The Good Girls

by Claire Eliza Bartlett

  Jamie wasn’t in the mood anymore. “We shouldn’t make assumptions about anything. Starting a bunch of rumors at school isn’t going to help.”

  I just laughed. “Okay, Mom.”

  Jamie busied himself on his phone as I drove. Resentment hung heavy in the air around him. “What are you reading?” I asked, to change the mood.

  “More Lily Fransen stuff. Can’t they just move on already?”

  “No,” I said shortly, earning another weird look from Jamie. “Let’s face it, the only justice she’ll ever get is Senator Hunterton’s name being dragged through the mud as long as possible. I don’t want to let it go.”

  “But what if he’s innocent?” Jamie said.

  Classic. The first question is always But what if he’s innocent? It’s never But what if he’s guilty and she spent the last twenty-five years living with the trauma of being molested as a teen, with no recourse to justice?

  I guess that sentence doesn’t fit well on a bumper sticker.

  “Jamie, don’t make me explain to you what a fuckwit you’re being,” I said. He slid down in his chair and kept scrolling.

  Then he gasped. “Holy shit.”

  “What?” I checked the rearview reflexively. No cops following us, no deer waiting to jump into the road.

  “Have you seen this?” He practically shoved his phone in my face.

  “Jamie, hon. Driving.”

  I thought it was, like, a cat video. Or another meme of Lily Fransen’s ugly crying face at the Senator Hunterton hearings.

  I never expected that video.

  We pulled into the Jefferson-Lorne parking lot and I finally grabbed the phone. That was when I realized the serious size of this shitstorm.

  I couldn’t identify anyone from it. It was super grainy, obviously shot in the middle of the night on a crappy camera. And I couldn’t hear anything, either. The river’s roar filled the speakers. But I could make out the two figures—one light, one dark. One short, one tall. Standing on the bridge over Anna’s Run.

  Then the dark one moved, and suddenly only one person stood on the bridge. The light one was gone in a flash of pale hair. The railing leaned, splintered, over the water. The frame froze.

  “Holy shit,” I repeated.

  “Right?”

  I would have been happy to turn Janine around and drive right back out of the school lot. But Jamie put a hand on my arm, and that hand somehow found a way down to my hand and squeezed. “It’ll be okay,” he said. Like I said, he’s the sweetest liar. And it got me out of the car.

  A Fort Collins PD car was parked at the curb by the foot of the stairs. You guys sure don’t waste any time. As soon as I laid eyes on it, I knew that the dead girl was someone from here. And I knew that you all would want to talk to me.

  The Loudmouth Slut always has something to answer for, right?

  2

  The Wolves

  The hall is still, noiseless, like the reservoir before a storm. The air is thick with grief and shock. Three students push through the fog of it, their movements muted, their heels silent on the linoleum floor.

  Still, everyone knows. The wolves are coming.

  The office door opens and Claude Vanderly stomps out. She looks like she wants to break this storm, smash the quiet at the top of her lungs. Shatter the fragile shell that has encased everyone and let the rage out. She runs her bitten fingernails through box-black hair and slings her backpack over one shoulder. Then she turns and slams into the three girls. Their books and phones smash to the ground. Claude crouches and grabs for her things without looking up.

  “If it isn’t Vampirella.” One of the girls smiles. “Lurking in broad daylight.”

  The girls couldn’t be more her opposite: Short and petite, where Claude is tall and lanky. Their cuteness belies a sharpness in how they move together, as if in sync, as if everything they do in life is part of a cheer routine.

  The two on the outside are dressed in black, but not like Claude—they’re dressed for mourning, not making a statement. The girl in the middle, their leader, sports a pink sweater over her dark skirt and leggings.

  This is Avery Cross. The queen of the wolves—in sheep’s clothing, of course. Her blond hair is pulled into its customary high ponytail on her head.

  “So. You’re next.” Claude rises, looking Avery up and down.

  “You talked to them?” Avery asks.

  Claude shrugs one shoulder. “Talked, fielded questions about my lifestyle—whatever.”

  The two girls to either side of Avery close in, ready to protect their own. Claude’s expression turns momentarily to derision as she gives them a cursory glance.

