That Girl Won’t Die

1

New Year . . .

KENNEDY

Saturday, August 28

My senior year is going to be perfect. Just how I imagined it. What I sacrificed, and worked hard for. I know this for sure. Why? Because Whitney Templeton is dead.

I’m on track to graduate top of our class. I’ve already got my application in to attend Columbia University next fall—­and my parents are making all the right calls to increase my chances of getting accepted. And it’ll finally be me gliding around campus on the arm of Chauncey Dillonport, my future husband and father of our two unborn kids, this year. My mother has wanted a Churchwell-­Dillonport union since Chauncey’s family bought the seven-­bedroom waterfront property next door to our vacation home in Oak Bluffs ten years ago.

“They’re all doctors and surgeons,” my mother told my father later that night at the dinner table with me and my older brother. “Their lineage goes back years in Chicago. Their family is well respected.”

Even then, at the age of six, I knew what she really meant. That Chauncey’s family was like us and thereby worthy of socializing with. A green light for me to develop a crush on the cute Midwestern boy next door. Whose smile is breathtaking. Eyes, magnetic. Voice as thick and sweet as honey.

Chauncey was always supposed to be mine. He would have been last year if my supposed best friend Whitney hadn’t betrayed me.

But she’s no longer relevant. I no longer have to worry about her perfect face, or perfect body, or perfect smile, or perfect family pedigree taking anything away from me. Not this year. I won’t have to suffer in silence under the crushing weight of her shadow. Never good enough to stand out from the girl everyone was jealous of but still clamored for her attention because of what she represented, who she pretended to be. I get to take my rightful place at the top of this school’s hierarchy, be the self-­appointed leader of our friend group, which is only fitting since I’m the true nucleus who brought us all together.

Speaking of my friends, they’re both walking toward me now. What was once a foursome, now a trio. I don’t bother looking their way. My inquisitive gaze remains forward, hidden behind the reflective lenses of my Prada shades.

“Girl, why are you sitting over here by yourself, like some stalker?” Garnet says, using the concrete bench of the round picnic table I’m perched on as a step to plop down on the tabletop beside me.

I sigh. She already knows the answer, so I don’t understand why she asked the question. We do this every year. Sit at this table, in the courtyard outside the dining hall, to watch the new class of freshmen get dropped off by their families.

Prentiss Everton Academy is one of the few remaining Black boarding schools in this country. It only accepts fifty new students every year. Unless someone gets kicked out or leaves for whatever reason before graduation, move-­in day is the only time we see a crop of new faces migrate onto campus. We all arrive in staggered times every year. Seniors first, then each class follows in two-­hour intervals.

“Any good prospects?” Fallon asks, dropping down on the bench near Garnet’s feet.

“Why are you asking?” Garnet says, pulling strands of hair off her sticky glossed lips.

“Right,” I chime in, watching a girl hug her crying mother in the middle of the U-shaped road that arches through the campus. “You know D’Landro will drop a surprise diss track like he’s Drake if he catches you looking at another dude too long.”

Garnet nudges my shoulder with hers and we start giggling.

Fallon is dating D’Landro Montgomery, the latest breakout artist on her dad’s record label. His stage name is Da ’Droski. I’ll admit, he’s sexy. He’s got the whole pretty-­boy, thug-­swagger vibe that’s popular right now. And he knows how to make a bop. But he’s insecure as hell. I swear, it’s hard to keep up with their relationship status. They break up and make up in a vicious cycle. Too exhausting for me.

“What he doesn’t know, he can’t rap about,” Fallon says, clicking her tongue at us.

Garnet and I exchange amused grins.

Fallon is built like a gazelle. She has the kind of face that makes you want to shatter a glass against it to disrupt its delicate beauty. She rocks a buzz cut that makes her cheekbones look even sharper. She softens the tomboy style by wearing the flashiest earrings her earlobes can handle. Today she’s kept it simple. Large gold hoops that keep blinding me when the sunlight hits them at certain angles.

