It scares me to know that Rennie knows the truth about what we did. But thank God there’s no way she can prove it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Monday afternoon I’ve gone up and down the length of the pool twice before Reeve even arrives. He doesn’t get in the pool; instead he stands there watching me, eating an apple. I don’t look up or acknowledge his presence. I keep doing what I’m doing. “You should point your toes,” he says, chewing loudly. “Make your body longer.”

“Excuse me, but I don’t think you’re allowed to eat in here,” I huff. “And aren’t you supposed to be wearing that walking cast?” He’s dragging it behind him.

“I’m building up my pain tolerance.” He tosses the apple into the trash can. A perfect arc. I don’t have to look to know it lands inside. Carelessly, he throws his towel on the bench where my stuff is. Then he dives into the lane next to mine, instead of the one on the far left the way he’s been doing. My whole body stiffens. “Well, then you’ll have no one to blame but yourself if you reinjure your leg.” I don’t need him critiquing me or giving me swimming advice. But I do try pointing my toes a little as I swim to the ladder, and I guess I can feel a very slight difference.

I scramble over to my towel because I’m freezing cold. I’m wrapping the towel around me like a blanket when he suddenly swims under the dividers and over toward me like a shark. He hoists himself out of the water, not bothering with the ladder. He hasn’t done a single lap.

Silently, I hand him his towel. He looks at me right in the eyes and says, “You know what? I wasn’t going to say anything . . . but yeah, Lil. Let’s talk about my injury.”

I’ve been bracing myself for this moment for weeks, this exact moment, and it’s finally here and yet still I’m not ready. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I turn to leave, but he grabs my arm.

“I know it was you who put something in my punch at homecoming.”

It feels like the floor is coming out from under me; my knees are weak, and I’m two seconds from passing out.

“Tell me why,” he says, his voice harsh now. His green eyes are boring into mine, and I’m looking back at him, trying not to flinch, trying not to give anything away, and forcing myself to maintain eye contact. Don’t they say liars can’t look you in the eye?

I try to shake him off, but his grip is too strong. “What punch? What are you talking about? Let go of me!”

He doesn’t let go. “You don’t remember giving me a cup of punch? We were sitting at the table. You were bitching at me for leading Rennie on. Then we ??? You don’t remember any of that?”

I say, “Reeve, you were wasted at the dance!”

His eyes narrow. “No, I wasn’t. They did a drug test on me on the hospital. It came up positive for MDMA.”

Oh. My. God. “I don’t even know what MDMA is!” I cry.

“It’s ecstasy. And you know that because you’re the one who put it in my drink.”

“You were drunk by the time you got to Ash’s house. I saw you guys drinking out of a flask, you were drinking in the limo, you were drinking at the dance! How can you be so sure that the punch I supposedly gave you had that MD whatever in it? Because I know so many drug dealers!”

At this, Reeve finally releases my arm, and I massage it even though it doesn’t hurt. I can see marks from where his fingers were. “I’m telling you, it wasn’t me.” He’s confused, he’s still angry, but I can see that he wants to believe me.

Reeve’s mouth gets hard; his eyes narrow. He spits out, “Those guys you met on the beach were drug dealers! Rennie took me to their house so I could score weed for our fishing trip.”

My whole body goes cold.

“Oh, you didn’t know the guy you gave it up to was a drug dealer?”

It’s the way he says it, the way he looks at me. With such disdain. Disgust.

Rennie told him. He knows everything. A hotness rises up inside of me then, and I slap him across the face as hard as I can. He stumbles backward, and there is a red imprint on his cheek from my hand. We stare at each other. His face is shocked; mine must be blank, because that’s how I feel. Numb. I say, “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Then explain it to me,” he says.

“Didn’t Rennie already tell you?” I say. In this moment I hate her like I’ve never hated anyone in my entire life.

