Don't Trust Her

by Elizabeth Boles

  And I need this. I need to enjoy it. I need to forget.

  As it turns out, I’m let off the hook. Paige’s body expands with a deep breath, and her mood changes as if it’s a shawl that she simply cast off.

  She closes the neck of her robe. “It’s my birthday weekend. What’re we doing talking about sad stuff?”

  “Well, we can always go out and scream again if you want. Remember, no one can hear you,” I tease.

  Her gaze turns to flint. “No one. Not a soul.”

  Those eyes accuse me, but I’ve done nothing to her. Never have I hurt Paige, and yet the feeling that she is directing her anger at me is like a branding iron flaming on my flesh.

  It’s my turn to laugh nervously. “Good thing we’re all friends.”

  The icy look in her eyes melts. “I just wish I’d had nice friends like y’all earlier in my life.”

  Nice friends. What do we know about being nice?

  “Well, you have us now, don’t you?” I hug her. “You have us now.”

  “Let’s go downstairs. I need a refill, and I’m sure we may have some explaining to do about the screaming.”

  I laugh before following her from the room. But I keep Paige in front of me because I don’t want her to see the worry worming its way across my face.

  An old memory bothers me. It snakes its way to the forefront of my thoughts.

  Nice friends, she said. Paige called us nice.

  I lick my lips. Now I’m not parched because of the screaming. I’m thirsty because I’m nervous.

  My heart beats faster; my mouth is dry. My throat is tight.

  Blanche, Faith, and I weren’t always nice. We could be mean.

  In fact, we could be so mean that it was deadly.

  Chapter 9

  Charlotte

  August 2000

  It’s just another school where no one knows me—a place where I’ll have to make new friends and be nice.

  I stare out the sedan’s window as my mother asks for the hundredth time if I want her to go in with me.

  I’m not a baby. I do this every six months.

  I don’t say it, but that’s what I think as I convince her that yes, I’ll be fine. I slip from the car and walk across the lawn. Kids sprinkle the ground like ants aimlessly searching for food. Most of the boys are being idiots, shouting at each other and throwing Frisbees. The girls stand off to the side and giggle, ogling the boys as if they’re the answer to everything.

  They’re not, I want to say.

  But that’s not what the girls think. How can it be when Justin Timberlake and Brittany Spears, our icons, are probably going to get married? When Disney’s Tarzan is what we think of when it comes to romance?

  It’s all a load of shit.

  Beside the high school there’s a chain-link fence with a red stop sign hooked to it. It seems strange to me that there would be a stop sign on a fence, but hey, I’m in the middle of Podunk, Alabama. This is nothing like my last school in Atlanta.

  I can already tell by the girls’ fashions that’s true. Some of them are still pegging their jeans at the ankles. Dear God. These girls need some help.

  A woman with an inner tube of flesh at her belly stands outside. She looks sad in her red polyester suit and frilly white top that doesn’t hide her flab.

  But her smile suggests that she’s brimming with happiness—that she loves each and every high school student.

  She reminds us that it’s fingerprinting day. I’ve already been fingerprinted, I want to say. But instead I duck my head and smile. I’m a good girl. That’s what everyone is supposed to think.

  I slip through the students. They notice I’m new. It’s like there’s a beacon on the top of my head that screams, Look at me! I’m the new girl! Fresh meat!

  That’s what the boys are thinking. The questions on the girls’ faces tell me that they’re not sure if they want to be my friend or if I’m supposed to be the enemy. In all the times I’ve switched schools (thanks to my dad’s job) I usually make one good girlfriend and the rest are wallpaper, wannabes who curl their greedy little fingers into my jean jacket and hope my coolness wears off on them.

  I hit the office and get my locker combination and class schedule. It’s when I’m searching for my locker that I see him.

  He is…beautiful. It’s a stupid word to use on a boy, I know, but it’s true. He has dark bangs that sweep across his forehead and shining blue eyes.

  He sees me, too. I fiddle with my locker. He drops a football, and it rolls to my feet. I want to laugh. That was no accident. He picks it up and asks if I need help with my combination.

