Exclusive: A First Look at the Prep School Murder Mystery ‘They Wish They Were Us’
If we’ve learned anything at all from Gossip Girl, Pretty Little Liars, and Elite, it’s that high school drama is never just high school drama: Frequently, there’s murder involved! And okay, maybe (thankfully) that trope doesn’t stand up to reality, but in the context of fiction, is there honestly anything juicier than beach parties gone bad? “Rich prep school kids with skeletons in their closets” is one of our favorite genres here at Cosmo. So much so that our very own op-ed editor, Jessica Goodman, wrote a YA murder mystery of her own…and you know we had to get you an exclusive excerpt before its release. (Side note: Remind me to ask her how she pulled this off *on top of* her v busy day job. We’re so freaking proud!)
In They Wish They Were Us, Jill Newman and her friends rule the pristine world of Golden Coast, Long Island, where their prep school uniforms speak for them. They’ve got the money, the grades, and the clout to go anywhere in life—until their privileged lives are shattered by a tragedy. Jill’s best friend, Shaila, was murdered on the beach, and her boyfriend, Graham, confessed to the crime. Except now Jill’s getting texts claiming Graham is innocent. So if it wasn’t Graham, then who’s the killer? Read more in the excerpt below, and don’t forget to preorder your own copy of the book, due to release August 4.
The party has spilled out into the backyard and I watch as a few underclassman dance barefoot in the grass. Nikki’s house sits right against the water and beyond the yard, there’s a rickety wooden walkway that leads down to the beach. When I squint, I can make out two bare butts running into the sea. They must be freshmen trying to prove they’d pass their pops. My eyes move back to the deck where two female undies kiss on a lounge chair by the pool while a group of guys cheer them on, holding their phones up to document. The salty wind picks up above our heads and I lift my eyes to the sky. The Bull. She’s right where I expect her to be, just above Orion. I picture her spindly legs galloping through the darkness, doing cartwheels above her friends. It’s the perfect night to see her.
“I don’t wanna pick freshmen,” Nikki says. She sips her drink and fiddles with the sliver of rose quartz that hangs around her neck. She got super into crystals after Shaila died. “I’m not ready to be the oldest.”
“I know what you mean. It doesn’t feel like it’s time,” Marla says, blowing faint vape smoke into the air. It floats above her like a halo.
The liquor buzzes in my ears. “Jared wants to be a Player,” I say.
“And you’re surprised?” Nikki asks, turning towards me. A stray leaf catches in her hair.
“Your brother?” Marla asks. “So what? He’s kind of cute.”
“Gross, dude,” I say softly. I wonder if I should have told Nikki alone.
Marla was one of us, chosen after she had made varsity as a freshman and the senior boys dubbed her best ass when she arrived at Gold Coast Prep that year. She grew up with four older brothers and a near-perfect complexion, both of which made her enviable. But she was always a little aloof, off in her own, self-contained world. I’ve never even been to her house, don’t even know where it is. She rarely joined our sleepovers, since she preferred, she said, to stay at home with her brothers, who all went to Cartwright and were strictly off-limits. That’s what Marla told us when she caught Nikki drooling over them after a game. They wouldn’t have been interested anyway. They were totally unfazed by Prep, probably because they knew they would never lose her, that Marla just joined the Players to ensure she’d get into Dartmouth. Field hockey would help, she said. So would her stellar math skills. But she’s shockingly bad at standardized tests. The wildly accurate study guides in the Files helped her get a near-perfect SAT score last year.
As did the morally questionable doctor who diagnosed her with ADHD so she could get extra time on the test. His kid was a Player a few years back.
Sometimes Marla’s brothers would all come to pick her up from parties, speeding down the winding, wooded Gold Coast roads in their red Jeep Wrangler. When they came to a stop, they would call out in unison from the car, never stepping foot inside.
“Mar-la!” They’d howl until she emerged from whatever hazy doorway she had been inside. “Mar-la!” With a quick wave, Marla would be gone, her white-blonde hair blowing behind her as she sat nestled in the backseat of her protectors’ ride. They were ghosts to us, phantom drivers who rode in on chariots and disappeared into the night. But they couldn’t protect her from everything.
I wondered if the allegiance I felt toward Jared was burrowed inside of her, but multiplied by four.
“I don’t know,” I say. “He’s not like us. This isn’t for him. I mean, imagine him dealing with the pops?” I picture his worried little face, confused and distraught.
Nikki puts her arms around me, hugging me from behind. “It doesn’t have to be like that for him. We’re the seniors. We’re in control now.”
“I know. I just…he’s my brother.”
“It’s going to be fine,” Marla says. She draws one final deep drag before pocketing the plastic pen. “Like you said, we’re in control.” She pauses. “We’re changing everything.”
My phone vibrates once, and then again, burrowing itself into my thigh. Jared, I bet. Adam, I hope.
“I gotta pee,” I say and slip past them back into the bedroom. I close the door behind me in Nikki’s en suite bathroom and plunk down on the toilet. My phone pulses again and then for a fourth time. I pull it out, expecting to find a familiar name. Adam, Jared, Mom, Dad. Instead, it’s a number I’ve never seen before.
I open the text and scan the words quickly but they don’t make sense.
I know you probably never want to hear from me again, but I have to tell you something.
Graham didn’t kill Shaila. He’s innocent.
It’s all so fucked up. Can we talk?
My stomach is in my throat and Nikki’s bathroom spins around me. The walls are on the floor and the sink is flipped upside down and I think I’m going to puke. Another text appears and my heart nearly stops. I grasp my phone so hard my knuckles turn white.
It’s Rachel Calloway.
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