They Wish They Were Us

by Jessica Goodman

  His words seep into my brain and begin to spin violently around. I can’t make sense of anything.

  “But who?” I ask. It’s the only missing piece. Who else would have wanted to kill Shaila? And why?

  Graham inhales deeply and closes his eyes. “There’s one more thing. Something I haven’t told anyone. Not even you, Rach.” Rachel raises her eyebrows and leans forward. “Before initiation, I found out she was cheating on me.”

  “No,” I say automatically. It’s just not possible. There’s no way she would have kept that from me.

  “It’s true,” he says. “She’d been acting weird for weeks, avoiding me, making up excuses not to hang out. She always said she was in rehearsal for the musical. Or working on her English papers, or going to office hours with Beaumont. It was always something.”

  Was that really how she was at the end? Not really, no. A little more aloof than usual, perhaps. But she was stressed about initiation and starring in the spring musical. It was Rent that year and she had been cast as Mimi. Of course she was nervous. She nailed the performances, obviously, belting out that candle song like Rosario Dawson. And Shaila seemed to chill out after that, didn’t she? She must have.

  Nikki was working on costumes then, ripping holes in hundred-dollar pairs of sheer tights, sewing leather micro-shorts to fit Shaila’s body perfectly. Adam was there, too, tweaking the script so it was more “family friendly.”

  “They’re making me neuter it,” he said while we all huddled together at Diane’s one Sunday morning.

  “Listen to Shakespeare over here,” Nikki said.

  Shaila and Nikki giggled in delight, as if it were an inside joke they had formed backstage.

  Graham and Rachel were there, too. They laughed along with me, like we were also part of it. Like we knew their secret language.

  I did see Shaila all the time before initiation. I must have. Sure, she was tired from playing Mimi. And she was with Graham a lot, of course. But . . . maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she was doing something else. Someone else.

  “I forgot my phone during spring midterms,” Graham continues, “and I needed the geometry guide. She gave me her phone to look it up and, fuck, I knew I shouldn’t have, but when she went to the bathroom, I looked at her texts. I couldn’t help it. There were hundreds with some dude, talking about all the shit they were doing behind my back.” He closes his eyes. “I can still remember one by heart. Graham will never find out.” His lashes flutter and he taps his knuckles on the table. “Guess what? I did.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t recognize the number. It wasn’t even a Gold Coast area code. Probably a burner phone.”

  “Did you ever confront her?”

  Graham shakes his head. “I was waiting for the right time. But then . . .”

  Rachel cuts him off. “No one can know.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “A motive,” Rachel says.

  Graham nods. “It’s even more ammo against me. Jealous boyfriend kills girlfriend after he finds out she’s going around behind his back? A tale as old as time.”

  I snort because he’s right. Was Shaila really cheating, though? The idea turns my stomach and suddenly I’m hot and sweaty and a little nauseous.

  “Where’s the bathroom?” I say quickly.

  Rachel points to the corner of the room. When I close the stall door behind me, I sit down on the cold ceramic bowl and turn over Graham’s words in my mind, trying to make sense of everything he said. His admission must feel like a relief to him. But Graham didn’t look lighter or comforted. He was like a shell of someone I used to know, a fossil discovered from a life I once lived. I wonder if somewhere below the surface, a sociopath sits numb to the pain he has caused, looking for a way out of this cushioned-wall bubble, hungry for manipulation, sick of boredom.

  Sometimes it’s hard to know which qualities really define you, and which ones have been affixed to you by others so many times that you actually begin to believe them and claim them as your own. Mom always told me I was so trusting, a trait she adored but feared would get me into trouble. Because of that, I came to think of myself as gullible, one who could be taken advantage of. Being so close to Graham, I wonder if that’s what’s happening now, if I’m ready to trust him simply because he’s here, right in front me, when Shaila is not. In this tiny steel stall, it occurs to me that Graham could be lying.

  I wash my hands slowly and return to sit across from him and Rachel.

  “Why should I believe you?” I ask, looking him straight in the eyes.

  Graham shakes his head and looks down at the floor. “You think I’m full of shit.”