  I don’t, but I tell him I do. He opens the locker for me. His name is Sam. Sam with the blue eyes. He leans against the locker and peppers me with questions.

  I’m Charlotte, I say. We just moved here, I tell him. He smiles a lot, nodding. He’s confident, has the air about him that he’s had lots of girlfriends.

  He’ll be a good kisser. His full lips suggest that. They’re just the right size. He won’t fish-lip me, I can tell. Ugh. Fish-lipping is the worst.

  We smile a lot at each other. He asks about my class schedule. Turns out, we have English together. It’s AP English. He’s smart and hot—both good things.

  We’re just getting into our rhythm when he glances up and moves away slightly. A brunette with peroxided highlights stands behind us. She scowls at him and makes a big deal of letting me know that he’s her boyfriend. She even goes so far as to throw her arm over his shoulder.

  I nearly roll my eyes, but I tell myself that I must be good, my dad’s reputation depends on it. He needs me to be a great kid in case any of the people he does business with have kids in my new school. He wants his dealings to go smoothly, and me being a good girl will help that. How, I don’t know, but I’ve learned not to question my father and how he moves from town to town and consults with dying companies—turning them around and making them profitable.

  Sam lets his girlfriend hold him captive. He’s nice to her but distant. Three other girls are with her—a pudgy girl with curly hair, a tall girl with dark hair that could use a good flat iron, and another girl who looks just like the first one, except they’re wearing different clothes—twins.

  Sam introduces them. His girlfriend, the insecure one, is named Court. The pudgy girl is Faith, the dark-haired one is Blanche, and Court’s twin is Brittany.

  Court pulls Sam away, giving me a dirty look. The other girls follow, and I’m left alone at my locker, biding my time until English when I can see Sam again.

  Before English, I have chemistry with Brittany, the twin. Unfortunately the teacher, Mr. Brooks, assigns me to her bench, so it’s just her and me.

  I make a big show of keeping my gaze down, not wanting her to think that I was going after her sister’s boyfriend. Surprise, surprise, but she doesn’t even mention it. She is nice, kind, and actually tells me to forget about her sister, that she was just being an idiot.

  “Don’t worry about her,” Brittany says. “Court can be a little protective at times.”

  I assure Brittany that Sam was only helping me with my locker because I couldn’t get it open, hoping she’ll tell Court this. If she doesn’t, it’s no big deal.

  A tall, cute-in-a-goofy-way guy stationed in front of us keeps looking back and making comments to Brittany. He tells me his name is Talmadge, but everybody calls him Tal.

  He clearly likes her, and she seems to like him. She tucks her hair behind her ear and smiles when he talks to her. I wonder if they’re going out.

  After chemistry we have to get fingerprinted. I see Court again but avoid looking at her. I let the police officer roll my fingers in the black ink, and then they hand me a wipe, which does a shitty job of cleaning off the black. It’ll be my joke to Sam when I see him in English—my dirty fingers.

  He’ll think it’s funny. He’ll wonder if I’m dirty in other ways, too.

  That’s what I want.

  It’s so hard to be good.


  It takes forever to find my English classroom. By the time I arrive, there aren’t many seats left. Sam’s already there. His girlfriend is nowhere in sight. Lucky for me, there’s an empty seat right next to him. It occurs to me that he might have made sure the desk was empty. That thought makes me smile. It’s good, our progress.

  He looks up when I enter, and I grin shyly. I don’t take the seat beside him. A desk a couple of rows up is perfect, so I slip onto it.

  My scalp prickles during class and I know that he’s staring at me, but I don’t look back. When the bell finally rings and we’re dismissed, he approaches, asking if I’ve had any trouble finding my classes. I tell him no and thank him for his help at my locker. Then I pick up my backpack and head toward the door. He asks if I understood everything in AP. I said I did, and he said great, he’s only taking the class so that it’ll look good on college applications. If he needs a study partner, can I help him?

  I smile and say of course I can. He can come to my house whenever he needs to.

