“Sometimes I used to watch you,” she said. “When you didn’t know I was there.”
Chapter 24
December, senior year
Caro
Here was the truth, no matter how much Caro hated it: even within the East House Seven, among supposed equals, there were hierarchies. Mint was at the top, of course, and then Heather and Jack, well known and liked by everyone. Frankie, a little less high, but he had the shine of an athlete. Jess, squarely in the middle. She was Caro’s best friend, but also Mint’s girlfriend, so she was caught in between, always on the verge of plunging or ascending. There was Coop, who didn’t care about things like hierarchies. And then, at the bottom, there was Caro.
It didn’t used to be that way. Freshman year, when she’d suggested they build their dorm’s Homecoming float together, each and every one of them had thrown themselves into it, working day and night, rallying around her idea, even after Courtney complained about it being a stupid arts-and-crafts contest. And look what happened—the East House Seven was born as a direct result. Secretly, she’d always believed it was her doing and felt a certain possessiveness: by right, they were hers.
If she was being truly honest, sometimes it felt like the lonely girl she’d once been had dreamed them into being: Mint and Frankie, the perfect brothers; Heather, preternaturally confident, just like the girls she used to stare at in high school; Jess, the sister she could tell secrets; Coop, the one who gave them all an edge; and Jack, the one who understood, whose upbringing seemed so painfully close to hers.
In the beginning, the novelty of having these friends—the sheer relief of it—was enough to sustain her. After so long watching from the sidelines while other kids, then other teenagers, had sleepovers, trick-or-treated, went to prom—things her parents didn’t approve of—it was a wonder to finally belong. Especially to the East House Seven, which was the loudest kind of belonging, almost showy.
But over the years, the precious tightness of their circle had loosened, stretching to accommodate other friends, other interests, the occasional spring break with other people. Maybe it was only natural—inevitable—but Caro hated it. Everything felt so precarious, like one gentle nudge was all it would take to send it shattering.
Charles Smith had been the one secret she’d kept from the rest of them since freshman year—since the night she’d gone to Chapman Hall to steal his float keys, then spent the night, surprising herself, then never stopped, surprising them both. All the time Charles wanted her to go on trips, be his formal date, meet his parents. But what he didn’t understand was that ever since the East House Seven was born, since the float debacle freshman year, in Caro’s mind it was us versus them, with them being everyone else, and especially Chapman kids like Charles.
Charles was nice, Charles was handsome, Charles was funny and athletic. But he was still, in some fundamental way, the enemy. She would never choose him when she could choose them.
The problem was, her friends didn’t feel the same way.
She could feel them pulling away, and feared, as the person at the bottom, that she didn’t have the power to draw them back. What would she have if she no longer had them? The anxiety notched, forming a pit of dread in her stomach. She was certain, on her worst nights, that she would lose them and be alone again. She wanted assurances. She wanted to be close. She wanted to know where they went and what they did all those times they didn’t invite her.
And so, sometimes—rarely, but sometimes—she watched, and followed, and listened. Just to know. And in some small way, be a part of it.
Because of the December chill—beanies pulled low, masking students’ faces, and a sea of identical dark peacoats bundled against the wind—Caro almost didn’t spot them walking across campus. She was turning from the coffee cart, warm cup in her hands, exhaling a crystal cloud of breath, when out of the corner of her eye, she recognized a familiar parting of the crowd.
She’d always wondered if they knew what they looked like. All of them, even Jess, even Coop, even Frankie, with his muscled shoulders and stiff gait. When they were together, they moved like a flock of birds, in perfect sync, legs extending, arms swinging in unison. It had an effect. Other people moved out of their way, allowing them to glide through spaces with a buffer, move as freely through campus as if they owned it. Caro always paid attention to the cadence of her steps when she walked with them, but try as she might, she could never hold the beat for long.
Today they carved like a knife through the winter hats and coats: Heather, Jack, and Frankie. But something was off. Heather strode ahead, the point of the triangle, her face grim, eyes locked forward; Jack and Frankie behind, forming the base, eyeing each other every few steps, their shoulders hunched.