When We Were Bright and Beautiful(4)

Diana Holly, despite her mother hen act, is a manipulative and vindictive young woman. She’s one of those girls who plays down her attractiveness, like hiding her killer body under long wooly cardigans, as if there’s virtue in looking dowdy. She’s studying biology, and she’s very smart, with a lost-in-the-library quality I used to consider her best asset. It made her seem less vapid, more authentic than the preening show ponies we grew up with.

Women love my brothers, both of whom inherited their father’s good looks. Nate is tall and broad-shouldered, with a brilliant smile and carefree insouciance. He’s funny and sarcastic, so he gets a lot of play. But Billy is the one girls go truly bonkers over. He’s boyishly handsome, with silky black hair that falls in his face, dreamy blue eyes and a wounded affect that fuels their fantasies. While Nate and I always found it amusing to see how far girls would go to get, and then keep, our idiot brother’s attention, Diana Holly’s cunning and persistence genuinely alarmed us.

I know nothing about the criminal justice system. But I do know Diana, and it seems patently wrong that the cops can lock Billy up without knowing the facts. This is a woman who threatened him when he broke up with her, who stalked him across campus. A few times, she even snuck into his dorm room while he was in class, and was curled up in his bed, pretending to be asleep, when he returned. Billy was so disturbed, he called security. Meanwhile, he’s the one in jail; the one who gave up his fingerprints, DNA, blood—the works.

If Billy’s been hauled in for questioning, I can tell you exactly how that scene played out: four husky cops working over one lean boy, rapid-fire questions, blinding lights, scary threats. “I am inn . . .” Billy will stumble. “Inn . . .” He’ll chew his words, close his eyes. Finally, he’ll give up. “Ok-k-kay. Ok-k-k-kay.” Billy will agree to anything. He’ll even confess to a crime he didn’t commit if it means he can stop talking.

When I imagine Billy behind bars, I picture places like Angola or Folsom, where he rots in the hole or gets shanked from behind. If it was me or Nate, I’d worry, of course, but wouldn’t spin worst-case scenarios. First of all, I’m female. I have breasts. My survival instincts are stiletto sharp. Similarly, Nate, with his wolfish smile and kingpin’s charisma, would have his new inmate buddies tunneling him out by lunch. But Billy is softer than we are, more easily breakable.

Look, Billy and Nate are my brothers, and I love them beyond the beyond, but I’m able to see us objectively, dispassionately. To say our lives aren’t charmed is a lie. Doors swing open simply because we’re white, wealthy, and blessed with good genes. It’s easy to judge us, I know, because I judge myself all the time. Even so, tragedy doesn’t discriminate. Like many families, rich and poor, we’ve faced catastrophic loss, and, equally crippling, lack of purpose. Each of us has suffered; Billy most of all. To say otherwise is also a lie. My point is, you can have everything and still not have enough.

“Billy’s in trouble,” I say to Nate, who’s still on the phone. I think about our parents, scrambling for answers. I’ve called them both, several times, but they’ve been radio silent, which is unusual—and frightening. “This won’t end well for any of us.”

“Have faith, Princess.” (When I was little, my nickname was Forever Girl or Sweet Girl, which Nate turned into Sour Girl, Sour Patch, Sour Pickle, Princess Pickle, or just plain Princess.) “We’re the Quinns. Nothing can break us. All for one and one for all, remember?”





3


CARS START TO ROLL, AND I ROLL ALONG WITH THEM. A MINUTE later, there’s real movement, so I jam on the gas. Cutting across open lanes, I weave in and out, gaining momentum. Exhilarated, I blow past eighty, eighty-five. The car’s vibrations surge through my veins. Bodies in motion stay in motion. Amped up this high, my urges override my good sense. Slow down, I warn myself. Instead, I hit ninety, ninety-two, ninety-five.

My Porsche is a hand-me-down from Nate, who rode it hard and with no respect. The left side is dented, a taillight is busted, and the shocks are a disaster. Still, it’s a top-of-the-line speedster worth two hundred grand. It’s also an asshole’s car and a police magnet, so I get stopped constantly. Plus, I drive recklessly and over the speed limit. “It’s like you want to get caught,” Billy says.

I hear the cop before I see him. His siren blares, then his megaphone. “Pull over at the next shoulder.”

Offering him a good-natured wave in my rearview mirror, I slow down. But my heart is thumping. Despite my bravado, police terrify me. It may seem paradoxical to fear the very men our lives depend on, but terror is the point. Like soldiers, most cops are young, male, and bred for violence. When it comes to power dynamics, they can be as lethal as the most hardened criminals. Look how they’re treating Billy.

For me, a girl alone on a long stretch of highway, the best defense is a good offense. So, by the time I reach a full stop, I’ve slipped off my jacket to reveal a barely there camisole. It’s a vintage cast-off that I found combing through thrift store racks in New Haven. In my rearview mirror, I tousle my hair while watching the cop step out of his sedan and approach me. It’s late March and raw—chilly, rainy, and starting to sleet. So, I straighten my back, sit high in my seat, and pretend I’m not rattled.

Using his thick ring, the cop raps on my window. “You mind?” He’s young, about my age. Stocky and cocky with a bleached flattop; military all the way, or at least aspirational. It’s dark out, and in the white glare of passing headlights, his spiky hair glows like a crown of thorns.