  I keep my face still, holding my cards tightly to my chest. I want to believe him but his truth means someone else I know is guilty. I’m not sure I can stand that.

  Rachel slams her hands on the table hard enough that TJ turns toward us. “Jill,” she hisses. “Trust him.” It’s a command, not a suggestion.

  “You can believe me or not,” Graham says quietly, measured. “But the fact is, I’m going to clear my name with or without you. Which side of the story do you want to be on?” He crosses his arms, now defiant, so sure of himself, more like the Graham I once knew. “You cared about Shaila as much as I did.”

  TJ arrives at our table and gently places a hand on Graham’s shoulder. “Time’s up, Calloways.” He offers a smile. “You can always come back next week.”

  Rachel rises and exchanges more secret looks with her brother. They seem connected, tethered to one another. I can practically feel Rachel fighting the urge to hug him. The secret language of siblings is so intimate, I feel the need to look away. Graham glances once more in my direction before turning to retreat, shuffling down a white corridor. His long arms hang by his side, fingers fidgeting at he gets farther and farther away. Soon we can’t see him at all.

  Next to me, Rachel lets out a long gush of air. “Let’s go.”

  SIXTEEN

  I’M STILL IN a daze a week later, thinking about everything that happened in Connecticut, when I first see the flyers. They’re tacked to the corkboard at Diane’s, covering up an ad for babysitting and another one for piano lessons. Printed on thick cardstock, likely stolen from Gold Coast Prep’s art department, the letters scream out at me.

  WONDER TRUCK

  ONE NIGHT ONLY

  THE GARAGE

  TONIGHT, JANUARY 25

  8 P.M.

  $5

  “Jared’s gonna be a stah.” Diane comes up behind me and nudges my shoulder with hers. She throws me a wink. Since it’s 7 a.m. on a Saturday, I’m the only one in the diner, save for a few elderly folks eating bowls of oatmeal in silence. I thought I’d be safe coming here so early to start studying for the scholarship exam over pow-do and bacon, but I should have known better. The Players, Jared now included, are everywhere.

  “I saw him here the other day with the Millah boy chit-chatting ’bout the show,” Diane says. “Should be a treat, right?” She smiles widely at me, her red mess of hair bouncing on top of her head.

  I swallow a thick lump in my throat and force myself to agree. “Oh yeah,” I say. My mouth feels like it’s full of sand. “Can I get a couple pow-do to go?”

  “Coming right up.” Diane disappears behind the counter and I lean back against the wall and close my eyes. Jared booked a show. How did I not know about this?

  I desperately want to text Nikki or Quentin to hear what the plan is for tonight. Or ask Henry to pick me up so we can go together. There’s obviously going to be a Player pregame, Ubers to the Garage, an after-party to celebrate. I want to ask Jared why he didn’t tell me, to scream at Mom that I’ve been left out of everything, including our family. I want to bitch about it to Rachel, though I know she’ll only want to talk about last week’s visit to see Graham, something I’m definitel
y not ready to process.

  Instead, I text the one person who hasn’t completely written me off. Yet.

  Did you hear about the boys’ show tonight? I text Adam. If he’s around, he’ll respond.

  Yeah.

  You going? I type with shaking fingers. I miss him so much it aches. I want him to wrap me in one of his famous bear hugs. To read me lines from his new script. To smile at me and reveal that dimple.

  Yup.

  Wanna meet up before?

  Can’t, he writes. It stings. But then he starts typing again, those three bubbles drumming along in rhythm. Working on a thing with Big Keith before.

  I chew on my lip. Can I ask him to bail? Can’t he sense how much I need this? Him.

  Got it, I say.

  I’ll see you there, Newman, don’t worry. I got you.

  My stomach flips and heat spreads through my chest. We’re still us.

  * * *

  —

  If you squint really hard, the main drag in Gold Coast looks more like a slice of SoHo than what it really is: a stretch of concrete next to the sand. There’s a tiny boutique shilling moisturizers with triple-digit price tags and something called “heart glitter,” a cycling studio that caters to the spandex-clad moms drinking twelve-dollar green juices, a sushi bar with an omakase menu the New York Times food critic once said was “almost worth leaving the five boroughs for,” and the one relic of Gold Coast past, the Garage.