“I’m the only single girl at this table this year. I’m calling first dibs on any of the new cute boys,” Garnet says, giving her rotund breasts a tug. I’m worried if she shakes them too hard, they’re going to pop out of the tight tank top she’s wearing. Move-­in day is one of the few times, other than weekends, that we get to wear our regular clothes on campus.

The only thing Garnet loves more than gossip is boys. No judgment; I’m all about women owning their sexuality. And no one I know owns it more than Garnet does. Guys love her thick curves and overconfidence. I do find her annoying at times. But she’s useful when I want to know information.

“Single?” Fallon says, lowering her chin to glare at Garnet over the rims of her pink shades. “I thought you and Kobe Spurlock were vibing?”

“The scholarship boy?” I say, nose scrunched.

“What?” Garnet replies, shrugging her shoulders. “He’s cute-­ish. His body is tea.”

That would explain why he’s been eyeing us from the other side of the courtyard, where he’s congregating with Imani and Bianca, two girls who make up part of the scholarship clique here.

“Girl, when did this tryst with him even start?” I say. “You had your lips all over Lawrence Graham this summer.”

Garnet starts beaming. “That was summer, now it’s fall. New season, new boy.”

I can’t with her.

“A bitch deserves to have some fun between classes this year,” Garnet continues, playfully waving at Kobe. “That’s all he could ever be. A means to an end.”

“What end?” I respond. “Your behind?”

“Only if I’m feeling frisky,” she says, giggling.

“Can we press pause on the convo right quick?” Fallon pulls out her phone from the new mustard-­colored Birkin I purposely haven’t commented on. “Garnet, I need you to take some shots of me with my new baby,” she adds, stroking her purse like it’s a beloved pet.

Fallon is an influencer—­of sorts. You’d think her family was poor with the amount of effort she puts into making money off her social media posts. Everything is always about “getting content.” If she’s got to post that bag, that means it’s another brand deal, sent to her in exchange for exposure to her millions of followers. The whole thing just reinforces why my mother loves to remind me that Fallon is not like us, even though her family has the means to keep up.

“We are the Black excellence those common Negroes aspire to,” my mother has said more times than I can count. “You don’t contribute to that by playing basketball or rapping. Or posting pretty pictures on social media to influence people. You’re better than that.”

I turn away and go back to watching drop-­offs while Fallon instructs Garnet on what shots she needs. A brother and sister I remember seeing at one of our Jack and Jill holiday functions get out of the Mercedes that’s just pulled up in front of the dining hall, where some of the faculty and our headmistress, Mrs. Pritchett, are waiting inside to welcome the new kids and hand out their dorm assignments and class schedules.

Everything feels normal. We’re the same people we’ve always been. Doing and saying everything we would if Whitney was here with us. It’s going to be okay. Garnet and Fallon have moved on, just like me. We will survive. Possibly be better off without her.

Despite what happened, this is going to be the best year for all of us.

The scent of citrus and mint leaf envelops me just before I feel two muscular arms snake around my shoulders from behind.

“Wassup, bae?” Chauncey whispers in my ear before pecking me on the cheek.

He walks around to the front of the table. I tilt my body in his direction.

“Where have you been? It doesn’t take that long to unpack your room,” I say. “It’s not like you and Avery really decorate.”

Chauncey is still wearing the gray sweatpants and navy Prentiss Everton sweatshirt he arrived in. I immediately changed once my parents and the maid who accompanied us left before coming out to the courtyard, as did Garnet and Fallon.

“We were chilling,” Chauncey says, sliding beside me on the table, my purse in between us. “Wasn’t too concerned with sizing up these kids this year. It’s not like we’re gonna kick it with them. Y’all just like being nosy.”

I push down the urge to point out that he never seemed to have a problem participating in the tradition when Whitney was sitting in this spot, appraising everyone.

“Chauncey, we missed you on the Vineyard this summer,” Garnet says as she returns to the picnic table. Fallon is two steps behind, inspecting the pics Garnet just took.

My neck muscles get tense. Garnet is being messy. Our families have been summering together on the Vineyard for years. Fallon’s now, too, once she started hanging with us.