Don't Trust Her

by Elizabeth Boles

  Is there something wrong with me for believing differently?

  Then I get it.

  This is the point of the game. The damn game is called Game Against People. You aren’t supposed to be nice. You’re supposed to be evil. The more horrible you are, the best chance you have of winning.

  It isn’t about censoring yourself. It’s about relishing that you can be depraved and it’s okay. You can scrape up the goo from the bottom of your soul and let the world see because that’s entertainment.

  That’s funny.

  I need to make a decision. Play this game the way it’s intended or don’t. Instead, lay down dumb cards, ones that won’t let me win. I might feel better about it, but I’m cheating myself, aren’t I?

  I’m a horrible person for playing, and I’m a horrendous person for playing to win.

  Faith and Blanche toss down cards. Decision made, I quickly follow suit and Paige scoops them up, excitement snapping off her skin like electricity. It’s obvious that she can’t wait to dig in. She can’t wait to really understand us, to know the bad things that we good girls think.

  “Okay,” Paige says, “What do old people smell like?” She flips over the first card. “Obesity.”

  We all laugh. It is sick but strangely funny. Faith giggles behind her hand of cards. Must be her answer.

  “A horny white justice,” Paige announces before bursting into laughter, “and a big fat dick.”

  She lifts my card. “Old people smell like a big fat dick. Who played it?”

  I raise my hand, but not shyly like I would have thought. I’m proud and disgusted to have won the black card. “It’s mine.”

  She slaps it onto my hand. “Good job, Court. You might be cut out for this game after all.”

  It’s strange to feel proud for choosing to be revolting. Winning is a powerful sensation. It probably releases endorphins, no matter what you’ve done to succeed.

  We each take another card, and Blanche murmurs, “You might be one to watch, Court.”

  “Oh? Are you used to winning?”

  “Let’s just say I’m not shabby at this game.”

  “Blanche, you’re being shy,” Paige says. “Go on and tell them that you’re amazing.” She gushes to us. “We’ve played numerous times—Derek, Jeremy, Blanche, and me. Blanche always wins.”

  “I thought you didn’t like this game,” I say to Blanche.

  “Not liking and being bad at it are two different things. Who’s the judge? Faith?”

  Faith plucks a black card from the deck. “Oops. Sorry!” She glances at it and then pins her focus back on us. “So, like, y’all have all played together?”

  “Yes,” Blanche says.

  Faith’s expression drops. She clears her throat and tucks a strand of curly hair behind her ear.

  “Well, I think it would be fun if we all played sometime. All eight of us. The four couples. Are you doing it again soon?” she asks hopefully, looking all big-eyed and eager.

  “No,” Blanche answers at the same time Paige says, “Yes.”

  Paige flicks her hand. “We’re still figuring out the details. But when we do, y’all are all invited. How’s that?”

  Faith nods like a puppy being rewarded. “Awesome.” She eyes each of us dramatically and reads her black card. “A romantic candlelight dinner would be incomplete without blank. Okay, ladies, give me your best answers.”

  We play a few hands, circling the table until we reach Blanche for a second time. “What’s my best superpower? Remember, y’all, this is about my superpower. Not yours, so choose wisely.”

  We each drop a card. Blanche shuffles them, murmuring, “I can’t wait to see what my best superpower is.” She flips over the first one. “My best superpower is intimidation. Ha! That’s true. That might be the winner. Okay, let’s see…my best superpower is…Gandhi.” She laughs and we all join. Her fingers flex over the last card. “Okay, my best superpower is…”

  Her spine lengthens as her gaze pins on the white card. She grinds out in a voice full of reined-in fury, “Which one of you did this?”

  “What’s it say?” Faith asks.

  Blanche’s fingers quiver. “I said—which one of you did it? Who threw this down?” Her gaze flicks to Paige, and she says, venom dripping, “It was you, wasn’t it? You did this?”

  Confusion springs in Paige’s eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Blanche, what does it say?” I ask.

