They Wish They Were Us Page 5

  It wasn’t until July that Shaila started writing about Graham, peppering her letters with little stories of them eating lobster rolls on her parents’ dock, slipping nips of whiskey into soda cans, and sneaking into the locals bars meant for yuppies escaping summer in the city.

  In one note, Shaila wrote that Kara had begun making out with some other kid named Javi from Manhattan, which basically forced Shaila’s hand. She and Graham were dating now. That was that.

  By the time I got home in August, they had become inseparable. Even Nikki was shocked. It was as if Graham had become a different person. He had shed his kiddie skin like a snake. All of a sudden, he was sweet, asking me questions about the bioluminescence in Cape Cod or suggesting I tag along with him and Shaila to play mini golf. He was nicer, too, actually calling me Jill instead of the nickname he coined back in middle school, Newmania, because he once saw me cry after bombing a bio test. I hated that so much. But his good streak only lasted a year.

  The morning they took Graham away, we were still at the beach outside Tina Fowler’s house. His sister, Rachel, trailed behind him. She was a horrified tornado, aware of her complicity. I remember her outstretched arms reaching toward Graham and the tears streaming down her face. Her voice alternated between a warble and a wail. I shivered when she shrieked. The police pushed Graham’s head deeper into the back seat of the car and he was gone. That was the last time I saw him.

  After the car drove away, Rachel turned to us and pointed a shaking finger. “You all believe this?” she screamed. Her eyes were red and her hair was a frizzy mess. It was the one time she looked less than perfect.

  No one said a word.

  Rachel pleaded with Adam to come with her to the station. But Adam shook his head. He was the one who called the cops when Shaila disappeared. They found Graham half a mile down the sand, almost at the entrance to the Ocean Cliff lookout, with Shaila’s blood still sticky on his fingers and stained all over his chest. Flecks of sand clung to him like sprinkles to frosting.

  “You’re a coward,” Rachel snarled, trying to pierce his skull with her eyes. “You’re a coward!” She screamed it that time. And with a quick crack of her hand, Rachel slapped Adam across his cheek, leaving a bright red patch on his pale skin. I gasped.

  He blinked but said nothing.

  “After everything I’ve done for all of you . . .” Rachel whispered. “Fuck you.”

  No one moved. Not Tina Fowler, her best friend since kindergarten, nor Jake Horowitz, who she drove to the hospital the night his appendix burst during one Player party. No one followed her, and soon the Calloways were gone.

  Rachel didn’t walk at Gold Coast graduation. Instead she left for Cornell a few months early, and the Calloways sold their house on Fielding Lane for $6.2 million, according to the listing I saw online. Their Hamptons house went for more. They traded up for a duplex in Tribeca. No one knew exactly where Graham went. We all just heard he was sent away to some place for Bad Boys who did Bad Things but were too young and too rich to go to real jail.

  Rachel and her parents didn’t come to Shaila’s funeral, obviously. Not that the Arnolds wanted them to. It would have been gauche, as Mrs. Arnold liked to say.

  Shaila was buried during a frenzied, testy storm, the kind that could only happen at the start of summer when the ocean crashes violently before sputtering to a halt. It was almost too on the nose. A funeral in the rain. How sad.

  I woke hours before my alarm bleated and stayed in bed until I heard a faint knock on the door. I pulled on the black sheath dress Mom picked out for me and tried to stand up straight in my small frame. My chest was still so flat, there was no way I would fill it out.

  Jared coughed. He stood in the doorway dressed in a dark suit.

  “You coming?” I asked, and turned back to the mirror. He’d only seen death up close when Grandpa Morty kicked the bucket two years before. But he was eighty-nine. Old people are supposed to die. Children are not.

  “I want to, but Mom won’t let me,” he said, fiddling with a button on his dress shirt.

  “For the best, probably.”

  Jared padded toward me in his socked feet and wrapped my stomach in a loose hug. I was still taller than him then, but only by a few inches and only for another year. Even with my new identity, my new label, I wanted to be young like him, to shield him from all of this. But I felt old and tired. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice soft and quivering.

