“I know it wasn’t always easy for me. I wanted to be perfect. I wanted the best grades. I wanted to get into the most elite college. I wanted to do it all—”

I wanted to get revenge, too. Expose everyone for who they really are. Turn over the rocks and show the worms.

In the parking lot, a small woman gets out of the convertible. She’s far off in the distance, but I can see she’s wearing large, dark sunglasses, a floral scarf tied in her hair. The ends of the scarf whip like little flags in the wind. How very European. She walks to the fence, stops. Places her hands on the metal wire. Watching.

“—and in that pursuit, I lost part of myself. I forgot what was really important. Not being perfect. Not getting the best grades”—though I did—“not getting into the best college. No. It was about friendship. And community. It was about making memories that will last us a lifetime.”

I pause, as if something caught in my throat. The football field has never in its life seen a crowd more silent. Perhaps everyone thinks I’m going to cry. Ha-ha.

Friendship. Community. More like backstabbers. Liars. Sinners.

They’d torn my family apart.

The woman by the fence is smoking a cigarette. My mother always loved her Marlboros. Convertibles, too. She’d been the one to convince my father to buy one when they first moved to Ivy Woods. Said she never got to drive when she lived in New York City during college.

“So I say to you, graduates, my friends, as you pursue your dreams, as you go out into the world and do great things, just remember this moment here. The memories we’ve made.”

I nearly choke on those words.

Lily’s out there somewhere in the stands, with new friends. She probably hates me. I can’t blame her. I know what hate feels like. I know what betrayal feels like.

I know what it’s like to be blinded by rage.

And how one small move can turn into a mistake you have to live with for the rest of your life.

“We will venture out into the world. And we will make mistakes. But the important thing is that we learn from them.” My voice carries out into the crowd. I can almost see the vibrations of it rippling through the thick, hot air.

I’d learned a valuable lesson that night on the bridge. I’d come close to no return. Very close. But I’d also learned that sometimes you shouldn’t play your hand. Sometimes it’s better to hold it to your chest.

Sometimes, when you have a conversation with someone on her back porch—and she admits she killed your babysitter—you are smart enough to record the chat with your cell phone. And even smarter to save it. To not tell anyone about it.