They Wish They Were Us

by Jessica Goodman

  I start up the steps I know by heart, sliding my hand along the banister. I turn right at the landing and creep down the hall. But at her bedroom, I stop.

  I press my forehead to the door and feel Shaila behind me, urging me forward. You can do this. You should do this. You have to do this. I twist the hard wooden knob and push, stepping into Shaila’s world. It’s so dark in here that I can’t see a thing. I fumble for my phone and turn on its flashlight, casting a spotlight in front of me. When everything comes into view I gasp. Shaila’s room is exactly the same as the last time I was here.

  Her dark wooden bed, the one with the carved spiraling posts, sits in the middle of the room, its massive headboard pushed against the far wall. The lilac silk comforter with delicate buttons sewn into every square is perfectly in place. A stuffed pig, the one Shaila adored in elementary school and then tossed aside when she got her period, sits in front of the pillows staring into space.

  My throat feels scratchy and I resist the urge to curl up with Shaila’s duvet to see if it still smells like her. I have a mission and force myself to stay on track, to look for something, anything, that could tell us if she ever told anyone about cheating on Graham. I move first to her walk-in closet, where she often hid half-full liquor bottles and vape cartridges. I rummage through her stack of T-shirts, her volleyball kneepads. No letters. I shut the doors and move to her armoire, but it’s only filled with Shaila’s old Gold Coast uniforms, pressed with starch. They don’t smell anything like her.

  I take a few steps toward her dresser, where we stood so many times, painting eyeliner and lipstick on our faces, watching ourselves transform in her mirror. It is still speckled with flecks of red hair dye from the time Shaila insisted on coloring her tips in middle school, just a little, just for fun. I run my fingers over the glass and try to scratch off the dots, but they stay put, stained. Tucked into the corner of the mirror is a photo, a snapshot of Shaila, Nikki, Marla, and me, getting ready for the Spring Fling freshman year. We wore glittery dresses and too much makeup. Shaila had done our hair that night and I had never felt more gorgeous.

  My heart pounds looking at our big smiles. Shaila’s arms are wrapped around Nikki and Marla, and I cling to Nikki’s side. We all look so happy. We didn’t know Shaila would be dead within a month.

  I open the camera on my phone and take a photo, wanting to remember it forever. Then I extend a hand and pull at the edges, wiggling it out from the corner of the mirror. But it’s stuck, tucked so deeply into the tiny opening. Careful not to tear the picture, I inch it out slowly, bit by bit, until something else comes into view.

  A piece of lined notebook paper, folded neatly into a tiny square, over and over onto itself. It was wedged in between the photo and the mirror, causing the photo to stay in place.

  But now, with nothing to anchor it, the paper drops. I pick it up and open it with shaking fingers. Shaila’s loopy handwriting is so recognizable, I almost lose my breath. My heartbeat pounds in my ears and I have to steady myself against the dresser as I unfold the page. I scan the words quickly but nothing makes sense, not at first. I force myself to breathe in, then out, and start from the very beginning.

  * * *

  —

  April 1

  KARA! Something major has happened. I am in love. LOVE!

  But . . . it’s not with Graham. Please don’t hate me. I already hate myself for getting into this situation. It’s torture! You’re the only person I can tell. He said it would ruin everything and that we’d have to end it if people found out. That both of our lives would be O-V-E-R. That he would get in serious trouble. Like massive, life-ruining trouble.

  But, oh shit, I am bursting with excitement and tingling sensations. I don’t want to keep this hidden. I want to tell the whole world. My love for him tears through everything. I can’t breathe when we are apart and it kills me when I see him in the hallways or walking around campus and I have to pretend like there’s nothing between us.

  It all began one day after school, in the parking lot behind the theater. He told me I was maddening. It was the most remarkable word I’ve ever heard and I can’t believe he used it to describe me. Then he leaned in and touched his lips to mine. They were so soft and tender. I wanted more immediately. But the thing was, I wasn’t embarrassed by my want. He seemed to like it. I guess that comes from experience. Graham always seems so scared by it.

