The Good Girls

by Claire Eliza Bartlett

  STUDY BUDDY: good thing you have a boyfriend then

  AVERY: come on. You wanted secrecy as much as I did

  STUDY BUDDY: it’s not the secrecy that bothers me.

  STUDY BUDDY: why haven’t you ended it yet

  AVERY: u know why

  AVERY: Ill take care of it

  AVERY: can I call u?

  18

  The Liar

  The bathrooms at the Cross residence are all pristine and white, from the tiles to the marble countertop to the monogrammed towels next to the sink. Avery’s arms and abs ache from her morning workout. Next to her, Mrs. Cross pulls the scale out from under the sink.

  It’s just a checkup. A way to keep tabs. What Mommy always said before she used it, hissing at her numbers. We’ve got to stay healthy, baby.

  . . . six pounds over the limit. That’s normal, hon, you’re tall . . . you’ll make a fantastic pyramid base. That’s Mrs. Halifax, two years ago, supervising cheer squad.

  Aves, come on. You gonna deep-throat that banana or does a guy have to dream? Kyle Landry, making sure she never wanted to eat in public again.

  And the most insidious voice, the voice that makes her want to lock herself in the shower and scrub until her skin comes off. It always comes back to her when she stands in front of a scale.

  You’re perfect. Look at you. Hands creep around her waist, over the ridge at her hip. No one else understands. But I do. Look at me. I do.

  Her fingers dig into her palms. She focuses on the pain of her nails against flesh.

  She will never get that voice out of her head.

  “Shhhhhoot,” Mrs. Cross says, remembering halfway through her curse that Avery is here. She’s never sworn in front of her daughter. “I was three pounds lighter when I bought the cocktail dress.” The one she has to wear to the Halifaxes’ party this weekend. “Your turn.”

  Avery steps on the scale and watches dully as the numbers tick up. Mrs. Cross watches over her shoulder. “Hm,” she says.

  The numbers are okay. But she hasn’t had breakfast yet.

  “Cornflakes,” Mrs. Cross decides for her. “And I’ll pack you something for lunch—no energy drinks.” She squeezes Avery’s shoulder and gives her a kiss on the cheek.

  As far as mother-daughter bonding goes, Avery thinks she could do better. The white bathroom leads to a white hall, down white carpeted stairs into a white-and-maple kitchen with stainless-steel appliances. Mrs. Cross goes to the counter and pours her third cup of coffee. In the oven, pancakes are keeping warm, apparently to the benefit of no one. Avery gets the cornflakes out of the pantry.

  Mr. Cross sits at the maple table, getting ready for a meeting with a Boulder millionaire. They’re putting the final touches on a condominium complex on the other side of the mountain—close enough to Lorne to grab a gallon of milk when you’re out, far enough from Lorne that you don’t actually have to see it. “No Waffle House after practice today,” he says as he slides his watch over his wrist, one eye on the paper.

  They always go to Waffle House together before a competition. “Mrs. Halifax and Mr. Pendler will be there,” she points out.

  “That doesn’t change my mind,” Mr. Cross says, and there’s no point in arguing. The Crosses are loving parents who don’t want their baby girl out amid this murder business. And they’re going to make sure the whole town knows it.

  “Your mom made pancakes,” Mr. Cross says as Avery pours her cornflakes into a bowl.

  “Mrs. Halifax said no sugar before the tournament,” Avery lies. Mr. Cross rolls his eyes. But he never gets involved in the eating habits of the Mysterious Female.

  “What about you, honey?” he asks Mrs. Cross.

  Mrs. Cross’s mouth turns down. “I’ll have a protein shake later. Not hungry right now.” Avery doubts she’ll have trouble slipping into her dress tomorrow. But that won’t stop her from hating every lump, from calculating the light angles needed to make her look suave enough to flirt with the rest of Lorne’s nouveau-riche at the Halifaxes’ party. They have to go so that Mr. Cross can schmooze his way into winning corporate contracts from Manuel Mendoza. Avery always thought it weird that her principal comes to school in scuffed leather shoes and fraying suits while his brother practically weeps money.