  “I think—I think it’s nice that you’re helping with the investigation.”

  Claude’s snort is more angry than amused. “Helping? Nobody helps the pigs, Aves. At least, nobody smart.”

  Avery lifts her chin. “I’m helping.” She bounces on the balls of her feet.

  Claude’s eyebrows go up. She smiles and cocks her head. “Like I said.”

  The girls to either side of Avery bristle. “And what did they want you for, Supergoth? Are you a prime suspect?” asks a girl with a brown ponytail to match Avery’s.

  “Lyla,” Avery whispers. She turns pleading eyes up toward Claude. “What do they know? I mean, what are they saying about her? Do they think she’s okay?”

  “Who’s okay after Anna’s Run? She’s dead, and everyone knows it.” Claude doesn’t see Avery flinch—or maybe she does, and it’s why she continues. “They’re never going to find out what happened to her, just like all the other girls who died there.”

  “Shut up, Claude,” Lyla snaps. She tucks her arm through Avery’s. “Ignore her. It’s going to be okay.”

  Claude rolls her eyes. “Sure. It’s going to be fairies and rainbows and unicorn kisses. And if you just wish hard enough, Anna will pop out of the water and give Emma back.” She knocks one Doc Marten against the other. “Just keep clicking your heels, Dorothy.”

  Color rises in Avery’s cheeks. Her feet bounce and her hands tighten around the straps of her backpack. The hardness in her voice makes even her friends lean away. “Just because I’m not bitter doesn’t mean I don’t live in the real world.”

  Claude leans forward. “Emma’s dead. Everyone thinks so. And the police are going to do the same thing they’ve always done—blunder around for a while, then forget about her.”

  “That’s not true,” Avery half shouts. She’s breathing hard, jostling on her heels like she wants to take off in a sprint. She takes a deep breath and lowers her voice. “They will find out what happened. And when they prove you wrong, I won’t be surprised if they prove you’re a liar, too.”

  The office door opens again, and two men come out. One still looks fresh out of his teaching internship, baby-faced and blond, too eager to smile. Mr. Pendler, English and journalism teacher, and Emma’s academic adviser. The other has silver in his brown hair and beard, and wears a coach’s whistle around his neck. Mr. Garson, school counselor, head coach of the lacrosse team and cheerleading squad, and three-time winner of the Best Educator award for the county.

  “You know the rules about noise in the hall, girls,” Mr. Garson says.

  Claude’s Martens touch together again. Click, click, click. “Wouldn’t want to break the rules, would we, Aves?”

  Lyla steps in front, ponytail swinging. “At least Avery’s trying to help. Everyone’s going to know that you got called in because you hang around Anna’s Run, doing who knows what. You probably know all the sketchy stuff that goes down there, don’t you? Whatever you haven’t done yourself.”

  “Ladies.” Mr. Pendler puts a hand on Lyla’s shoulder. She tenses, but he guides her back. “This is an awful time for everyone. I don’t expect you to be able to concentrate, but believe me—the routine of class will be good for you.”

  Mr. Garson clears his throat. Mr. Pendler withdraws his hand from Lyla’s shoulder. Garson says, “Miss Vanderly? I be
lieve you have precalc?”

  Claude’s sneer is award worthy. “Good luck, Dorothy,” she mutters, making sure to knock Lyla with her shoulder as she stalks by.

  “Witch,” Avery replies under her breath. Her eyelashes are heavy with unshed tears.

  “Lyla? Natalie? Do you have hall passes?” Mr. Pendler asks.

  Lyla and Natalie can’t quite meet his eyes. Lyla pulls Avery closer. “We’re emotional support. Aves needs us.”

  Avery’s eyes are still on the ground. Pendler teeters on the edge, uncertain. But Mr. Garson shakes his head. “I know it’s difficult, but they’ll want to meet with you alone. Can you do that?” She nods. “Ladies, back to your classes. And Avery”—he fishes a tissue out of his pocket—“come on in.”

  Avery moves toward the open door but stops when she reaches the threshold. The look she casts back isn’t toward Lyla and Natalie but at the long figure, moving down the hall, soon eclipsed by the sunlight. Then she pulls out her phone and begins to type.