  The next time, he asked if I wanted to do it and I said yes. It hurt just a little but he made these moaning sounds in my ears that set me on fire. And then it started to feel incredible. He said I was the softest in the world. That made my brain ache.

  I want to tell Jill so bad! She’s the only one who would understand, but in some ways that’s the reason why she can’t find out. We used to talk about losing our virginity constantly, what it would feel like, who we wanted to do it with. She’d be so mad that it already happened and that I didn’t tell her.

  I thought it would make me feel bad . . . or dirty. But it didn’t. It made me feel strong, like I had power, like we were equals. Being drunk is fun, but being with a guy like that is the best high I’ve ever had.

  I know I should break up with Graham, but I just . . . don’t want to. I like him, too. I like the way he looks at me and the way he puts his arm around me in the caf. I like what we have, and how easy it is for our families, and how our relationship makes Rachel like me even more, like I really belong. What am I going to do?

  I’m rereading the letter for the third or tenth time when I hear a loud screech. The noise sends me lurching forward into the dresser and my heart lands in my throat. I look toward the window. It was just a branch, scraping against the glass. I try to steady my heartbeat, but I know I need to get out of here fast. It’s too dangerous to stay. I was so stupid to come in the first place.

  I fold the piece of paper in half, and then in half again, and slide it into the pocket of my jeans. I creep to the door and turn around, taking one last look at Shaila’s room. The creepy stillness, the secrets she was keeping, it all makes me want to throw up. It’s like she could come home and flop down on the bedspread any second. But she won’t. She’ll never come back. Not to make a mess in here, or to tell me the truth—about who killed her and why exactly she felt the need to keep this massive secret from me. I would have understood. I would have been there for her. Instead she went to Kara Sullivan. Snooty, Upper East Side Kara Sullivan. I blink back tears and bite my lip hard.

  I close the door and retrace my steps until I’m on the Arnolds’ back porch, shivering as I zip myself back into my parka and place the key back inside the lockbox. I inhale deeply and look up into the sky. It’s too foggy to see anything tonight, and the backyard is so black, my eyes start to hurt.

  I disappear into the darkness.

  * * *

  —

  When I get home, I read the letter again. And then again. And again and again until I’ve memorized the entire thing and can recite it by heart, without even thinking. It’s late now, past 1 a.m. The only thing I can hear is the howling wind and the slight pounding of rain that might turn into snow. When I read Shaila’s letter for a final time, I feel the tears start to build, threatening to fall and ruin Shaila’s thick bubbly script. I wipe my face with my sleeve, desperate to preserve her words, her scary, wild, rushing words.

  I wish she were here. I want Shaila to annotate each sentence, to explain why she kept her innermost thoughts from me. Why she could share them so freely with Kara.

  My head throbs as I try to make sense of all of this, of everything Shaila did behind my back, of who she really was. Did I know her at all?

  But I don’t want to think about that now. I want to find out who the person she wrote about is and what he knows. What he did.

  There’s only one person I can call.

  Rachel picks up on the first ring.

  “Do you still hav
e Kara Sullivan’s number?” I ask, not even bothering to say hello.

  “Jesus, Jill. I’m sleeping.” Her voice is hoarse and groggy.

  “Ugh, sorry.” I rest my head back against my pillow and close my eyes. Suddenly, I’m so tired, too.

  Rachel sighs. “Kara Sullivan? I’m sure somewhere. Why?”

  “There’s a letter,” I say. “From Shaila to Kara. We need to talk to her.”

  “Wait,” she says. “You actually went?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  I hear muffling, like Rachel is putting her hand over the microphone part of her phone. “Just a sec, babe.” Then the rustling of sheets and a few footsteps.

  “Sorry,” I mumble again.

  “It’s fine. Frida wakes easily, that’s all.” A door closes behind her. “What the hell, Jill? Tell me everything.”

  “No one was home. So, I just . . . did what I thought Shay might do. Found the spare key. Went inside.”