“No. She didn’t tell me anything. I saw it with my own eyes. I was there that night. At that party.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It was that house over on Shore Road. A piece-of-shit rental my dad manages. I rolled up over there after Alex’s party died out. I saw you and Ren doing Irish car bombs on the kitchen table, and then I saw you guys go upstairs with them.”

I’m reeling. He was there. He saw.

I start to turn away from him, wrapping my towel tighter around me. “Then you already know.”

“Yeah, I know you’re not the goody-goody everyone thinks you are.”

I stare him down, my chin quivering with the effort of looking at him and not crying, not running away. “Then I guess you also know that I was so drunk I could barely keep my head up and that Rennie was right across the room, with the other guy. That I think I said to stop, I think I did, but I can’t be sure I did.” Then I do start to cry, because I can’t anymore, I can’t keep it inside me.

Reeve recoils. “I—I didn’t know any of that.” He lifts his arm like he’s going to try to touch me, but I must flinch, because he drops it.

It’s so humiliating, saying these things to Reeve, of all people, Reeve who hates me. Why did I ever say anything at all? That was my secret, mine and Rennie’s. It wasn’t for anybody else to know. Especially not him. I cry harder, my tears mixing with the pool water dripping from my hair.

“I’m sorry,” Reeve says. “Please don’t cry.”

I sink down onto the bench. He doesn’t make a move; he just stands there awkwardly. “Then don’t talk about things you don’t know for sure,” I say, wiping my cheeks with the corner of my towel.

“You’re right,” he agrees quickly. “I’m a dick. I never should have brought it up.”

I’m still crying; now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop. Tears roll down my cheeks, and I keep wiping them away with my towel.

The muscle in his jaw twitches and he rubs it. “Lillia . . . if I had known you were that drunk, you have to know that I would never have let you go upstairs with that guy. I’d have stopped you.” He squats down in front of me so we’re at eye level, and he balances his hands on my knees. When I flinch, he quickly backs away and balances his elbows on his thighs. He pleads, “Please stop crying.”

I nod. I let out a big breath of air. There’s an odd sense of relief in telling someone. In saying it out loud. I feel . . . a little bit lighter. A little tiny bit. But it’s something.

We stay like that for what feels like a long time, and then he shifts, and I can tell his leg is bothering him. “Does your leg hurt?” I ask. My voice pings off the walls; it’s like the room isn’t used to sound anymore, we’ve been quiet that long.

“Not at all,” he says.

I stand up and offer him my hand, which he takes. He stretches his leg out, massaging it. “You shouldn’t push yourself so hard,” I tell him. “You should listen to your doctors.”

Reeve shrugs his shoulders, and his back muscles ripple. “I have to push myself if I want to get a scholarship.”

Sniffling, I say, “Well, hasn’t your physical therapist told you you’ll make it worse if you overdo it? I’m sure he has. Or she has. If he or she’s any good.”

“Oh, so you’re a doctor now too?” Reeve says, smiling slightly. “Looks like we’ve got another Dr. Cho on the island.”

I start to dry my hair with my towel. “Yup. So you better listen to what I say.” Then I sit down and open up my bag, pulling out my leggings and my zip-up hoodie. “I hate going outside in the cold after swimming. It feels like I’ll never be warm again.”

“See, that’s why you should be wearing a swim cap.”

I shudder. “Never. I would look like a peanut head.”

Shaking his head at me, Reeve says, “Princess Lillia. Always so vain.” He sounds gentle, though. Affectionate. He sits down, near but not too near. “Then let’s not go yet. Wait for your hair to dry more.”

So that’s what we do. When I’m in my car, I text Kat. I don’t explain exactly how it happened, but I say that I’m finally getting somewhere.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Tuesday is our third meeting of the college prep group. A few kids have dropped out, which I totally don’t get. Hello! It’s essentially a get-out-of-class-free card every couple of weeks.

Alex is already there, clicking away on his laptop computer. I sneak up behind him to scare the shit out of him, but then I notice what website he’s looking at.

