They Wish They Were Us(79)

“Just say it,” Rachel hisses.

“What do you mean?” My face begins to burn. I’ve seen this version of her before. Heard this voice. It’s how she was when she was a Player, urging us to drink, to dance, to perform. Her rage bubbles to the surface.

“Say it.” She bares her teeth.

I shake my head no and clench the mug in front of me.

“You think Graham’s guilty. You think Graham murdered Shaila because that’s the easy way out. That makes everything go away and you get to go on with your life, pretending like nothing happened. That you once had a friend who died and, boy, did that suck. It’ll be something you wow your college roommates with next year, or talk about at parties to make yourself seem interesting. Shaila will just be a blip on your perfectly recorded life. Graham will be someone you used to know who just snapped.” She leans in so our faces are only inches apart. I can see the tiny little hairs between her eyebrows, waiting to be plucked. “But you know he didn’t do it. You know he’s innocent. You’re just too chickenshit to deal with it.”

“Fuck you, Rachel,” I whisper through hot, fat tears. “You don’t know what I think.” The words come up like bile, sticky and sour. There’s a real reason why I’m so mad. Why I’ve been so angry for three long years. Initiation changed everything and it wasn’t just because someone killed Shaila.

I steady my breath and continue. “You’re using me now like you all used us then. Playing God and pulling strings to make us do what you want, just so you can watch.” I say it again, letting both hardened syllables land with a deliberate thud. “Fuck. You.”

Rachel leans back, her eyes wide. “That’s not what happened.”

“That’s how it always happens,” I say.

That was what we were told over and over and over again, as if somehow, that made everything okay. Those little words gave everyone permission. But they didn’t. No one had permission to do that to us. And we didn’t have permission to do it all over again.

Initiation was the last time the eight of us were together.

We gathered at Nikki’s at six in the morning and munched on toasted bagels with cream cheese in silence while we waited for the call, the signal that our months of hard work would be over soon. Our official entry into the Players was upon us. No more lineups. No more pops. No more Player packs. All we had to do was get through the next twenty-four hours.

A big minivan pulled up to the house and we piled into the car in silence through wide double doors. Two hooded figures wrapped blindfolds around our heads and tied our hands together with zip ties. My stomach flipped and I pressed my shoulder into Shaila’s.

We drove for what seemed like hours. The only sound came from the stereo, which blasted the same Billy Joel song over and over. I still can’t listen to it. Only the good die young. Such bullshit.

Finally we pulled to a halt. Gravel crunched under the wheels and the air smelled heavy and salty, a little like the Fourth of July. Once we got out of the car, our shepherds removed the blindfolds. We were at Tina’s house, though we must have driven to the North Fork and back to pass the time. Her parents were gone for the weekend and all the other Players were standing around the massive remodeled farmhouse. We could hear techno music bumping from the backyard. Players’ voices rang out until one of our captors yelled for them to shut up.

It will be fun, Adam had said to me the week before. Just enjoy it.

We were led into the backyard, to everyone else, and then our drivers pulled off their masks. Rachel and Tina. My stomach settled. I was going to be okay. Rachel was the first person to be nice to me, to hand me the bio exam. She liked me because Adam liked me. And Tina, with her clumpy mascara and that little gap between her teeth, had always been soft. This was her house. She wouldn’t let anything bad happen here. I thought back to the moment we shared on the beach, giggling about Mr. Beaumont. I was going to be okay.

But I was so, so wrong.

A chant rang out, so full of elation it made me shiver. It took a minute before I could make out the word.

“Draw! Draw! Draw!”

Jake emerged from the crowd and turned to us, a smirk on his face. “You heard them. Draw!” He held out a stack of thick cardboard playing cards. There were eight of them. “Lowest number gets it worst.”

So this was how it would all go down. We each had one final test.

I searched for Adam’s steady gaze to anchor me. He was off to the side, whispering to someone else, but then he looked up. Adam gave me a slowly spreading smile. His dimple was on display. He’d make sure we would be all right.

We each drew one card to our chest.

I snuck a peek at mine and fear filled my stomach. Three. I glanced up and around the circle. Quentin looked calm. Henry, too. Nikki brought her hand to her mouth and started to bite her nails. Shaila’s face went white.

“Reveal ’em!” Jake shouted.

We turned our cards toward Rachel and she shouted out our numbers.

“Eight, Quentin; seven, Henry; six, Robert; five, Graham; four, Marla; three, Jill; two, Nikki; ace, Shaila!”

The Players around us erupted into shrieks and whoops, clapping each other on their backs. I’d only find out later that somehow the girls always drew the low numbers. Absolute crap.

“Freshmen,” Adam yelled. “You have one hour to prepare yourselves for whatever comes next. We’ll be back then with your assignments.” But before disappearing, he yelled over his shoulder. “You might need this, too. Courage.” He winked wickedly and tossed a handle of vodka onto the lawn. The whole group disappeared and we were left alone on the grass. The sun beat down on us and that stupid Billy Joel song blasted over the speakers.