  She flips it over for all of us to see. “Can y’all see it now? My superpower is screwing my best friend’s husband.” She slams her hands on the table and shouts, “Now, which one of y’all did this?”

  “Blanche, it’s only a game,” Faith says weakly, her words slurring.

  “Was it you?” Blanche accuses.

  Faith releases a shot of air in surprise. “No.”

  “That’s what I thought. Because why would you have done it?”

  Faith stammers, her tongue rolling out incoherent sounds.

  No one speaks. Faith, Paige, and I exchange glances that silently say, If you played it, speak up.

  But no one does.

  Blanche cocks her head at Paige. “I know you did this. You can deny it all you want, but I know that you laid down this card. Is this another one of your surprises? What other mind games do you have in store for us?”

  Paige reaches for her. “Blanche, I assure you that—”

  She rises, tosses her cards on the table. “Screw you. I’m going to bed. And tomorrow I’m leaving.”

  Blanche stares at me, waiting for me to say something, to back her up, because we’re best friends, aren’t we?

  We are best friends. We were friends before Paige came into the group. Before we allowed her into our lives.

  Faith is the one who met Paige first. She gushed about her, said that we would love her. We do.

  We have—until now. Until this fracture ripped through our group, we were all best friends.

  We were best friends up until thirty seconds ago.

  Blanche’s superpower is…

  “Blanche,” Faith whines. “You can’t be serious. We can’t leave tomorrow.”

  But Blanche is at the stairs. She whirls around and points a finger at Paige. “I knew coming was a bad idea. If y’all want to stay, have at it, but I’m gone. Court, can I take your SUV tomorrow? Y’all can ride back with Paige on Sunday. I’m sure that she won’t mind the surprise.”

  It all happens so fast that I don’t know what to say. “Why don’t we talk about this in the morning?”

  She shakes her head in disgust. “Sure. Let’s talk about it in the morning, when nothing will be different.”

  She stomps up the stairs, leaving the three of us to stare after her.

  My stomach tightens like it’s being wrung out to dry. Guilt grates through me. I should have taken up for Blanche, tried to calm her down. Maybe I should have gotten her to tell us what was going on.

  But don’t I already know what’s going on?

  It’s obvious from her reaction.

  That look that she gave me, it was like she said, You, too, Court? You’re not going to back me up on this? You’re going to stay?

  Faith, Paige, and I sit in silence, and I stare at the card that someone had tossed down. Blanche’s superpower was screwing her best friend’s husband. She was convinced Paige had set her up.

  So my question is—whose husband did Blanche screw, and how does Paige know about it?

  Chapter 11

  Charlotte

  September 2000

  We’re friends, Brittany and me. We have been ever since that first day of chemistry.

  Her sister still doesn’t like me, but I don’t care. We sit with them sometimes at lunch—Court, Blanche, the pretty one who still needs help with frizz, and Faith, the fat one, who glares at me because she’s jealous that she’s not thin like I am.

  Court pretends she likes me. She’s nice enough, complimenting my clothes and hair. But
she always nudges a little closer to Sam if I sit with them at lunch.

  She should.

  Brittany comes over to my house at least once a week to study. She usually lies on my bed while I sit at the desk. We chew the erasers on our pencils to nubs and make paper airplanes, throwing them out the window to see who can send theirs the farthest.

  We do questionnaires in magazines to find out if the boy you like likes you back. She likes Talmadge Lane, the goofy kid from chemistry. He likes her, too.

  She thinks that no one knows this, but I do, and I tell her so.

  “He likes you.”

  She tucks her hair behind an ear and shrugs.

  “You don’t want to talk about it.”

  Her gaze swishes about the room as if there’s a secret spy hiding in the corner. Then her voice drops. “I don’t want Court to know.”

  “Why not?”

  She gnaws the bottom of her lip. She’s so shy, so gentle and honest. I like her and will regret it when we move again. Because we always move.