  3

  The Cheer Captain

  CLINE: The date is Thursday, December 6, 2018, the time is eight forty-nine. This is Detective Cline interviewing Avery Amelia Cross, correct?

  AVERY: Yes.

  CLINE: Thank you for agreeing to meet with us. Please, take your time. I can only imagine how difficult this must be for you.

  AVERY: It’s—it’s okay. I mean, of course it’s not okay. Emma, oh my god. It’s just—unbelievable, you know? I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since I found out. And I haven’t been able to stop crying. God. My makeup must be raccooning right now.

  I’m so sorry, that’s an awful thing to think about at a time like this. It’s just like Mom says: I can’t keep my head screwed on straight for anything. But I just—Emma was here yesterday. We talked about our cheer routine. It was like another day, and now—

  I’m sorry, do you have another tissue?

  CLINE: Can you tell us how you found out about Emma?

  AVERY: It was this morning. I know that . . . video’s been going around since the middle of the night, but I don’t look at Facebook after nine. I was working on my cheer routine all last night, with my best friend, Lyla. She’s on the cheer team, too, and I sleep over a lot so we can practice. Then I drove us to school this morning.

  I started to think something weird was going on when I saw the police car. We don’t usually get them, you know. But even then, I just figured someone got busted for weed, right? Claude Vanderly’s the type to get escorted out for having something special in her locker.

  We were kind of joking about it when we went into homeroom. Usually we have a few minutes to ourselves, since we’re earlier than everyone else.

  Not today.

  Homeroom was crammed, and loud. But the chatter stopped as I came in.

  For a moment, I was sure it was about me. I know people talk about me. Going over my every move at competitions, counting the calories I put on my plate at lunch. Fear swelled up from my stomach, and for a second I thought I was going to be sick. They’ll think you’re pregnant. I swallowed.

  The cheer team had set up in the corner. They were all crying. Walking to my seat felt like walking down the world’s worst catwalk. Everyone was staring at me, and not in the good way. A ripple of whispers broke out. I checked the curves of my belly, the jut of my hip.

  Natalie leaped out of her chair and gave us both a huge hug. “I’m so sorry, Aves,” she said thickly. Tears streamed down her face, running a track through her makeup. “How are you holding up?”

  “A-about what?” I stammered. I could still feel the pressure of every stare in homeroom.

  She took in the look on our blank faces and her red-rimmed eyes widened. “Oh my god. You guys saw the video, right?”

  “What video?”

  “Oh my god. Ohmygod.” Natalie leaned over. “Shay, your phone.”

  “The Ham confiscated it,” Shay said, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “Just like yours.”

  I unzipped my bag and grabbed my phone. I don’t usually take my phone out during class, but I had to know. What had reduced the team to tears? What had all of homeroom in their seats before 7:45?

  Natalie took the phone from me. By the time she handed it back, a crowd of students had piled behind us. They pressed in, pushing against my shoulders, breathing down the back of my neck. My skin started to crawl.

  “It’s so creepy,” said Kyle Landry, the lacrosse captain. He sounded gleeful. I wanted to tell him that if he thought it was so creepy, he could stop shoving his crotch up against my shoulder and go back to his desk, but—well. I’m not that kind of girl.

  The video was super grainy, but I knew as soon as I saw the willowy shape of her, the ice-blond hair. Emma. The roar of Anna’s Run filled the speakers.

  And then, the push.

  I couldn’t breathe. As soon as the video stopped, the whispers rushed in, building around me. They erupted in rapid-fire guessing as the video began an automatic replay.

  “It had to have been someone strong.”

  “Definitely a dude.”

  “And at least six inches taller than Emma.”

  A shadow fell over us. The other students scattered like autumn leaves in the flood. I looked up at the less-than-ecstatic form of Mrs. Willingham.

  “Good morning, Miss Cross. I’m sorry, I know this must be a shock. Phones are confiscated for the duration of the day.” The Ham held out her hand and I gave up the phone without a fight. It wasn’t like I wanted to watch the video again. I wish I’d never watched it in the first place.

  The Ham raised her voice. “That goes for everyone. No phones, no backup phones. Your parents can call the office if they need to get in touch with you. I have to step out for a moment, and I expect you all to act cordially.” As she spoke, her eye drifted over to the door, as though she knew who was about to come through.