  “Bold.”

  “It was addressed to Kara. Shaila must have forgotten to send it. Or decided not to. It’s dated just a few months before she died.”

  “What does it say?”

  “It’s true,” I say, breathless. “Shaila was cheating on Graham.”

  “With who?”

  “I don’t know. She doesn’t name him.”

  Rachel is silent for a second. “We have to talk to Kara,” she whispers.

  “I know.” The last time I saw Kara was at Shaila’s funeral. She wore a black silk dress that looked too fancy for the occasion. Her hair was perfectly set, falling down her back in waves, somehow untouched by the Gold Coast humidity. She was clutching a piece of paper. I remember that. Maybe it was another one of Shaila’s letters. “You guys go way back, too, right?”

  Rachel doesn’t hesitate. “I’ve known her since she was born. Babysat her once or twice.”

  “Can you find her? Can we see her?”

  “The Sullivans cut us off after everything. But let me handle it, okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “I’ll keep you posted.”

  We hang up but I know I won’t be able to sleep. Instead I pull up Instagram and try to find Kara. Who is she these days? Is she still as standoffish and pretentious as she was three years ago?

  It takes just a few taps before I land on her profile. She has a few thousand followers and posts regularly from sceney city spots. There she is having brunch at Balthazar. Looking at massive installations at MoMA PS 1. Seated courtside at a Knicks game.

  I scroll further until I reach a post from June. Shaila’s death anniversary.

  There they are as kindergartners, sitting together on the beach, with their tanned legs outstretched in front of them. Kara’s dark hair fades into Shaila’s golden locks and their arms are wrapped around each other so tightly. To my best friend, my sister. Gone too soon. Forever yours, K. #ShailaArnold

  I gag at the hashtag. What an opportunist. But still, I can’t drag myself away from her page. Instead, I scroll and scroll until I fall into a fitful sleep for good.

  * * *

  —

  Meet me today at 11 am. 71st between Madison and Park.

  The text comes while I’m downing waffles at the kitchen table and testing myself with flashcards I made for the scholarship exam. The house is empty and quiet since Mom, Dad, and Jared are all out, enjoying whatever Saturday activity Gold Coast has to offer. My fork clatters when I drop it into the sink and within minutes I’m out the door, walking the mile to the Long Island Railroad.

  When I emerge from the subway on the Upper East Side, I’m shocked by how different it is from where Rachel lives. Each townhouse is perfectly kept, with beautiful metal gates and window boxes full of greenery even though it’s still winter. There’s not a piece of chipped paint in sight. Even the dogs are better dressed. Little fluffballs wrapped in tiny wool sweaters and shiny down jackets prance by, dragging their owners behind them. The streets are wide and the storefronts are airy and inviting. No wonder Kara never came to visit Gold Coast. It’s shocking how beautiful the city can be. But also how stifling.

  “There you are!” Rachel barrels down Madison, clutching a thermos of coffee in one hand. My shoulders relax at the sight of her. With her bright red lipstick, oversize leopard-print coat, and neon beanie, she looks just as out of place as I do in my worn-out leggings and science camp sweatshirt.

  Rachel pulls me in for a hug and her eyes are wild with excitement. “Her place is up this way.” She motions to one of the perfectly manicured townhouses. It’s made of silvery-gray stone, with tall windows that smile at us menacingly.

  “Which apartment is hers?” I ask.

  Rachel stares at me. “The whole thing. Her mom won it in the divorce settlement.”

  “Whoa,” I breathe.

  Rachel pushes a button on the intercom and I clench my fists.

  “What?” a brusque voice answers.

  “You know who it is, Kara. I know you can see me,” Rachel says. She lunges for the video camera on the door as if to scare her.

  The door swings open and Kara stands in front of us, her arms crossed. She’s wearing a camel-colored cashmere sweater, expensive-looking jeans, and black leather mules with fur poking out the sides. Big round diamonds stud each earlobe. Her hair looks recently blown out.

  “Hi,” she says curtly.

