The Good Girls

by Claire Eliza Bartlett

  Seems sketchy, doesn’t it?

  CLINE: We’re only trying to establish a timeline.

  CLAUDE: I stopped at a gas station around one in the morning. The Bradley near Allenstown. Check it. Check their surveillance, their receipts . . . seriously.

  CLINE: We’ll take a look if we think it’s relevant.

  CLAUDE: I mean it. I was there and I can prove it. I’m not a liar and I don’t kill girls.

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

  CLAUDE: Fuck that. Fuck it. I’ll be as angry as I want. I didn’t do anything, and you’re wasting my time and yours with this ridiculous questioning. So if you don’t have any evidence, I’m out.

  That’s what I thought. Nice talking to you.

  YOUR NEWS FEED

  December 6, 2018

  What are your friends saying?

  Lyla Ionescu: Emma, you were a bright light in this world, a fun dance partner, the smartest girl at school, and so kind. I know every single person at JLH will mourn you. I will remember the long bus trips to competitions, stuffing our faces with fries and shakes at the Morning House after a hard practice at the gym, and the fry attack will always be one of my favorite memories.

  A source very close to the investigation has told me that the police are considering that the video might be a hoax. Like??? Poor Emma is relying on them to find whoever pushed her, and they can’t be bothered? They’re just interviewing every JLH student like we all might have something to do with it? This is such a joke, like even I know where I would start. Seriously guys, round up every tall hobo in town and figure this out!! #EvenICouldDoThat #JusticeForEmma

  Samantha Johnson: PREACH

  Ben Nakayama: RIP Emma :(

  Shay Brayden: ikr?

  Natalie Powell: wtf lyla she never came to the Morning

  House with us she wasnt even there for the fry attack

  Shay Brayden: RIP Emma I know u are up there looking down on us, pls let the police find the sicko who did this!!! #JusticeForEmma

  Samantha Johnson: WHERE WILL THIS END? We can’t even value girls enough to get our asses in gear when one of them is FILMED being MURDERED?!?!?!?! We must start valuing the lives of our women and demand EQUAL JUSTICE FOR ALL #JUSTICEFOREMMA

  James Schill: We will miss u Emma #RIP #JusticeForEmma

  Kyle Landry: yeah but the important ? is who am I gonna crib my math homework off now? #thesearetherealquestions

  Steven Bulowski: Gwen?

  Kyle Landry: no way man shes fuckn scary

  Ben Nakayama: #toosoon

  Michael Bryson: #JusticeForEmma cmon dudes get your heads out your asses

  Avery Cross: Emma, I won’t cry because it’s over, I’ll smile because it happened. But I stand with anyone who wants #JusticeForEmma and I’m willing to help in any way I can.

  Michael Bryson: so sorry babe your the best

  Jefferson-Lorne Inquirer: We are currently considering op-ed submissions concerning Emma Baines’s case and the decision of the police to ignore, for now, the Facebook video that went viral and alerted the town of Jefferson-Lorne to her disappearance. Please keep submissions tasteful. #JusticeForEmma

  Lyla Ionescu: @Gwendolyn Sayer surely you’ll trade an opinion for extra credit . . .

  10

  Pretty Vultures

  Rumors rush.

  They sweep the streets, filling up the gutters like a flash flood of gossip. They wash through the parking lot of the dead girl’s high school in a susurration of whispers—Did you know? Wasn’t she—? The river of grief runs wide, but it is the undercurrent of curiosity that will pull them all under.

  It is a crisp day, the kind that comes and goes in a mountain town. Soon it will snow, promising the patronage of fake-tan businessmen and their freshly waxed skis; tomorrow it will be like summer again. Nature here is fickle, playing nice before it strikes with a storm or a drought or a wildfire.

  The cheer team sits at a table next to a spindly pine tree, all in black in honor of their fallen comrade. They watch the clouds roll in and drink up the last of their lunch period. Behind them the yellow bricks of Jefferson-Lorne loom.

  The whispers whorl and spin around this table, afraid to stop and dip in. The squad meets any attempt of rumormongering with glares and sniffles about respect. But beneath their somber expressions, the curiosity bites, perhaps harder than for anyone else.

