They Wish They Were Us(91)

After school on Friday when I showed up at Nikki’s, Rachel had her game face on. She was so ready it scared me.

None of us could eat or drink, or even really talk. But before I texted Adam, Rachel snaked one recorder down the front of my fleece, and one down hers. Nikki would listen to the receiver from inside the house, making sure we got every last word, every single piece of his confession.

When she had it all, that’s when she would call the cops. Maybe we should have let them handle it without us. Given over the evidence and watched it all play out. But we wanted to do it ourselves. To hear it from him. To take control. For once. For Shaila.



* * *



—

“Hey.” I hear a small, soft voice next to my ear. “Are you awake?”

The room is dark and frigid, but a soft hand takes hold of mine. I try to open my eyes, but only one relents. I turn the good side of my head and try to see who’s there.

“Nikki?”

“Yeah,” she says. “It’s me.”

“What time is it?”

“Nighttime,” she says. “Sunday.”

“Oh shit,” I murmur.

She laughs a little. “It’s okay.”

When my one eye adjusts I can finally take her in. Her long dark hair hangs unwashed and stringy, and she’s also in a white hospital gown. A little plastic intake bracelet circles her narrow wrist.

“Are you hurt?”

Nikki shakes her head. “Just here for observation.” She holds her arms out as proof. She’s all right.

“Rachel,” I say. “How is she?”

“A few broken ribs. A black eye like you. But she’s going to be okay. We all are.” Nikki sniffles and squeezes my hand tighter. “You were right,” she says. “He did it. Adam did it.”

“I know,” I whisper. “Where is he?”

Nikki’s shoulders heave up and down as tears stream down her face. “Upstairs.”

The rest of the story tumbles out through choked sobs.

When she heard what was happening through the recorders, Nikki called the police and told them to hurry. They were taking too long, she thought. It sounded like we didn’t have much time. She panicked and grabbed a field hockey stick from her mud room before running to the beach. She sprinted toward Adam, hoping to knock him off his feet. But when she collided with him, she swung the stick overhead and knocked him out cold.

Nikki shrieked, and was sure she’d killed him, that she’d brought more death and pain and trauma to this town. To us.

When the ambulances came, they found her huddled with Rachel, awake and woozy. They were sitting next to me, telling me to hang on, while Adam lay passed out on the sand. Nikki told the cops the truth, that she hit him to stop him. Rachel backed her up.

They handed over Adam’s confession right there on the beach. That’s when they found Adam’s pulse. He was alive. Alive and guilty.

Nikki watched as they loaded him into the ambulance and handcuffed his wrist to the stretcher. His head bobbed about and he groaned, coming to.

“I hope he rots in jail,” I say, almost a whisper.

Nikki looks up at me through glassy eyes. Spit and snot pool around her nose and she wipes her face on her paper-thin hospital gown.

“I know you lov—” She cuts herself off. “I’m so sorry, Jill. I’m so sorry.” She rocks back and forth in the chair next to my bed.

I squeeze her hand so hard my knuckles ache. I repeat the words she once told me.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”





TWENTY-SIX





I DECIDE TO return to the Players’ Table one last time. Word has spread by now. The details were splashed on the front page of the Gold Coast Gazette. Local news trucks swarmed the school. In a way, it’s good. We don’t have to explain ourselves.

No one asks about the plum-colored bruise under my eye, or the bandage taped to my forehead. No one questions my and Nikki’s plastic hospital bracelets we refuse to take off. They’re our reminders that this was all real.

Rachel went up to Danbury as soon as she could. She texted me that Graham will be out soon. He’s going to live with her in the East Village, reacclimate to real life before taking a few college classes over the summer. I’m not ready to see him. I don’t know if I ever will be. Adam was transferred to the county jail where he awaits trial. The Millers were ready to cough up a million in bail, but the judge denied it. It hurts too much to think about him now.

Today, Nikki and I walk together through the cafeteria for our final lunch at Gold Coast Prep. The sea of students parts, but this time the air around us is still. The frenetic energy is gone, replaced by a simmering sense of wariness and disbelief.

I grab a turkey club, a banana, and a piece of raw cookie dough for Shaila. We pay for our food in silence and walk straight toward the center of the room where all eyes turn to watch us sit down. I slide into my seat, nestled in between Quentin and Nikki. I look around, at Henry, whose tender eyes meet mine, at Marla, who cocks her head in sympathy, and even at Robert, who’s zoned out completely.

“Well, this is awkward,” I start.

Quentin lets out a snort. He wraps his arm around my shoulder and squeezes me to him.

Nikki’s eyes are dark and sad, but the corners of her mouth perk up. “One last Players’ tribunal?” She doesn’t wait for anyone to speak. “I call this meeting of the Players to order.” She taps a fork against her tray and a few of the undies turn their heads to listen.