  We don’t make future plans, but the first test is coming up soon. Sam will need help with it, I’m sure, and I’ll be willing to do the helping.

  Chapter 10

  “And then she said,” Paige relays, holding back laughter, “I demand that you give me the salad bar with the baked chicken at no extra charge. And the waitress looked straight at her, and no lie, everyone at her table had already told her this, ‘Ma’am, I can’t give you the salad at no extra charge because everyone knows the salad bar is extra!’”

  Faith bursts into laughter. “She’d already been told five times that the salad bar was extra.”

  Paige nods emphatically. “I know! Everyone had said it. I don’t know if that lady was drunk or what, but I could hear her from the other side of the room.”

  I wipe tears from my eyes. “I’m dying.”

  Even though Blanche is sour by nature, she would normally light up at such a funny tale. But she sits with barely a smile curling her mouth.

  The four of us are at the table, finishing up our dinner of roasted salmon and asparagus. Faith forks apart the flesh while Blanche picks at her vegetables. She hasn’t said much and has excused herself to smoke almost every chance she’s gotten.

  Faith lifts her glass, and wine sloshes over the side. It’s her third. Since I’m the only non-drinker, I keep a mental count of empties. Simply for the fact that I want to know beforehand who will be hugging a toilet bowl at the end of the night. More than likely I’ll wind up holding their hair while they vomit.

  “Paige,” Faith gushes (it’s unclear if that’s genuine affection or alcohol induced), “I just want to say that the deep tissue was amazing. What a nice surprise.”

  Paige beams. “I thought you would love it.” She turns to Blanche. “How was yours?”

  Blanche lifts her fork in appreciation. “Very nice. Thank you.”

  “Did you like the reflexology I had scheduled? I remember you saying you’d love to try it.”

  Blanche flicks dark hair over one shoulder in a dismissive gesture. “Yeah. It was great. A nice surprise, like Faith said.” Her gaze skirts to me. “What was your surprise, Court?”

  “Hot stones.”

  “Really?” Blanche bites. “I bet that was relaxing.”

  I sneak a glance at Paige, whose gaze drops to the table. She doesn’t look at Blanche, and Blanche doesn’t look at her.

  It’s clear that Blanche and Paige are in some sort of argument. I don’t know what it’s about, and I don’t want to be caught in the middle of it.

  I push asparagus around on my plate, avoiding Blanche’s heated gaze. “It was very nice of Paige.”

  “Yes, it was.” She pauses and the atmosphere in the room slightly shifts. It becomes thick with animosity. “I propose a toast—to Paige.”

  Paige twists her wedding band nervously. “You don’t have to do that. Y’all don’t need to toast me.”

  Blanche perches on her elbows and leans really close to Paige, who sits across from her. “Why not? You’re our hostess. You’re giving us all these wonderful surprises.” Blanche walks her fingers playfully over the table. “I want to let you know that you’re appreciated.”

  Paige’s gaze dances from Faith to me. “Y’all, seriously. Tell Blanche not to make a toast.”

  “I think she should,” Faith says, sloppy-tongued. “Let me refill our glasses.” She tops off Paige’s, spilling a handful onto the table. “Oops. Sorry.”

  “No worries,” Paige murmurs, but there is worry in her voice. There is worry and dread. She keeps sneaking glances at Blanche, who smiles widely, eager to make this toast that Paige clearly does not want.

  “Maybe we should skip it,” I say.

  “Nonsense! Paige deserves it.” Faith sits back down and lifts her glass. “Go ahead, Blanche.”

  Blanche lifts her glass. “To Paige—”

  Paige twists her napkin, her knuckles white peaks. “Really, you don’t—”

  “To Paige,” Blanche repeats loud enough to drown her out, “for being kind enough to have a birthday—”

  Faith laughs.

  “And for inviting us to celebrate it, even though—”

  Paige’s face pales.

  “She is the one giving us the surprises and not the other way around.” Blanche pauses and her lips twist into a smile. “I wish you a memorable birthday. One you won’t ever forget.”

  Paige swallows.

  Faith cheers. “To Paige! Happy birthday!”