  Lyla places a hand over her heart as she recounts the story of her gym fight with Gwen. “I have never seen that level of disrespect for another human being,” she swears. “How cold does a bitch have to be, not to get the bigger picture when somebody dies?”

  “I wish Mr. Darrow hadn’t left. He would have stepped in.” Avery sits next to Lyla. She traded the morning’s pink sweater for a black hoodie, and she pulls the sleeves down over her hands before propping her elbows on the table. Her boyfriend, Michael, slides closer on her other side, until their thighs touch on the bench.

  “I’m glad he did. I think Gwen got herself a nice arm injury.” Lyla shakes her head, still offended by Gwen’s existence.

  “Why is she like that?” asks Natalie around a bite of Caesar salad. Only Natalie keeps eating salad in the dead of winter. The rest warm themselves on pumpkin and butternut squash soup heated in the cafeteria microwave.

  “She’s a classic sociopath.” Lyla pushes an imaginary pair of glasses back up her nose, a sure sign that she’s about to start talking out of her ass. Her dad’s a detective with a two-year degree in psychology that Lyla likes to appropriate as often as she can get away with it. “Remember, you know—Lizzy? They told Gwen to take as much time as she needed mourning. And how many days do you think she took? None. Zero. She hit all of her extracurriculars. She didn’t even skip mathletes that week.” She leans back and puffs a cold breath into the air. “Besides, she’s got motive, more than anyone else. She fits as a killer.”

  The rest of the table leans in, drinking up Lyla’s words. Avery toys with her own lunch, a can of Monster Michael smuggled in for her. “She’s not a sociopath; she just needs to deal with things differently than we do. Maybe we shouldn’t judge people we don’t know very well.”

  “Aves.” Lyla throws an arm around Avery’s waist, ignoring the other girl’s slight flinch. “You know I love you, right? And I love you because you always believe the best of people. It’s, like, your superpower. You’re that good at it. But Gwen’s not good people. She’s a total cutthroat and I can one hundred and fifty percent believe she murdered Emma to get rid of the competition. Girl has a dark streak. Runs in the family, I think.”

  For a second, there’s silence, the nervous flutter of eyes around the table. Has Lyla gone too far? But she’s not finished. “Do you remember seventh grade, speech and debate competition? Gwen and Kyle Landry were the finalists. She walked away with a hundred-dollar gift card; he was too embarrassed to come out of the bathroom until everyone had gone home. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: laxatives in his water bottle.”

  Natalie and Shay giggle at the memory.

  “She’s ruthless,” Lyla states. “Just like Lizzy. We all know what she did.”

  “Not for sure,” Shay jumps in.

  “I know for sure. Brittany Landry said she missed half their AP English class with Mr. Pendler. Yet she got a perfect score on her fall final. A teacher could’ve adjusted her grades, no problem.”

  “Who do you think it was?” A stray piece of lettuce hangs from Natalie’s lower lip.

  “Mrs. Willingham,” Lyla says, leaning in. Somebody at the table gasps. Avery’s face flickers with hurt. “I’m not joking. The Ham came here five years ago, right? I heard she’s bi and got kicked out of her last school for having an affair with a student. A female student.”

  “Mrs. Willingham’s married to a man,” Avery points out.

  “So? My dad cheated on my mom like five times before she divorced him,” Natalie says.

  “Maybe you just think she sleeps around because she’s bi,�
�� Avery mutters.

  Shay leans over and takes Avery’s hands. Michael presses in protectively. “Aves, we know you’re not like that,” she says.

  “Don’t be so sensitive, Aves,” Lyla says, defensiveness creeping into her voice.

  And good Avery acquiesces, because that’s what her kind of girl does. And she knows her friends trust her—but what sort of trust will it be when the rumors swing her way?

  “Anyway, it was either a teacher or a parent. And I think it’s a teacher,” Lyla says.

  “I think we’re talking about a dead girl.” Avery’s face has gone pale, her voice hard, and her feet tap uncontrollably on the brown grass. She kicks a pine cone. “Being with a teacher is super illegal. You just sound like the Lily Fransen accusers.”

  Lyla snorts. “This is nothing like Lily Fransen. Lily Fransen was groomed and raped. But Lizzy? She just flew off the handle. And the rumors were everywhere. No smoke without fire, right?”