  “Aren’t you going to invite us in?” Rachel asks sweetly.

  Kara glares at her but turns on her heel and walks inside. Our invitation, I guess. Rachel’s eyebrows shoot up as she gives me a look over her shoulder. I follow her into the townhouse and try not to gasp. Artwork hangs on every wall. Not just random paintings picked up at some flea market or at Ikea. Real art. Art that could hang in a museum. Mural-size works depicting mid-century architecture on the West Coast. Huge canvases with swaths of colors that look like the Rothko pieces I saw in an AP Art History textbook.

  Kara reads my mind, apparently. “Gifts,” she says. Her mouth turns into a satisfied smile. She points to a painting of a man standing in front of a swimming pool. “That one’s from David Hockney.” She pauses in front of another frame that looks like a poster. Big block letters spell out a phrase. I can’t look at you and breathe at the same time. “This one’s from Barbara Kruger,” Kara says. “She was Shaila’s favorite.”

  An uncomfortable silence hangs between the three of us.

  Rachel breaks the ice first. “Look, I know you’re not supposed to see me—”

  Kara snorts. “That’s an understatement.”

  “What?” I ask, looking back and forth between them.

  But neither of them even glance at me. Instead their eyes are fixed on each other, like they’re preparing for battle.

  “My mom would seriously kill me if she knew you were here.”

  “Where is Mona anyway?”

  “Out.” Kara collapses onto a plush suede sofa and crosses her arms over her chest. Then she turns to me. “My mom banned me from talking to Rachel, or basically anyone from Gold Coast, after everything happened. She didn’t want me getting caught up in anything . . . unsavory.” She pushes her shiny hair behind her ears. “Her words, not mine.”

  Rachel rolls her eyes. “Whatever, Kar.”

  “Hey, be nice. You’re lucky I even agreed to talk to you.”

  “Well, why did you anyway?”

  Kara’s face softens. For a second she looks like a normal high school girl, not an art princess of New York City. “I miss her,” she says softly. “I miss . . . all of it. The summers out east with everyone. The way Shay snorted when she laughed. How she made the best chocolate chip cookies. How she listened, like, really listened. No one in Manhattan is like that. She was my best friend. And now she’s gone. Everything that tied us together is just . . .” She inhales deeply. “Mom still sees the Arnolds sometimes
, when they come back to town. But they don’t want to see me. They say I remind them too much of her. It’s too painful.”

  My shoulders tense. I never thought of Kara having a real relationship with Shay. It always seemed so performative, so superficial. But maybe their bond was real. As real as mine. Which means Kara’s been hurting all this time, too.

  Kara turns her chin up and her voice becomes clipped and polished again. “But let’s get this over with. You have something that belongs to me?”

  I fish the note out from my pocket. My fingers tremble as I extend my arm to Kara. She snatches the letter from my grasp and her eyes scan the page, searching frantically. She crosses her legs and wiggles her foot incessantly.

  Rachel’s eyes meet mine and we wait another minute for Kara to speak.

  But she’s still silent, reading Shaila’s cursive over and over again.

  “Well?” I ask.

  “Can you guys give me a minute?” Kara asks softly without lifting her gaze. Her eyes are glossy. “Some privacy?”

  Rachel purses her lips, like she’s trying not to show any emotion. “Fine. I’m gonna get some air. Jill?”

  I shake my head. “Can I use your bathroom?”

  Kara points to the stairs in the hall. “Second floor, third door on the right.”

  Rachel retreats to the stoop and I climb the stairs, checking out the photographs that line the wall. They’re so stunning, there’s no way these were taken by amateurs. There’s Kara as a naked toddler, beside her mom in a designer gown and diamonds. And again at her sweet sixteen staring at the camera with a smoldering glare and a perfect complexion. Guess she missed that whole awkward phase thing.

  I get to the second floor and count the doors, looking for the bathroom. But I stop when I catch a glimpse of something purple through a door left slightly ajar. It’s Shaila’s bedspread. Kara must have the same one. I wonder if they picked them out together.