“Shhh!” My destination is the shower room. It’s the closest place to hide. Ethan catches on quickly enough, pulling me toward the nearest stall, but my strength bests his. I tug him to the left, to the third stall in. Another tempered-glass door—preferred boathouse aesthetic—creaks on its hinges as we scurry inside.
“Why—”
I cut him off again, this time with an explanation. “They could see us through the door. This stall is out of the direct line of sight. Now hush.” I strain to listen, a hair shy of pressing my ear to the door. I can’t, for fear it will swing out, make noise.
“Hold up! Your legs are longer than mine!”
“It’s not my fault you’re slow.”
My body goes stiff with recognition. Margot and Avery.
“Why are we even here? It doesn’t matter, does it?”
And that’s Sierra. Avery responds to her. “It matters to me! We can’t let the cops find it.”
They move through the locker room, bickering, and then their voices muffle as they reach the steam room. I turn to Ethan, planning on telling him we should sneak closer, see what else we can hear, and suddenly we’re touching—full-on bodies touching. Shower stalls are meant for one person, not two. I wonder what it would be like if I were a dainty girl, how much less space I would take up, but right now I love every inch of myself. My breath hitches as Ethan’s hand grazes my hip, not intentionally, I’m sure. The stall is so small. That’s why I rock forward on the balls of my feet, grabbing hold of his arm to steady myself. The world narrows to the warm pressure of Ethan’s hand where our thighs touch, to the inch of space that I’d need to close in order to press our lips together.
Then the damn bag crinkles, the dry crackle earsplittingly loud. Shit. I have to hope the Ivies have keyed into the secret room already, that they didn’t hear the sound. We have to go. The spell is broken, anyway. I tip my head to the door, signaling Ethan.
I push the stall door open slowly. The hinge exhales like a drunk toad. We make a break for it; I clutch the bag to my chest so it won’t swing and rustle. Every sound is a gamble.
We steal back through the lockers, into the upstairs foyer, and down the stairs. It’s a mad dash; I fly out the front door, barely waiting long enough to ensure that Ethan is still behind me. Once outside, I break into a run. I half convince myself this is like any other conditioning exercise; I savor the burn in my lungs, the throb in my disused calves. Coach would be ashamed of how quickly I slow to a stop. I tell myself it’s to check on Ethan. He’s gasping for breath, doubled over a few feet behind me, hands clutching his knees and thighs.
“What…,” he pants, “just…happened?”
I stare down at the boathouse, imagine my so-called friends rooting around that secret room for the charred sweatshirt I now clutch to my chest. “Avery put herself back at the top of the suspect list, that’s what.”
The next morning, Ethan and I take a Lyft to the train station and the 9:10 a.m. commuter line to Northampton. It’s a nauseatingly cute college town with New England flair. It’s a short walk from the station to the wide expanse of Main Street, where the vintage buildings have had a modern facelift by way of hip shop signs.
Kaila is supposed to meet us at Starbucks. We’re early, so Ethan holds down a prize corner table next to an outlet while I grab us drinks. I can see all the aspiring writers giving him the evil eye when Ethan fails to produce a laptop. They can suck it up. The table will provide the closest approximation to privacy we can get in this place.
“Oliver?” the barista calls, somehow butchering my painfully common name. I’m unique enough at a small school like Claflin, but I was one of no fewer than three Olivias in my class at my old school. “Caramel macchiato with whip and a soy latte?”
I fetch our drinks and slide into the seat next to Ethan, which will force Kaila to sit across from us, interrogation-style.
“I’m impressed you haven’t made fun of my drink.” Ethan takes a sip of a caramel concoction.
“I’m not an asshole,” I say with a shrug. “And I think gendered expectations for beverage consumption is stupid.”
“Remind me again why you’re an Ivy?”
“They adopted me. Everyone needs friends.”
“But with friends like these, who needs enemies?” a new voice chimes in, raspy and wry. Kaila. My chin whips up, and I feel my eyes go cartoon wide. “Different, right?” She does a showy spin.
To an outsider’s eye, nothing about Kaila would seem out of the ordinary. She’s a tidy five-foot-six in slouchy jeans and a green cable-knit sweater. Her deep brown hair is shorn in a pixie cut. She must fit right in at Smith, visiting her mom. This Kaila is earthy with a boho-chic flair.
But the Kaila I knew prized nothing more than her luxuriously wavy hair, which she grew, grew, grew until it nearly reached her butt. Proto-Kaila dressed like an Instagram influencer, with the account to match. She wore makeup.
Bare-faced Kaila plops down across from us, now-unruly eyebrows raised at Ethan. “You brought your boyfriend?”
Ethan and I answer in unison.
“He’s not—”
“I’m not—”
“Then he’s your heavy? In case I flip out?” Kaila barks a laugh. “Don’t worry. The whole point of reform school is that I am reformed. No more punching people in the face. Even if they deserve it.” Challenge dances in her brown eyes. Then she melts into a shrug of contrition. “I was sorry to hear Emma died, though.”
“Thanks.” I offer a thin smile. “Did you read about it in the Globe?”
“Nah, it hit the East Coast boarding gossip circuit by Thursday afternoon. I go to Wheatford now.” Kaila answers my next question before I can ask. “Haven Ridge was only for a year. I transferred last semester.”
“What’s Haven Ridge?” Ethan jumps in.
“I spent nine months hiking twelve miles a day and living in the woods, basically. Group therapy three times a day, too.”
“Wait, what about classes? APs? Taking the SATs?” I am appalled at the thought of falling so far behind.
“That’s not the point of a therapeutic wilderness program. Think of it as a gap year. I’m a junior now, so I’ll graduate a year behind you guys. It’s no big.”
“You seem so…Zen.”
“That would be my no longer hating myself and my friends. You should try it.” Kaila smirks, then seems to catch herself. “Sorry, old snarky habits die hard. You know, at my new school, everyone thinks I’m super nice.”