The Good Girls

by Claire Eliza Bartlett

  MUÑEZ: You seem to know a lot about Emma.

  GWEN: Look, it was clear from sophomore year that we were both going for the Devino Scholarship. Maybe that doesn’t seem like much to you, but here’s what it meant to me: one of us would be going to college for free, and the other wouldn’t be going to college at all. Do you get that?

  I’m not going to let sentimentality get in the way of my future.

  MUÑEZ: So you think that both Emma and Lizzy died the same way, by accident?

  GWEN: I don’t know. It doesn’t have anything to do with me. The police are the ones who said Lizzy’s death was accidental. I read the report. Didn’t you?

  MUÑEZ: You read the police report?

  GWEN: Everyone in Lorne has read that fucking report. The redacted one, of course. The police said it was standard procedure, and that they’d cut the most gruesome details for our peace of mind. And honestly, if I ever find the person who leaked that report . . . well, maybe I shouldn’t be saying that sort of thing to you. But it hurt my parents so bad.

  Anyway, are we done? Because calculus started ten minutes ago, and I’m supposed to present to the class.

  Sorry, it’s just, in case you can’t tell, I’m a very busy person. I have a lot going on. It’s not easy having to be the best at everything.

  Diary Entry

  Emma Baines—September 9, 2017

  Way back when, Lizzy took me for a drive to commemorate the end of our mentorship. We sat on the bridge over Anna’s Run and she took a little book out of her backpack. Her diary, she said as she threw it as hard as she could into the water. Every time she ran out of pages and had to get a new one, she came out here and gave the old one a Lorne Burial. “No one deserves to know my secrets but Anna,” she said.

  I don’t think I deserve to know her secrets. But maybe the police need to. There wasn’t a diary among her effects, but what if the police didn’t know to look for it? If there is some afterlife, Lizzy, and you’re watching me, I hope you’re not mad.

  Maybe I should’ve visited the Sayers before now. It just seemed so—so trite to show up after Lizzy died, with flowers and an insipid card. And then I didn’t know what to do instead, and then I started wondering what had really happened to Lizzy, and all that led to me staring down their front door like it was going to open onto the mouth of hell. The paint was half white, half rust from where it had washed off in the weather, and the door hung crooked on a swollen frame.

  I crunched over brittle grass and came face-to-face with the door. The doorbell looked like it had been installed during the Gold Rush, so I knocked before I could lose my nerve.

  The door opened a crack and Mrs. Sayer’s brown eye appeared. “Emma! All right? Wonderful to see you.” She sounded like she meant it. I heard the same warmth in her voice that she’d always saved for me when I came over to do homework, or to catch a ride with Lizzy to speech and debate. I almost burst into tears right there. I thought she would be angry with me for abandoning them. I’d always wondered if they blamed me, somehow, for the things that happened to Lizzy. “What can I do for you?”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and managed to lie without choking. “I’m in a group project with Gwen. I just need to drop off some things.”

  I wasn’t worried that she’d suspect me. Adults never do. I have so much practice lying to Dad, and for Dad. I’ve aced the innocent little white-girl act.

  Mrs. Sayer opened the door and let me in. “You thirsty? You want a Coke?”

  “No thanks.” I still don’t trust Dad not to find out when I drink soft drinks. Even the Gatorade we get at cheer practice is almost too much for him.

  Mrs. Sayer shut the door behind me and locked it before moving toward the kitchen, a tiny space with a sink, a dish rack, one cupboard, and about three inches of counter space. Everything was linoleum and faded but clean. “Cup of tea?” she said.

  I was on a timeline. Dad expected me home from yearbook between 4:45 and 4:52, depending on traffic. All the same—“Tea would be great.” I had enough time to sit with Mrs. Sayer for five minutes. Besides, she always makes this comforting tea, thick with milk and sugar.

  “You know, it’s lovely to see you again,” Mrs. Sayer said as she turned on the kettle. “Tell me, what’s up at school?”

  Mr. and Mrs. Sayer are such good people it makes me want to cry. Always being so kind to me, even though I’m competing with their daughter for a life-changing scholarship. I ran my finger along the duct-taped edge of the tartan-patterned couch. “It’s good. School’s good. Our cheer team is really good this year. I think we’re going to make it to regionals.”