  My guts ached and there was a strange tug in my chest, as if my heart were trying to free itself from my ribs. “Me too,” I said. His shoulders were putty under my touch. Jared held me tighter and I could feel the wetness from his face spreading over my dress. His body heaved just once.

  The service was short, no more than thirty minutes, and ended with “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” which Mrs. Arnold said was Shaila’s favorite song. Maybe when she was six.

  The church was packed with hundreds of people from Gold Coast and out east. Dozens of people in fancy suits stood in the back, clutching their Blackberrys. Analysts at Mr. Arnold’s hedge fund probably. Kara Sullivan, dressed in all black all designer, sat off to the side with her art dealer mom. She wept silently into her hands, clutching a piece of paper, likely Shaila’s last letter to her. Shaila was always writing letters. That must have been how she kept in touch with Kara during the school year, when she was in Manhattan and Shaila was here. I wonder if Kara’s letters would be included in Shaila Arnold: The Early Years, too.

  More like The Only Years.

  I took my place in the second row with Nikki, Marla, Robert, Quentin, and Henry. The first time we were together as six. Quentin sniffled into his shirtsleeve and squeezed Marla’s hand every now and then. I sat still with my gaze down, drilling polka dots into my lap, just trying to ignore the guilt swelling in my heart.

  We were there. We were all there. And we didn’t save her.

  At the funeral, Adam was right behind me, sandwiched in between Tina Fowler and Jake Horowitz. I sat up straight and looked forward, trying not to fidget in front of him. During Mr. Arnold’s eulogy, Adam reached up and squeezed my shoulder, his fingers spreading over my bare skin. I was raw and cracked open, filleted like a fish and ready to be devoured.

  * * *

  —

  The morning after Nikki’s party, I wake with a start, my face cold and sweaty. Another nightmare. They used to be predictable. Teeth falling out. Being paralyzed during a test. All stress-related, Mom told me. But after Shaila died, I started seeing her all the time. Her bitten nails, her face, her long limbs. They all crept in. So did visions of that night. Wind whipping. Bonfire roaring. Her golden hair swinging as she marched into the moonlight. The stars on my ceiling helped sometimes, when I woke in the hours before dawn. But I always kept the desk light on, too.

  Last night’s horror show was new, though. I squeeze my eyes shut and Rachel Calloway’s perfectly symmetrical face barrels toward me with narrowed eyes and a stretched-out mouth. My chest seizes and I flutter my eyes open. It was just a dream.

  Rachel’s reappearance in my life, however, was not. I pat around the comforter until I find my phone nestled in between the pillow and the headboard. I open her texts.

  It’s Rachel Calloway.

  That one is almost worse than the others: Graham didn’t kill Shaila. He’s innocent.

  Almost.

  “Knock knock,” Mom says from behind the door. “Can I come in?”

  I stuff the phone under my pillow like it’s contraband. “Mm-hm,” I say.

  The door swings open. “You really shouldn’t be sleeping this late. The day awaits,” she says. In a few quick strides, she’s at the window, pulling the gauzy curtains open. The sun is hot and sticky, especially for September.

  “I’m a teenager. Teenagers are supposed to sleep.” I roll over onto my stomach.

  “Can you take Jared to band p
ractice today? Your father and I are going to run a few errands.”

  “Sure.”

  “He’s got to leave in five. Car keys are by the door.”

  I groan but heave myself off the bed, slipping my phone into the pocket of my flannel shorts.

  When I get downstairs, Jared is already waiting by Mom’s hatchback, chewing on his cuticles. He’s picked up my bad habit. Shaila’s bad habit.

  “How was last night?” he asks.

  “Fine,” I say, and reverse out of the driveway. “Wait. Where’s your bass?” The back seat is noticeably empty.

  “They have one there for me.”

  “But you always play your bass. You’re gonna get all hunchbacked from carrying that thing around.”

  “Not this kind. It’s electric.”