The University of Southern California.

Funny. I thought Alex was only applying to two colleges. Early decision to the University of Michigan, and Boston College as a safety.

He clicks a drop-down menu with all the undergraduate majors listed and selects the songwriting program.

Before I can say anything, Ms. Chirazo walks over to us. Alex quickly closes his laptop, as if he was looking at  p**n  or something. I pull out the chair next to him and take a seat.

“Okay, you two. I’ve read both your essay drafts.” She sets the papers down on the table, Alex’s and mine. Alex’s doesn’t have much written on his. A couple of check marks in red pen. Mine is covered in scribbles.

Damn. I snatch it away so Alex doesn’t see.

“Alex, I love what you’re exploring here. I think you make a strong thesis about how class and privilege disappear on the football field, and success hinges only on hard work. But I want you to make sure that you aren’t too critical of your parents’ wealth when you relate back to your own life. I’m hoping you can temper some of those places to sound a bit more grateful for the opportunities you’ve been afforded.”

Alex nods. “Sure, of course.”

I slump in my chair. I thought Alex’s essay was fine, it was well-written and tight, but I also know exactly what Ms. Chirazo is talking about. There were a couple of points where I felt like he was being kind of a doof. Where he’d say things like, I never knew how rich my family was, and how that might make people think of me differently.

Come on, dude. Your SUV costs more than a year’s tuition at Oberlin.

Ms. Chirazo turns her head to me. “Now, Kat . . . I was surprised by your essay.”

“Pleasantly surprised?” I say it with zero enthusiasm, because I already know she hated it.

I wrote about how freaking bizarre it is to grow up in a place like Jar Island. How it shelters you from the outside world. I talked about my friendship with Kim, how music has made the world seem a lot bigger, and talked about how ready I am to get the eff out of here and start living my life. Obviously not in those exact words, but it was pretty much an indictment of this place. It was a counterpoint to Alex’s essay. It’s kind of hilarious, how Alex and I basically wrote about the same thing. It’s not like we planned it. We’re definitely in sync with each other, though.

“I thought Kat’s essay was great,” Alex says. “Jar Island is a weird place to live, and that should help her stand out.”

Bless his bleeding heart.

Ms. Chirazo’s glasses are on a chain around her neck. She puts them up on her nose and reaches for my paper. “I agree. I’m not saying that your essay isn’t good, Kat. It is. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen Jar Island in quite the way you present it.” She starts turning pages, and presses her lips together tight. “My biggest problem is that it doesn’t tell me much about you. It’s more about this place. And remember, we’re trying to make the admissions committees think of you as a real person.” She sets the paper down and turns her chair toward me. “Have you considered writing about losing your mother at such a young age?”

My jaw drops. Did she really go there? I swear to God, Ms. Chirazo freaking gets off on the fact that my mom is dead. She brings it up every freaking chance she gets!

“I considered it, and then decided against it,” I say, using all my energy to sound calm and not rage on her. That’s probably what she wants. For me to explode so she can force me to go to more counseling sessions.

“Would you mind explaining your rationale?”

I huff. “Look. I have a lot of reasons, but I’ll give you one. I don’t want to use the fact that my mom died to get people to pity me. Not to mention I’m pretty sure I’m not the only high school senior in the United States to have lost a parent. It’s not as uncommon as people think. And there are kids out there with way, way worse problems than I’ve got. Trust me.” I say it pretty bitchy. “So I don’t need it to use it. My grades are stellar, and I’m pretty sure I killed it on the SATs last time.”

“Your academic record is great, Kat. Especially the fact that you’ve accomplished what you have in light of your situation.”

“My situation,” I repeat, my lip curling.

And then I feel it. Alex’s hand on my knee, underneath the table, where no one else can see. He gives my leg an encouraging squeeze, a sign to breathe, to not let this upset me so bad, to not explode on this lady in front of the whole room.