  It’s the only music venue north of the Long Island Expressway that regularly books acts from farther than New Jersey, and once my parents swore they saw Billy Joel holed up at a back table for an entire night, sipping vintage wine and sending vodka shots to blondes in the front row. But that was back in the nineties. Now it’s mostly referred to as a vestige of old Gold Coast, the one that attracted funky potters like my mom and ex-corporate lawyers looking to spend the rest of their days bumming by the beach in a house predating the Civil War. That Gold Coast was filled with people who didn’t have closets full of Brooks Brothers polos and kitchens stocked with Waterford Crystal. I always thought the Garage lasted so long because it’s a reminder of how far you can fall.

  Robert’s cousin Luis became the booker there a few years back after he realized there was a whole unconquered nightlife scene outside New York City limits. He always let us in for free. I assume he must have gone out on a major limb for Jared and Bryce, hooking them up with a prime slot on a Saturday night. But when I arrive, there’s a line around the block. I recognize dozens of Gold Coast kids and a few Cartwright students who sometimes try to crash Player parties. Stickers and graffiti paper the place’s outer walls, a stark contrast to the sea of button-downs, ironed khakis, and two-hundred-dollar fleeces. Most girls are in their after-school best, teetering on tall black booties meant for a Manhattan club or sorority rush week. I silently judge a group of sophomores who clearly got blowouts for the occasion.

  When I get to the front of the line, Luis is there taking tickets. I start to smile, knowing he remembers me. “Five bucks,” he says, his face like stone. My days of free shit are over. I hand him a crumpled bill and walk inside.

  The air is dank and stale and I’m suddenly so aware that I’m alone. I wonder who sees me, who cares, and if my presence will be fodder for the gossip mill for weeks. Then I wonder if that thought is just plain narcissistic. No one really cares. That’s what I have to remember. I make my way to the bar, a slimy C-shaped piece of wood nestled under an anarchist flag, and push past the sky-high heels and flipped-up collars. But before I reach the sticky counter, someone touches the small of my back.

  “Hey, Newman.”

  I whip around to find Adam standing in front of me wearing a black jean jacket and his round plastic glasses. He looks tired, his face scruffy and a little sad, but he hands me a cold can of grapefruit-flavored seltzer. I’m secretly grateful it’s not beer.

  “You’re here,” I say. “Thank God.”

  He smiles and puts his arm around me. “Wouldn’t miss it.” He takes a sip from his matching can and nods toward the corner of the stage. I follow his gaze to find the Players looking back at me. Henry pouts and shoves his hands into his pockets. Robert shoots up a middle finger yet again and Marla averts her eyes. But it’s Nikki’s and Quentin’s reactions that hurt the most. They both just stare at me, their faces unreadable. I want to be in between them again, privy to the secrets, the rituals, our inside jokes. Instead I chug my seltzer.

  “You’re not scared about being seen with me?” I ask.

  Adam nods his head at them and waves. Only Quentin holds his hand up in recognition. “Psh, never,” he says. “What did they ever do for me anyway?”

  My face flushes as the lights go down, making the Garage a pitch-black abyss. A guitar snare ripples through the room. Cheers erupt and a spotlight shines on the stage. My skin prickles and a bead of sweat drips down my back.

  “We’re Wonder Truck and we’re about to fucking get it!” Bryce yells into the microphone. Behind him, seven-foot Larry Kramer perches at the drum kit, nearly as tall sitting down as Bryce is standing up.

  Adam lets out a whoop and yells into the crowd. “Yeah, Miller!” His body rustles beside me.

  The room becomes a tornado, people jumping everywhere, bumping into each other. The Players, even the freshmen, stand near the front and throw their hands up at the stage. A group from the debate team are grinding in the corner, gyrating their crotches against one another about a half beat off time.

