one followed her around until she graduated. Of course, I can’t remember who the boy was. Funny how that works.

But . . . what if the Beaumont rumor was true?

There’s one person who would know. One person who memorized Gold Coast history like he’d be quizzed on it. But he’s also not speaking to me. I need him, though, which is why I wait next to Quentin’s hatchback after school on Monday like a stalker. It’s the first warm day in months, so sunny I have to shield my eyes with my hands.

Quentin sheds his blazer and loosens his tie as he walks toward me. When he looks up, he stops in his tracks and throws back his head. “Ugh, Jill. What?” The harshness in his voice makes me wince.

“I just want to talk,” I say.

“Haven’t you noticed I’m not doing that with you anymore?”

“I thought maybe you’d make an exception, just once?” I flash him a smile, a pleasing one, I hope.

Quentin rolls his eyes. “Get in.”

I scramble into the passenger side and buckle in while Quentin revs his engine. He makes a hard reverse and peels out of the parking lot like a stuntman. “Scared to be seen with me?” I joke.

“Kinda.” His mouth is in a hard line.

“I need your help. It’s about Graham—”

Suddenly Quentin slams on the brakes. We’re in the middle of Breakbridge Road, a narrow, dangerous stretch between school and Gold Cove, but Quentin rests his head on the steering wheel, making no motion to move.

“Come on, Jill. I don’t want to rehash this. We all decided to let it go.”

“I know, but . . .”

His hard voice cuts me off. “Some of us want to leave this in the past. Some of us want to move on, to get the fuck out of here and forget what happened.”

His words sting. How could he want to forget Shaila?

“If you could stop being so self-centered right now, you’d see that we’re all just trying to make it out of here alive,” he sputters.

I shake my head. “Self-centered? Are you kidding me? I’m the only one thinking about Shaila right now. I’m the only one who cares about finding out the truth.” I feel the hot tears swell in my eyes. The crushing loneliness I’ve been feeling for the past few months hits me.

Quentin jabs his foot at the pedals and we’re moving again, climbing up the Cove. Ocean Cliff is just visible through the clouds. “Well, while you’ve been off doing who knows what, quitting the Players, obsessing over Shaila, some of us have been trying to figure out a way to actually get out of here, to go to college.”

“What do you mean?”

Quentin had gotten into Yale’s prestigious fine arts program back in the fall. He had been thrilled that week, just like everyone else.

“Not everyone at this school is rich, you know? Not everyone has a fancy dad—or even a dad at all. It’s not like everyone can just pay their way through everything.” His voice cracks. “It’s like, my life is incredible. I am so freaking lucky to have my mom and the Players. I’m among the most privileged people in the world. I know that. And still, relative to everyone else here, I’m still made to feel like shit because we don’t have like . . . six houses. No one here has any goddamn perspective. Marla and I talk about this all time.”

My heart splits in two. Those of us who seemed to have money never talked about if we actually did. With some people it was obvious, like Nikki and Henry. You could usually tell based on houses and cars or vacations and jewelry, and because Quentin’s mom was a bestselling novelist, because they owned one of those colonial homes up in Gold Cove, I just thought . . .

He must think the same about me. He doesn’t know I’ve been busting my ass every day, using my solo lunches to study for this stupid Brown scholarship exam.