  “Rumors are just rumors. None of us even knew her.” Avery’s face twists. “Lizzy and a teacher, Gwen and Emma . . . I wouldn’t want people to talk about me doing stuff like this without looking at the evidence first.”

  Michael chuckles and slides an arm around her, just under Lyla’s. Avery’s trapped between them. “Babe, no one’s going to accuse you of murder. Do you know what it takes to get away with it?”

  Avery stiffens, face going blank.

  “Seriously. It’s not like planning a routine,” Lyla adds.

  Others chime in. Determining the time, the place, catching the victim alone, getting rid of DNA evidence . . . these are things that sweet, good, well-meaning, simple Avery cannot possibly do. Red spreads up her face like a rash, and the bottoms of her eyes fill. She can’t move, not without pushing away from Lyla and Michael, not without showing her friends how their words slide under her skin.

  Natalie squeaks in panic, and the whole table falls silent. They look up to see Officer Cline strolling up. His lips stretch in anything but a smile. “Having a nice lunch?”

  On Avery’s face, the captain smile reappears, a bit wobbly. “Trying to remember the good times.”

  “You were all on the cheer team with Emma?” Cline asks.

  The girls nod. Michael says, “Not all of us,” which makes a couple of them giggle nervously.

  The detective’s attention snaps to him, and suddenly, Michael looks like he wishes he’d never spoken at all. “Lacrosse, right? I come to the odd game. Used to be on the team, too. What’s your number?”

  “Uh, two-seventeen,” Michael mutters.

  Cline’s eyes glint. “Mine was three-thirty. This your girlfriend?” He gestures to Avery. Michael nods. “You don’t mind if I borrow her a minute, do you, son?”

  “No, of course not.” The relief in Michael’s voice earns him a glare from Lyla.

  Cline’s attention has shifted, from the lacrosse star to the cheer captain. “We have a few follow-up questions for you, Miss Cross,” he says.

  “Anything I can do to help.” Avery brushes off the unresisting arms of Michael and Lyla and climbs over the bench. Around her, the expressions of the team and their assorted boyfriends flicker.

  The humans of Lorne are as fickle as the weather.

  “See you later?” she says.

  “Yeah.” Michael manages a smile.

  Avery tugs on the drawstrings of the black hoodie and tucks her hands in the pockets.

  And as she walks, the river changes. The whispers twist toward this new disruption in the current. Maybe Avery Cross will change the flow of the river—or maybe she’s another victim of it, about to get washed downstream.

  11

  The Helper

  CLINE: How long have you been with Michael Bryson?

  AVERY: Um . . . I don’t really get why . . . ? Two years.

  CLINE: You’re comfortable with each other.

  AVERY: Yes.

  CLINE: You borrow his clothes?

  AVERY: Um. I guess? Sometimes?

  CLINE: Another student saw a girl in Mr. Bryson’s lacrosse hoodie in the parking lot, with Emma Baines, yesterday afternoon. Was that you?

  AVERY: Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry. I completely forgot about that. It’s just because I—I haven’t been thinking properly. You understand, right? I’m still reeling from all this. And, I mean, I did come to you. I have nothing to hide.

  I did talk to Emma in the parking lot. It must’ve been . . . around lunch. Yes, it was lunch because we’d agreed to use the lunch hour for working on a routine.

  While I don’t like to speak ill of my friends, or of the dead, or, well, of anyone, the truth is that Emma always needed help on routines. She could execute the easy stuff, but she couldn’t be the base for a basic lift and the girl was terrible with memorizing choreography. I think she had too much else on her mind, to tell you the truth. I find clearing your head is the best first step to a perfect routine.

  But Emma didn’t join the team for the same reasons as the rest of us. You know, because we love to dance. And also to be a spirit of positivity in the school. Emma joined because she knew it would look good on her résumé. College was the most important thing in Emma’s life. But even if she didn’t think of us as a big family, I did. I wanted to help her, because we help family. Since Gwen had track, Emma needed a sports activity, too.