  “I wish Gwen had joined a team this year. I was captain of the football team in my day.” She still doesn’t say soccer, even though she’s been here for years. “But she prefers running. That girl will take on the whole world alone if she can. I hope she’s good in your group project.” Mrs. Sayer shook her head, smiling.

  “She’s good at everything.” I was proud how I managed to stifle the bitterness that always rises like bile when I think of Gwen. Still, I wasn’t here for a nice chat. “I’m just going to set my notes on her desk.”

  Mrs. Sayer nodded and pointed out the door to Gwen’s room.

  When she opened the fridge, I slipped into Lizzy’s room instead.

  I froze inside the door. The room was so . . . stifling. A mausoleum. Lizzy’s bed still had the Disney coverlet on, the one her mom had sewn from flannel and she’d painted with fabric paints. She wanted to work for Disney when she got out of college. Her desk still had her AP Psych book and a battered copy of Macbeth. In one corner of the desk the dust had been disturbed, and Lizzy’s senior picture leaned against the laminated chipboard edge, right next to a picture of her smiling next to a decorated horse skull attached to a sheet, some kind of Welsh tradition. Two tea lights sat in front of the photo, and a little bowl with crumbs at the bottom. She looked so happy. What happened to you, Lizzy?

  I swallowed my sorrow and bent down to check under her bed. Her parents must have cleaned up, but how much would they have snooped? Would they be afraid to touch her things, or obsessed with finding out how she had descended into . . . whatever it was? I slid underneath the bed to check between the mattress and the frame, I rummaged in her desk drawers and dresser. But I didn’t find any false bottoms or hidden compartments.

  I tried to breathe evenly, but I could feel my pulse rising. If Mrs. Sayer wanted to ask me something, if Gwen came home early . . . I started to pull books off Lizzy’s shelf, heedless of the way I disturbed the dust. This was such a bad idea. Maybe I should’ve just texted Gwen about it, asked her to see if she could find Lizzy’s diary. But that would’ve meant talking to Gwen, and trying to explain myself, and that’s never ever gone well.

  Then I saw the Bible, and I knew. The top of the book bulged, like something small was caught inside. I slid it down from the top shelf and let it fall open. The tiny black notebook was the perfect size. I flipped it open, just to be sure.

  Saw my lacrosse star today. He promised he’d see me later, but it looks like later is later this week. It’s so frustrating, but it’s only a little while. A year. I can think of a year like a group of a few months. And a few months isn’t much time, right?

  Secret boyfriend. Could that be the source of the boot prints?

  I stuck the diary in the front pocket of my backpack and slid the Bible back into place, then rubbed at the book spines and the shelf to erase the rest of the dust. Maybe no one will notice. Then I waited until I heard Mrs. Sayer clanking a pan and slipped out of Lizzy’s room.

  I feel bad for deceiving them. But I’m also determined to find the truth. I need facts before I bring this up. Before I wipe that kindly smile off Mrs. Sayer’s face. She lost her kid—the least I can do is give her a reason to go back to that night.

  8

  The Jock

  CLINE: The date is Thursday, December 6, 2018, the time is twelve oh five. Interviewing James Schill. Thank you
for coming in. We just have a few questions for you. You were with Claude Vanderly last night, correct?

  JAMIE: Okay. This is going to sound—this is going to sound ridiculous. But I have to ask you a favor. Don’t tell my mom about this? Like, I’m happy to say that you interviewed me, but I don’t want Mom knowing it was about Claude. These are confidential, right?

  CLINE: Absolutely.

  JAMIE: Cool. Yes, Claude was with me last night. We, um, study together and stuff. We’d made plans for her to come over after lights-out so that Mom wouldn’t catch on.

  I don’t normally sneak around. It’s just—Claude. Her mom and my mom hate each other for some reason, and Mom thinks that Claude invites the devil in. And Claude, um. Likes staying over. Which Mom doesn’t think is appropriate.

  CLINE: What time did Miss Vanderly come over?

  JAMIE: It was way late. She was supposed to come around eleven so we could do math homework. Don’t tell her I know this, but she waits to do it until I can help her. So I always finish it in advance so that I can be clear on the explanations before we do it together.