  I train my eyes on Jared. He stands on the right side of the stage, red-faced and elated. His brow is damp and his bass rests on one knee, which juts out into a lunge. He rocks back and forth setting a solid rhythm for Bryce’s janky guitar chords. Sweat drips from his brow and his eyelids flutter. I recognize his hyper-focused face, the one he gets when he’s concentrating on a geometry practice set or trying to get through a dense book. But now his mouth extends into an easy smile. This isn’t work. It’s the time of his life.

  When the song ends, Jared tosses his hair and wipes his face on his white T-shirt. He looks up as the crowd cheers and his eyes scan the room. His gaze lingers on where I stand for just a second and I wonder if he can see me through the bright lights. I wonder if he knows I’m here, that I’m rooting for him.

  Before I can tell, they rush into another song, just as loud and just as fast. The Garage feels like a bounce house, expanding and contracting with every launched step. The wooden floorboards creak and sag.

  “They’re killing it!” Adam yells over the music. His voice is warm and wet in my ear. “Jared’s amazing!”

  He is, I want to say back. He really is. But now I can only focus on Nikki and Quentin, dancing together in the corner, singing all the words, lyrics I don’t know and wasn’t invited to learn. I miss them in my bones, like Shaila but almost worse because they’re actually still here, just across the room.

  “I need some air!” I scream back at Adam. I wait a beat, hoping he’ll follow me, but he doesn’t. Instead he nods and keeps his eyes focused on the stage, pumping his fist in the air.

  I turn on my heel and squeeze through the sea of sweaty bodies, until I reach the side door. The heavy metal lurches forward when I shoulder it open and the freezing wind shocks me, whipping my face and tossing my hair. Suddenly I can breathe again. I’m free. I lean back against the brick wall and lift my chin, spotting Aries the ram. I trace his horns and picture him headbutting the other nightwalkers, galloping through the sky. My fingers are frozen from the chill but I don’t care. It feels good to not feel them, to let something go numb.

  I’m not alone for long. The door heaves open, bringing sounds from the Garage into the alley. Guitar chords carry into the night.

  Nikki emerges from the darkness and stomps on the frozen concrete in designer black combat boots. I press myself against the building, hoping she doesn’t see me. “I know you’re out h
ere,” she calls.

  I wince. I’m not ready for this. I’ve never been good at fighting or confrontation. When Shaila was still here she was the one who stood up for all of us. She was the one who slapped Derek Garry’s hand away when he tried to reach up my dress during one of the pops. She was the one who told Liza Royland to suck a dick after she let the air out of the tires of my bike in middle school. She was the one who reported Assistant Coach Doppelt for staring at us too long in the locker rooms after phys ed. Shaila was our guard dog. I was the puppy trying not to piss on the floor.

  I realize, standing here in the freezing cold, I don’t want to fight with Nikki. I don’t want to be mad at her. I want to hug her and pretend like we’re not on opposite teams. I want to know if she’d believe Graham, if she would be as hungry for the truth as I am, if she saw what I saw. If she knew what I knew.

  I take a deep breath in. “Here,” I say, stepping forward.

  Nikki clomps toward me so we’re face-to-face, exactly the same height. Her mouth contorts into a hurt frown, a pout. Her eyes are wild. She’s had a few drinks. Not too many, but just enough to feel a fire in her belly, to muster up her wannabe-Shaila courage. Maybe I should find mine, too.

  “I’m mad at you,” Nikki says, crossing her arms and cocking her hip. “I’m really fucking mad.”

  “I’m mad at you, too.” My words are more wobbly than hers. Unstable.

  “You said we’d do this together. But then you fucking bailed. You left me all alone!”

  I scoff. “I left you? You have Quentin, Marla, Robert. Henry, even. You have everyone,” I counter. “I’m the one who’s all alone.”

  “It’s not the same without you,” she says. “You know that.”

  “You went against everything we said we would do.” I fight the tears threatening my vision.

  “That’s not true.”

  I bite my lip. I want to scream. “You know it is. You made the pops so much worse for them. You have the power now and you’re acting just like them. Like Derek, and Jake, and all the other boys who put us through hell.”