  Emma was dragging us down this year. And yes, before you say anything judgy, cheer is a real sport. We lost points at a couple of early competitions because we weren’t coherent enough on the floor. She’s often half a beat behind everyone else, and she doesn’t put in the effort to fix that. Natalie and Shay have pushed me to kick her off the team more than once, and they don’t think it’s right to let her stay on for the credit when she doesn’t put in the work. But I . . . really wanted Emma to succeed. I guess I felt a little bad for her, really. I would hate to be that alone.

  I couldn’t help feeling she needed me somehow.

  Emma came in for our lunch date frustrated, but I tried to ignore it and focus on the music. Emma didn’t bite. Her moves were sloppy, she missed a bar of choreography, and when I stopped to go over things slowly, she rolled her eyes at me. A bit rude, right? Not that I want to be a jerk about it. All I said was “What’s going on with you?”

  I didn’t think I asked it like a snot or a . . . you know . . . bitch. But she couldn’t take it. She stormed out, without her bag or any of her gear. I grabbed her backpack and rushed after her, spotting her as she streaked down the hallway toward the front doors.

  I had her stuff and my stuff, so I was a little weighed down, but I am the cheer captain, and physical activity is kind of my specialty. I caught up to Emma in the parking lot. “You forgot your backpack,” I puffed.

  Emma turned. Tears ran down her face in a river. I dropped my bags and leaned in, wrapping my arms around her. “What’s going on?” I asked again.

  “I had a meeting with Mr. Garson today.” She sniffed and I dug around in my pocket for a tissue. You know Mr. Garson, right? He’s killer. He’s our co-coach and the head coach for the lacrosse team. I twisted my knee last year and Mom said I shouldn’t compete for the rest of the semester. But Mr. G helped me rehabilitate and got me back on the floor in four weeks. He’s the student counselor, too—he’s so easy to talk to, you sort of forget you’re talking to an adult. He gets us the help we need, and Emma had been seeing him twice a week since her, um, Lizzy outburst. “He said I should think about alternative options if I didn’t get the Devino Scholarship.”

  My heart sank for my friend. “Does he think Gwen’s ahead in the game?”

  “I don’t know. He said he couldn’t talk about other students, that this was our time to devote to me and my future. He’s talking about options and after-school jobs. He asked if I had a college fund.” Her face screwed up again.

  Emma’s home life was really private, but my dad is kinda friends with her dad, so I pick a few things up. I knew there was no college fund. I knew there was no job. Emma’s dad
has refused her both. The Devino Fund was basically her only chance to go to college.

  I don’t think her dad wanted her to leave.

  I searched for something encouraging to say. “Your grades are great, and the competition’s only a few weeks away. I’ll help you. We’ll get the team to the regional finals. That can help you too.” Even as I said it, I felt a little guilty. Because Emma winning the scholarship would mean that Gwen would be the one stuck in Lorne. Gwen’s not my friend like Emma is, but I don’t like doing things that hurt other people. I’m not that kind of girl.

  “What if it’s not enough? I’m not going to be trapped in this stupid town for the rest of my life. Coming to lacrosse games because there’s nothing better to do. Waiting for Main Street to flood every spring, so we literally can’t get out. Dying of boredom or alcoholism or—” She choked.

  I hugged her again. She trembled against me, rigid with fear. At the time I thought it was all about the Devino Scholarship, the prospect of staying in Lorne forever. But maybe it was something different.

  She might have told me, if Heather Halifax hadn’t strolled by with her best friend, Holden. “What’s up with you two?” she asked curiously.

  “We’re fine,” I said.

  Maybe I said it a little sharply, because Heather held up her hands in defense. “All right, I’ll stay out of your business.” She smiled at me, but it seemed suspicious. People like to think I’m sleeping with half the cheer team because I’m bi.

  “We’ll get you out of this,” I said to Emma when Heather and Holden were gone, and I meant it. Maybe Emma saw that I did. She smiled, and, sir, I’m an expert on fake smiles. This one was real.

  There was a party last night, but I’m sure Emma wasn’t there. Her dad didn’t let her go to any parties because there might be alcohol or weed or boys. Even after cheer competitions, he’d pick her right up from wherever the meet was and drive her home. She never hung out with us when we went to the Morning House or got coffee, which meant that while all the girls were becoming better friends, she was sort of stuck on the outside.