  She didn’t show, though, and I sort of fell asleep on my homework with the window open. She climbed through at three something, I don’t remember exactly. She told me she’d been held up doing something, but it was nothing important.

  CLINE: Did she seem upset? Unhappy? Acting unusual?

  JAMIE: She seemed fine. She seemed like Claude. Energetic, full of life, ready for anything. . . . Um, could you take that last bit off the record?

  CLINE: She didn’t give a hint as to where she’d been?

  JAMIE: I don’t remember. We were kind of busy—busy doing math. But it was probably a party. Claude always goes to parties. Her mom doesn’t care as long as she drives safe. Anywhere else she might have been—well, it was probably a misunderstanding. That’s what I’m hoping, you know? This is a big misunderstanding.

  CLINE: A girl in your class is missing and presumed dead. I’m not sure what there is to misunderstand here, Mr. Schill.

  9

  The Party Girl

  CLINE: The date is Thursday, December 6, 2018, the time is twelve fifteen p.m. Second interview with Claude Vanderly, so welcome back. We’d just like to reiterate, for the record, where you were last night.

  CLAUDE: Seriously? At Jamie’s. I can say it in another language, if you like. Estuve en la casa de Jamie anoche.

  CLINE: You got to Mr. Schill’s house after three in the morning. Maybe you can tell us where you were before then.

  CLAUDE: Like it matters. You can’t arrest me for crawling through someone’s window at an undetermined time. Yeah, I have some inside knowledge to this little process. For example, I know you don’t have enough evidence to charge me just because I was banging Jamie later than you thought I was, so you’re going to sit here and hope I incriminate myself. Which won’t work, because I have nothing to hide. It wasn’t even my idea to keep my visits with Jamie a secret. It’s only because his Stepford mom would have an aneurysm if she knew I was staying over.

  Look, I was at a party, all right? Until, I don’t know. Till three.

  CLINE: You weren’t at Jamie’s at three?

  CLAUDE: Two forty-five, then. Jesus fucking christ. It’s a ten-minute drive through Jefferson-Lorne.

  CLINE: Claude, I’d like you to calm down.

  CLAUDE: Don’t tell me to calm down.

  CLINE: I’d like you to calm down, and I’d like you to start from the beginning of your day yesterday.

  (silence)

  CLINE: What did you do yesterday? What was your schedule?

  CLAUDE: Fine. Fine. If we keep this short and sweet, maybe I can salvage some of my lunch hour.

  Get ready to be shocked: On Emma’s last day, I came to school. Obviously. I drove from home, and got here around eight, because I like to sleep and I don’t move so quick in the mornings. You can confirm my time stamp with the Ham on this one. Then I went to my classes like normal. Precalc, physics, AP Lit. And then lunch, which I always leave school for, because have you seen the lunch they offer at the cafeteria?

  My mom’s not really the lunch-making type. Sometimes I make my own, sometimes I buy. I almost always leave school for it, though. It’s nice to just drive.

  Jefferson-Lorne . . . sometimes it feels submerged, forgotten. The curves of Highway 7 whip around the canyon above us, and every day cars trundle past on their way to Kansas or Wyoming or Rocky Mountain National Park. They don’t see us, hidden beneath the swirl of aspen and pine. And when I drive out on the highway, I can pretend that I’m leaving Lorne behind forever. No more dealing with people who ask pointedly if I shouldn’t be in school. No one tells me that my dyed hair or thick eyeliner are an “interesting” look. No one whispers nasty names when they think I can’t hear. On the road I’m just me. All the things I want to be, none of society’s judgment.

  I had my lunch with me yesterday, so I was going to drive and eat. Maybe take Janine up to a little trailhead overlooking the peaks and just sit. I headed for the car, doing my usual check to make sure the security guard wasn’t going to try and stop me. And . . . Emma was there, actually.

  She was talking to someone, but I can’t tell you who. It looked like a girl, but it was a boy’s lacrosse hoodie with the hood pulled up. Number 217. February 17 is my mom’s birthday, so it caught my eye.