  “You don’t play electric, dummy.”

  “Make a right here,” he says, ignoring me.

  I eye him across the seat. He’s practically dug a crater alongside his middle finger.

  “For real. Where we going?”

  “Bryce Miller’s.”

  I can’t hide my surprise. “Really?” Adam and I tried to get them to pal around for years but Bryce was always kind of a shit, pushing kids around the basketball court, snapping girls’ bra straps. He had a wicked playfulness that made him harmless to me, but scary and unapproachable to Jared.

  Jared nods. “He plays guitar. Invited me to jam with him.”

  “All right.” I smile and compose a text to Adam in my head. “Does Mom know?”

  “Yeah. She was just thrilled to tell Cindy Miller that their youngest ones were finally becoming buddies!” he says, imitating Mom’s over-the-top affect.

  A laugh bubbles up in my chest. “This’ll be good for you.”

  Jared rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

  I sync my phone and queue up my favorite playlist. All eighties pop. Madonna blares through the stereo and I feel my stomach settle as I follow the route to Adam’s. I know it by heart, could trace the curve along the brick-lined driveway with my eyes closed. Adam isn’t due back from school until fall break next month but just being near his house, his stuff, makes my brain buzz.

  “Thanks,” Jared says when I make a full stop.

  “Where’s Bryce?” I ask. “I wanna say hi.”

  A wooden swing sways back and forth on their porch, creaking in the breeze. I remember how it sags when you sit on it, and how it sinks even lower with two people’s weight.

  “Lemme text him.” Jared’s fingers fly over the screen and within seconds, Bryce swings the front door open and walks toward us over the manicured lawn. A rust-colored bathing suit hangs low on his hips. He looks older than Jared and if I squint hard enough, he could be Adam.

  Jared leaps out of the car, slamming the door behind him, and they high-five.

  “What’s up, Jill?” asks Bryce, leaning into the passenger side window. “How’ve ya been?” Confident and composed, just like his brother. A senior Player doesn’t scare him at all.

  “Can’t complain. How was your first week of high school?”

  Bryce smirks. “Love it, obviously.”

  “Naturally.”

  “You talk to Adam today?”

  I shake my head. “Not yet.”

  “I’m sure he’ll hit you up,” Bryce says. “He just called Mom. He’s coming home next weekend. Some National Young Playwright workshop thing at the county theater. I think he’s teaching kids how to write stage direction or some shit.”

  “Nice.” I try to conceal my excitement and bite down on my lip but Jared rolls his eyes. He’s picked up on my not-so-subtle crush.

  Bryce slaps Jared on the back. “Ready to jam?”

  Jared beams. “Let’s do it.”

  “See ya, Jill!”

  I wave and wait until they head inside to retrieve my phone.

  Just dropped Jared off at your place . . . I guess he and Bryce are finally friends.

  Before I can rev the engine, I hear a vibration.

  FINALLY!!! Knew our master plan would work out someday.

  My face burns and I tear at a cuticle with my teeth.

  He says you’re coming home soon?

  Yeah. I meant to tell you. Make time for me? Breakfast at Diane’s? Saturday?

  My heart swells and I nod my head up and down as if he can see me.

  Def.

  I close out of our conversation but before I can look away, I see the last message from the night before, the one I had been avoiding.

  It’s Rachel Calloway.

  But this time, I’m not scared. Adam will know what to do. He always does. We’ll figure it out together. Saturday.

  FIVE

  I HEAR ADAM before I see him. Some old punk band blares from the speakers of the same vintage Mercedes he’s been driving since his sophomore year at Prep. The sound is so familiar, I’m dizzy with déjà vu. When I climb in next to him, it feels so different from Bruce. Cozy and lived in.

  “Hey, kid,” he says. Adam’s dark hair curls and swoops in a tousled, adorable mess. I brace myself for my favorite Adam trait, his left dimple. It only pierces his cheek when he smiles wide. Thank God it emerges as soon as I buckle my seat belt.