  “Happy birthday,” I say, then sip my water and wonder what the hell all of that was about.

  Paige takes a delicate sip of wine before lowering the glass and clapping her hands. “Thank you, Blanche. Now, for my next surprise—birthday cake!”

  Faith’s eyes glass over. “But your birthday isn’t until tomorrow.”

  Paige is already up and in the kitchen, opening the fridge and glancing over her shoulder. “I know, but like I said, we’re going to have fun. So why not eat the cake a day early?”

  “Isn’t that bad luck?” Faith nibbles her bottom lip. “To eat the cake before your birthday?”

  “She’s not getting married,” Blanche snaps. “The groom isn’t supposed to see the bride before the wedding, but there’s no rule about cake.”

  “Exactly.” Paige appears with a chocolate cake decorated with strawberries and vines made of icing. She settles the plate down and lifts a knife. The edge is paper-thin, the point a spear. I swallow. Paige grins widely and lifts the blade. “Now, who wants cake?”

  “Me,” Faith says with hooded eyes.

  Paige serves us thick slices. The inside is strawberry with a jam center that oozes over the cake. As Paige holds the knife and smiles, I’m suddenly hit with an image of blood. I can almost smell the iron tang in the air.

  I shake my head.

  “No cake?” Paige pouts. “Come on, Court. After this, I only have one more surprise tonight.”

  “Sorry, I shook my head for a different reason. Yes, please. I’ll take a piece.”

  “Blanche?” Paige asks, her voice steel.

  Blanche slowly lifts her gaze to Paige. “Just a small slice. I’m watching my weight.”

  “Of course,” Paige purrs. “Me too, but I’m allowing myself to indulge some.”

  She finishes serving cake and then puts on a pot of coffee. We eat and drink in silence. When we’re done, Paige clears our plates. I try to help, but she insists that I sit.

  “Y’all are my guests,” she says.

  When she returns, Paige holds a black rectangular box. She places it on the table and says in her velvety voice, “My last surprise of the night.”

  Faith blinks widely, presumably trying to focus her vision. “What’s that?

  Paige drums her fingers atop the box. “Does anyone know what this is?”

  “Game Against People.” Blanche’s jaw tightens. “It’s a card game. One that forces everyone to show their true colors.”

  Faith gigg
les. “What true colors?”

  “It was made by racists and homophobes. Everyone who plays looks like one, too,” Blanche says.

  I wrinkle my nose. “It doesn’t sound like a very nice game.”

  Paige tsks at Blanche. “It’s a lot of fun. Don’t be a party pooper, Blanche. It’s my birthday, after all.”

  “Is it fun?” I ask suspiciously.

  Paige takes my hand and squeezes it. “So much fun. You’ll see. I’ll deal the cards and be the first judge, just to show you. That means I pick out a black card and say the sentence. Using the cards you have, y’all do your best to come up with a good response. I’ll then blindly choose the winner of that hand.”

  “I’m confused,” Faith says lazily.

  “You’ll get it quickly,” Paige reassures her. “Now. Let’s begin.”

  She deals out white cards and pulls a black one from the stack. She clears her throat and announces, “What do old people smell like? Choose your best card and put it facedown on the table.”

  The answer depends. Do they pee on themselves or can they keep themselves clean? Some elderly ladies smell like the perfume White Shoulders. Old men sometimes smell like pipe tobacco. Both are comforting scents—their soft smells remind me of happy times.

  But when I glance at the cards in my hand, the inside of my mouth turns to dust.

  These are the five answers that I have to choose from. Old people smell like:

  A big fat dick.

  The Jews.

  Another goddamn teenage movie.

  My last relationship.

  Edible underwear.

  I want to die. I can’t play any of these cards. They’re horrible and I’d be a terrible person for even laying them down.

  Faith peers out from behind her cards as she quietly laughs to herself.

  Bile crawls up the back of my throat. Blanche is shaking her head as her lips twist up into an amused grin.

  Even though the game is irreverent and she has a low opinion of it, she thinks the answers are funny, too.