  Her eyes shimmer like she’s on the verge of tears. “When you have a twin, you share everything. There’s nothing, at least it seems like it, that is just for me, belongs to me. All I want is something for myself. I want to feel different, special, not the other half of someone else.”

  “So that’s why you haven’t told her? Because you’re afraid it’ll be less special when she finds out?”

  Brittany nods. “It’s stupid, isn’t it?”

  “No. I understand secrets.”

  She takes my hand and squeezes it, making me promise not to say a word, never to say a word.

  I tell her that she’s a dork, but that yes, I’ll keep her secret. Now, let’s do our hair and makeup.

  We spend an hour curling our ends and charcoaling our eyes until we look like hookers.

  I pluck several tissues from a box and squirt lotion on them. “We’d better take this off before our dads see.”

  Brittany stands in front of the mirror, kissing the air. “Wonder what Tal kisses like.”

  I sigh. “Go out with him and you’ll find out.”

  “I told you, I want it to be a secret.”

  I smile. “I know just the place you can go.”

  Sam takes me to it. It’s the one spot where we can be alone, where no one will find us.

  I remember seeing the stop sign on the fence that first day of school, noticing it was strange but not thinking more of it.

  We meet one night. After my parents are asleep, I sneak out, pad over to school. It’s so dark. The streets are bare. I can hear my heart in my ears, and I worry that someone bad could be out.

  I’ve read about serial killers and how they stalk girls. What if there’s one in this town that no one knows about? My fear heightens and nearly strangles me when I see a figure up the street.

  But when he turns around, it’s Sam.

  We walk together and reach the fence. He shows me a spot on the side, out of view, where the links are cut away.

  “It’s broken,” he says as he pulls a flap up toward him. He carries a flashlight and a blanket. “Come on.”

  I follow, rubbing my arms, wondering if this is such a good idea, but he assures me that no one goes out there because if they do, they’ll be arrested.

  I stop, glare at him. “I can’t get in trouble, Sam. My dad’ll kill me.”

  “Relax,” he says, his fingers circling my wrist. “Don’t you want to see it?”

  He takes me through a thicket, past lashing branches and grabbing roots. He takes me to a stone blanket where a lantern sits. He lights it.

  In front of me I can see the tops of trees. We’re on the bluff, he explains. Kids used to come out and get high and do stuff. Until one fell off the cliff and died. The police found out what was going on and shut the whole thing down, made it illegal to be out there.

  To keep kids safe, I ask.

  He nods, his mouth quirking in that way that makes my heart hammer. “Yeah,” he answers, “my dad never gets calls to come out here.”

  Sam’s father is a police officer. My father would hate that—the working-class quality.

  It makes me want Sam more.

  I know that I’m a contradiction—be good, don’t make trouble. But I also want to live dangerously.

  I want freedom but must be very careful when I reach out and poke at it—like now.

  Sam throws out a quilt and I lie down, staring up at the stars as a sharp boulder pokes my shoulder blade. That’s all I can think of as Sam pulls down my panties and climbs on top of me.

  Chapter 12

  One of them is lying. I sit across from Paige and Faith, each of us on a couch. We face the television in our giant U. One of them gave Blanche that card, knowing how she would respond, and then lied about it.

  But then again, maybe they didn’t know how she would react. Though this seems highly unlikely and almost stupid for me to think, maybe the card was a fluke, a strange coincidence, chosen by chance and played with disregard.

  That’s simply too naive a thought.

  No, whoever did it, did so knowing they would piss Blanche off. Maybe they want her gone for the rest of the weekend.

  But which woman wants it? Does Paige want her to leave? Does Faith so that she can buddy up closer to Paige for another day?

  Yet both women have denied responsibility.

  That can easily be answered by the fact that they are now too embarrassed to admit the truth. No one would want to admit what they’d done after seeing the way Blanche exploded.

  If you’re going to be an asshole, it’s often better to be an asshole in secret.

  Neither of them is looking at me. Paige reads articles on her phone, and Faith stares at the television, sucked into a reality show.