  I don’t know what they were talking about, but Emma looked troubled. Maybe pissed. And I thought it was weird to see her out here at all, because if there’s one thing I know about Emma, it’s that she was obsessed with becoming valedictorian. She was neck and neck with Gwen Sayer, and we all knew that whoever got to be valedictorian would take the Devino Scholarship.

  They didn’t notice me, and I didn’t go say hi. Emma’s life was none of my business. And neither is her death. And that’s the last I saw of her.

  I swear it.

  Then, as I headed for Janine, my two least favorite people in JLH pulled into the parking lot. Heather Halifax and her Bratz doll of a friend, Holden.

  Heather has a voice so shrill it could melt acid. The Geneva Convention has banned the use of her voice in war. And I don’t love bitching about a girl’s voice like I’m trying to fit into the Dude-Bro Nation, but just as often it’s the content Heather spews that fills me with rage. Girls have to be perfect and virginal and part of the church choir in order to get her stamp of approval. All boys have to be is hot. Also, we had a slight altercation concerning Heather’s boyfriend last year, so Heather thinks I can fuck off and die, and she’s not afraid to express that sentiment. So I ended up ditching my plans and stuffing myself into a spare corner at school, turning my headphones up until it was time for AP Comparative Government.

  Wait a sec. I guess I lied because I did see Emma in APCoGo. Emma’s always quiet, and for the past few months, she’s been even quieter than normal, pulling her shoulders around like they could act as some sort of shell. That’s . . . sort of how she is. It’s not hard to forget about her. I think that’s what she wants. Wanted.

  We were given a practice test to go over in groups. For some people, like Emma, this means putting her head down and doing the test. Heather Halifax was using it as a chance to plan her weekend. “There’s supposed to be a party at Greg’s place, but I don’t know. I mean, he has a hot tub—but Leigh said he’s being treated for chlamydia, and I just don’t know if my parents would let me hang around with someone like that.” She let out a dramatic sigh. “It’s so difficult keeping up with who’s filthy.” She pitched her voice a little louder, to make sure it carried to me. “I’ll bet Claude knows. Claude, you know all about who’s got chlamydia, don’t you?”

  “Can’t help you,” I replied. “Though I did see your mom in line at the pharmacy. Maybe the two are related.” I hate your mom jokes. They stink of unoriginality. But where Heather is concerned, I’ll say anything to piss her off. It’s my fatal flaw.

  The kid in front of me snorted. Heather’s pencil went sailing past my h
ead. I bit my lip to keep my smile in and leaned over my paper.

  “Damn it, I forgot my pencil case.” Heather sighed. “Emma. Hey, Emma.”

  I peered through my hair at Emma. Her nose was just an inch above her paper, eyes narrowed as she concentrated. If she heard Heather, she didn’t react.

  “Em-ma.” Heather snapped her fingers just under Emma’s ear.

  Emma sprang back. Her hands clenched so tight she snapped her pencil in two. Her eyes widened and her mouth parted slightly. She looked like a mouse caught in a live trap. She looked so terrified.

  “Whoa,” Heather said. “Don’t freak out. Can I borrow a pencil?”

  Emma’s shoulders came up to her ears. She grabbed a pencil from her cloth case and practically threw it at Heather. Then she turned back to her paper, without a word.

  Weird, right?

  CLINE: What was Emma writing in?

  CLAUDE: A . . . notebook?

  CLINE: Like a diary?

  CLAUDE: Standard, five-subject, college-ruled. How the hell should I know if she was doing her diary? She’d be the type to have one. But it’s not like we took diary breaks in class. And I don’t even know what she’d write about. Dear Diary, Gwennie’s so mean, I’m so smart. Emma’s problems are none of my business.

  And by the way, I didn’t kill her.

  CLINE: Why don’t we fill in the gap between school and going to Jamie’s place?

  CLAUDE: Track meet, check in with Garson. Dinner, check in with mom. We ate at Red Runner. After dinner, I drove.

  CLINE: To the party?

  CLAUDE: What? Yeah, I spent a little while at the party. But I drove. I like to drive. I took Janine out and I drove on Highway 7. It’s safer than the town road, it has reception most of the year, it never floods. It smells like pine and woodsmoke. I’m closer to the peaks and the Milky Way. The Universe, God, whatever you call it . . . I’m closer to her, too. I just . . . needed it, last night. To calm myself down.