  I beam back at him and he wraps me in a hug across the console. He still smells like lavender soap and the faint trace of tobacco.

  “Diane’s?” he asks.

  “Please. I’m starving.”

  He starts the car and dials up the stereo, making swift turns as we head up the Cove. I used to go to the diner every Sunday morning after Hebrew school with Mom, Dad, and Jared when we were little. We’d split mountains of blueberry pancakes and overstuffed bowls of hash browns. Hot chocolate for me and Jared, mug after mug of coffee for Dad, who loved to tell us stories about growing up modern orthodox in Williamsburg before it was cool. We’d listen patiently as he went on and on about his grandparents who only spoke Yiddish and died before we were born and before Dad became less religious. Going to Diane’s alone still feels like riding without training wheels for the first time. An adventure of epic proportions.

  “So, senior year?”

  “Senior year,” I echo. “It’s chill.”

  Adam laughs. “That’s my Jill. Totally unfazed.”

  I flush at the notion that I’m his. “It’s probably all so boring to you now.”

  Adam laughs. “Nothing you say is ever boring, Newman.”

  The hair on the back of my neck tingles and I turn to him and take in his profile. His arms bulge just slightly out of his heathered T-shirt, and the muscles in his forearm stiffen when he reaches one hand to push his clear plastic glasses up the bridge of his nose.

  I lean back in the seat and try to relax. I take note of my limbs and my posture, how I sit and how my arm fits just so on the window ledge. Is this right? I wonder as we pass the vacant Mussel Bay tollbooth, the skinny one-lane road that’s bordered by water on both sides, the tiny fisherman’s dock that sells the best stuffed clams in the summer. I can almost make out Ocean Cliff through the fog. It’s all so familiar.

  Adam pulls into the tiny parking lot, only six spots deep. The bell chimes when we push through the door and a waft of cinnamon and sausage grease smacks me in the face.

  “Well, look at you two! My favorite babies!” Diane tucks a pen into her firetruck red bouffant and skips over, wrapping both of us in a giant, sugary hug. As usual, she’s wearing bright red lipstick and an old-school white waitress uniform that’s been neatly pressed. She looks like one of the servers, even though she owns the place. “Any seat in the house!” She winks, already knowing our booth is free. Adam makes a beeline toward the one with the thick crack down one side.

  “Good to be home,” Adam says when we sink into the red leather.

  “Nothing like this in Providence?” I ask, pulling open t
he laminated plastic menu. It’s as thick as a book.

  “No way.”

  Thank God, I think.

  “What’ll it be, dawling?” Diane asks in her heavy Long Island accent. “The usual?”

  “You know it,” he says. “And a coffee. Black.”

  “For you, dear?” She turns to me.

  “I’ll have the same.”

  “Coming right up. You two enjoy yo’selves.” She winks and heads to the kitchen.

  “I fucking love this place,” Adam says. His eyes settle on a point on the wall right above my head. “It feels like home.” I turn my head to follow his gaze, though I already know what’s there. Tucked into a blue Gold Coast Prep frame, our faces smile back at us. The photo was taken freshman year, the last time I came here with Shaila. Adam had driven us, Rachel, and Graham here after our last final of the year, the week before initiation. I had been grossed out by my own singleness, horrified to fifth wheel their double date. But Adam assured me I belonged. He wanted me there.

  We had all expected Diane to chuck the photo after everything. But the Arnolds never came here. And neither did the Calloways, obviously. “So what’s it matter?” she said when Adam asked her about it last year during his winter break. “It was a moment in time. Just because it’s over doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

  “So,” I say. “What’s this playwright thing?”

  Adam sighs. “I promised Big Keith I’d come back this semester to teach a workshop to the kids. All fourth and fifth graders from the city. Low income. They come out for a full weekend of script-writing seminars.”

  “That’s so cool,” I say, not even trying to hide my awe. Big Keith was Adam’s mentor. He ran the theater department at Gold Coast Prep and had put Adam up for all the awards. He was legendary in the tristate area. The fact that he invited Adam back to teach was sick.