  Paige glances up from scrolling. “It may snow tonight.”

  And still we don’t discuss Blanche.

  “It never sticks,” I reply about the snow.

  “It does up here sometimes,” Paige says, eyes trained on her glowing screen.

  Faith grimaces. “What will we do if it does?”

  Paige gives Faith a sympathetic look. “We’ll be fine, don’t you worry. There’s a generator in case the power goes out.”

  “I don’t know how to start a generator.” Faith rubs her shoulders. She has finally stopped drinking wine and moved to water. Sort of. The glass sits full beside her. “Do we just turn a switch?”

  “It’s hardwired into the house,” Paige explains. The light from the fire and the glow of her screen makes her cheekbones sharp, her skin luminous almost as if she’s an apparition instead of a living, breathing human. “It’ll start automatically. Sometimes we lose the satellite, but usually not for very long.”

  “And the Internet?” Faith is a stickler for details. “What about it?”

  Paige drops her phone into her lap and stretches her arms overhead. “If the satellite goes out so will the Internet, but if the TV’s on, that’s a clue that the Internet should be up and running. Which means you can send messages. And of course we have the landline if we need it. Trust me”—she is smiling now, her serene demeanor returned—“if it snows, we’ll be fine. We have firewood, food, and anything else we need. If the generator kicks on, by the time it runs out of fuel, the snow will be melted and we’ll be on our way home.”

  Faith’s eyes bloom. “It can run out of fuel?”

  “Only after two days. There’s enough diesel to keep us heated and comfortable that long.”

  Though she doesn’t look happy, Faith reluctantly says, “Okay, I trust you.”

  Should we, though? If Paige played that card, she did it for a reason. Blanche has been on edge since we drove up. She clearly avoided hugging Paige when we arrived.

  Blanche—screwing someone’s husband. Whose?

  Not Tal. I know for a fact he’s not having an affair. Right? Don’t I know that? He comes home straight after work. I piddle in his office a couple of days a week. If there was an office romance
, I’d have an idea of it.

  I almost laugh. Is he screwing the very gay Rob who works with us, or the newly married Christy?

  Neither. I trust him implicitly.

  But what about Scott? Would Blanche screw Faith’s husband?

  First, I have to wrap my head around the fact that one of my friend’s husbands is cheating on them, and secondly, I have to realize that Blanche is a cohort in all of this.

  The whole monkey wrench in the theory is that Blanche loves Jeremy. This is the first truth that I have to deal with. Like, I’m not even kidding when I say she loves him. She adores him. Jeremy was divorced when they met, saddled with a young child because his ex-wife was a total piece of shit—the sort of woman who wanted to spend his money on herself and not pay any attention to the kid.

  It was so bad that Jeremy managed to get full custody. So he’s this dad and an attorney working his tail off to help his kid when he meets Blanche—randomly, at a summer barbecue.

  It’s instant love. Blanche called me the very next day and told me what had happened. She was gushing about him, gushing. If you haven’t noticed, Blanche isn’t exactly the kind of person who gushes.

  Within eighteen months they were married and a few years later had their daughter. Never, not once have I heard Blanche say a bad word about him. Oh, he works late, like all attorneys, but Blanche is a working woman too, a businesswoman at that.

  Given the fact that she grew up in a trailer park and sometimes showed up to school with cigarette butt burns on her arms, Blanche had two choices when it came to life—sink or swim.

  Well, she swam and she swam hard to make it.

  I just can’t see her screwing Jeremy over.

  Okay, but maybe I’m thinking about this the wrong way. Perhaps I should start looking at husbands first, since that was the suggestion.

  So back to Scott. Faith’s Scott has a good job, three kids, but is not anyone I could see Blanche being attracted to. He’s a beer drinking, dad-gut kind of guy. When I think of Scott, I imagine him coming home, popping the top on a cold one, and collapsing on his La-Z-Boy while Faith walks around barefoot serving him dinner as he watches the news.