  A moment later, Claude Vanderly slouched in, wearing the same clothes she was wearing yesterday. Her thick Goth eyeliner was smeared, like she just emerged from the closet with some other girl’s boyfriend. As usual.

  The Ham spoke to her for a moment. Claude looked pissed. Then she scanned the room.

  She and I realized at the same time. There were two empty seats left in the room—one right in front of Kyle and his cronies, and one next to me.

  The seat next to me should’ve been Emma’s seat. She should’ve respected that. But Claude folded her long limbs under the desk and let her bag thump between us.

  I was ready to ignore the challenge. Claude needs to be at the center of at least one drama a day, and I don’t fuel her fire. But Lyla, bestie that she is, wasn’t about to let Claude think she could get away with anything. And Lyla’s never forgiven Claude for trying to seduce my boyfriend at homecoming last year, or for spreading the rumor that she succeeded. Lyla put a hand on my arm as if to say, I’ve got this. She raised her voice in Claude’s direction. “I have a cross in my bag, if you finally want that exorcism.”

  Claude turned her head slowly, like she’d just noticed we were there. Like I said, she manufactures drama. “I’m sure it makes a great accessory for your preppy antifeminism.” She looked at me and yawned. “Morning, Little Miss Prozac.”

  “Misandrist Barbie,” I muttered back. I couldn’t help myself. I try, but honestly. Claude can’t act like her life has changed even though a girl is dead? She can’t acknowledge that the world doesn’t revolve around her and her weird agendas?

  All the same, I instantly regretted it. I’d been up late—extra cheer practice with Lyla—and I was exhausted. It felt like I had swum the length of Anna’s Run myself. And now this . . . I just don’t have the energy to deal with Claude. Not today.

  CLINE: Do Claude and Emma have a history?

  AVERY: I don’t know. Is Claude a suspect?

  CLINE: Why don’t we stick to talking about Emma?

  AVERY: Because, I mean—if Emma was out on Anna’s Run, why wouldn’t Claude have something to do w
ith it? Claude’s out there all the time. Not that I’ve seen her. Anna’s Run is the sketchiest place in town, so I don’t even like to hear about it, much less go there, you know? But—well, Claude was arrested for vandalism last year. Vandalizing Anna’s Run. That’s what Emma said, and her dad’s the cop who made the arrest.

  You must know him. Officer Baines, chief of police?

  Anyway, I heard from Emma that it wasn’t actually vandalism. It was witchcraft. Like, weird sacrifices and stuff. Claude’s mom is a lawyer, so she got the paperwork changed, but Claude talks about Anna like she’s a real person. Like she can—commune with her or something.

  CLINE: What do you think about Anna’s Run?

  AVERY: There’s loads of ghost stories about Anna. In middle school, we used to tell them at sleepovers to scare each other. We’d say that the river was cursed there. But once we got into high school, we realized it’s just a place where kids go when they want to do something bad without their parents catching them. Like smoke weed, or drink. Or, you know, other things with each other. Stuff that Claude Vanderly is . . . kind of good at.

  But Emma wouldn’t hang out there. Emma’s as good as they come. Not to mention her dad would flip if he found out. I don’t know why she’d be at Anna’s Run last night, but it must have been a good reason. Maybe she was running from whoever—whoever . . .

  CLINE: Do you have any idea who would want to hurt Emma?

  AVERY: Not at all.

  CLINE: No one here, or in her personal life?

  AVERY: Emma didn’t have any enemies—well, I guess Gwen Sayer. Sort of. I mean, they were competitors for the Devino Scholarship. But Emma didn’t have, like, real enemies. She was always busy with her studies, but nice to everyone. She didn’t have a boyfriend, and she spent so much time on extracurriculars, it was like she didn’t have any left over for making friends or foes. She was good friends with Lizzy Sayer, before . . . and then when Lizzy died, Emma’s dad said he didn’t want her hanging around with people like that. So if she wasn’t at cheer, or the school newspaper, or speech and debate club, she was at home. And even though she was totally normal and awesome, she got a reputation after the Lizzy Sayer thing.