They Wish They Were Us(75)

“At least we know it was Graham for sure,” Nikki says. She kicks her leather bootie up against the lockers. “Fucking monster.”

But I can’t shake the feeling that something still isn’t right. “I don’t know. What if it wasn’t?”

Robert taps his foot against the floor. “Jill,” he says. “Let. It. Go.” He punctuates each word with a clap, bringing his hands together right in front of my face. People turn to stare. They’re obvious and they don’t care.

“I can’t just let it go,” I hiss.

Nikki takes a step back, her eyes flitting up to the ceiling. “This is giving me a migraine.” She squeezes the bridge of her nose and throws her head back like she has a nosebleed. “I don’t know if I can talk about this anymore.”

“You don’t have to, but I do. I just . . . do,” I say. I spin on my heel and bolt for the door. I can hear Robert groan behind me, but I don’t care.

“Let her go,” Nikki says, her voice kind but so far away. “She needs to get it out of her system.”

I push outside and step into the parking lot. The air around me is suffocating, too stale. Images of Beaumont, Graham, and Shaila flash in front of me. I want to push them aside, to forget everything and be a normal person. A Player. So close to the end. But I can only think of Graham and Shaila, how their whole relationship was a lie. And we were just collateral damage.

My phone buzzes right as I climb into the car with a text from Adam.

You okay? I just saw all the news. Beaumont’s innocent?

Ugh, I know. Everyone here is freaking out. No idea what’s going on.

The words fly from my fingers. I so desperately want to confide in him, to ask him what he knows, but I hold back, unwilling to let him know that I’ve betrayed him. That Rachel and I have been plotting all along.

I bet Rachel’s behind this, he writes. Just more confirmation Graham is guilty.

I fight back tears. What if he and Nikki are right? What if I’ve wasted my time trying to believe my best friend’s killer was innocent? What if all of this is straight-up bullshit?

My phone buzzes again and I flinch.

I really thought we had him. It’s Rachel.

Me too, I type back. It’s the truth.

There have gotta be other leads though. Someone else??? Got any ideas???

I sigh, utterly exhausted at the idea of Nancy Drew–ing this shit all over again. It’s just . . . too much.

Can’t talk right now, I write. I gotta hardcore cram for the scholarship exam.

Don’t back out on me now, Newman!

I throw my phone onto the passenger side and it falls to the floor, buzzing again and then again, with more messages from Rachel. But I leave it there and punch in the oldies station. I turn the volume all the way up, letting synthesizers and pop crescendos drown out her pleas for help.





TWENTY





IT’S INCREDIBLE HOW much space freed up in my brain when I stopped trying to make undies’ lives hell. When I’m not constantly thinking about the Players and the next party or the latest juicy rumor. Or who the hell killed my best friend. There’s so much time left to study. To let the facts and figures marinate in my mind, to let them become a part of me. So much so that on the morning of the scholarship exam, I’m not even nervous.

I wake at 5:30 a.m. without an alarm. It’s already warm for April, and the sky is a mess of pinks and purples. I finally feel calm. I feel ready. Little numbers and symbols dance in harmonious rhythm inside my head and I know, I just know, I’ve studied as hard as I could have.

I arrive at the physics room at 6:45 a.m. and the AP teacher, Dr. Jarvis, is already there, though he looks like he just woke up. “Early, Jill,” he says, offering me a toothy grin. “Guess you want to get it over with, huh?”

“Guess so.”

He waves me in and I settle into a desk at the front of the room. Dr. Jarvis reads the directions aloud from a packet, even though I’m the only student here. He looks at me, then at the stopwatch sitting on his desk.

“And . . . go.”

I work on autopilot for the next ninety minutes, solving equations, identifying figures, writing analyses, and pounding through the essay about why I deserve this scholarship more than the other students taking the exact same test at this exact moment. I fill up little blue book after little blue book, dumping everything that’s in my brain onto the page. By the time Dr. Jarvis clears his throat and calls time, I am wrung out like a damp towel.

Dr. Jarvis pulls my exam toward him and scans it quickly. Then he tilts his head up. His eyes are warm and his fuzzy beard makes him look like Santa.

“Whatever happens, I want you to know something,” he says. “You have been a joy to have in class. They would be lucky to have you.”

I swallow the lump in my throat.

Dr. Jarvis gives my shoulder an awkward, tender pat.

“Students like you don’t come around that often. I hope you know that.”

I nod and feel the warmth spread throughout my chest. I did this test on my own. I earned this feeling.

“Thank you,” I choke out.

He nods and opens the door. “Off you go, then.”



* * *



—

The rest of the morning dissolves like a sugar cube. I float from class to class, high on the adrenaline that pushed me through the test. But that all comes crashing to a halt when French class ends.