  The snow stopped some time in the night, but the sky remains a dim gray outside their kitchen window. The snowplow came up their drive at five this morning, making sure the Crosses and their champagne-for-breakfast neighbors have the convenience they need. Sometimes it makes Avery feel guilty, that her little Prius drives on a dry road while Natalie and Shay get tardy slips because the plow forgot about their neighborhood or didn’t have time.

  Avery’s dad stretches his shoulders. “You look great, hon,” he says to Mrs. Cross, and he means it. Avery gets her sincerity from him. She also gets her blond hair, her sharp chin, and her love of movement. Mr. Cross was an Olympic alternate for the ski team. Now he spends his free time on fake tans and reps at the gym that go easy on his bad knee.

  Mrs. Cross rubs at an invisible crow’s foot at her left eye. “Yeah. Aves, are you packed for school? Any news on that scout Mr. Garson said might be coming up?”

  Avery’s stomach lurches. “Not yet.” Mr. G encouraged them to practice and gave them extra physical therapy sessions with advice for when the scouts came around. Mr. and Mrs. Cross are convinced that Avery’s going to cheer for Harvard. None of her peers think she’ll go to college at all. Kyle Landry once said she had a brain for breeding.

  Some people don’t have a brain at all, she’d thought. But she hadn’t said it.

  Mr. Cross tosses the newspaper away. “This Lily Fransen bullshit’s bad for business,” he says. Her ugly crying face takes up most of the front page.

  “Greg,” Mrs. Cross admonishes.

  “It’s true. I’ve been working on getting as much of the Colorado Senate up here as I can. They’re the ones who’ll make Lorne the next Aspen or Telluride—but if they’re pouring money into their legal team to fight off scandal, they’re not taking vacations with the wife and kids.” He shakes his head. “I almost feel bad for her. She’s ruining her reputation, and for what? It’s obvious he didn’t do it.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  Avery’s parents turn. Avery almost covers her mouth. She hadn’t meant to ask.

  Mr. Cross’s brow furrows. “She waited sixteen years to talk about it. Half her lifetime. And just when the senator was elected, she went to the papers. Aves, if a friend tells you she got raped, ask her when. If the answer’s not ‘yesterday,’ it didn’t happen.” He squeezes her shoulder. “I know you like to stand by your friends, but don’t let liars take advantage of you. I think a lot of well-meaning women were duped by Fransen, and they’re probably feeling extremely foolish now that the case has been nixed.”

  Avery swallows. “May I be excused?” she says, just above a whisper.

  A knock comes at the door. Mr. and Mrs. Cross frown at each other. “Is Michael picking you up today?” Mr. Cross says.

  “No.” It’s probably a Jehovah’s Witness, or a neighbor asking to borrow an egg. She stands up to get rid of her bowl as Mr. Cross heads through a pristine hall of marble tile and maple side tables and opens the door on two uniformed officers.

  “Mr. Cross?” says the woman. It’s Officer Muñez from school. “Can we come in?”

  Mr. Cross angles himself so that he blocks the hall with his body. “What can I help you with?”

  “We’d like to speak with your daughter, please.” Her voice is firm and even.

  Mr. Cross’s is, too. Only someone who knows him well would recognize the rising rage he quells in his first word. “Avery’s getting ready for school. Now’s not a good time.”

  “We just have a few questions,” she says.

  “Then you can ask me.” His tone takes on a hard edge. “Or after Avery gets home tonight.”

  Officer Cline clears his throat. “It’s just a few questions, sir. Nothing out of
the ordinary. You don’t even have to leave the room.” He steps forward, and Mr. Cross falls back. Muñez follows with pursed lips.

  Mrs. Cross smiles falsely at them. “Would you like some coffee? We were devastated to hear about Emma. You’ll tell her father, won’t you?”

  There’s a tightness in Avery’s chest. Her stomach is ice and her insides churn. She closes her eyes for a moment, does a brisk count as though they’re about to start a routine. She runs through the first half of “Thriller” in her head. They did that one for Halloween, and everyone but Emma went the extra mile. The whole school loved it.

  “Aves, where’s your backpack? I’ll pack your lunch while you answer the nice gentleman’s questions.” Mrs. Cross puts down her coffee cup and comes over to give Avery a supportive kiss on the top of her head.

  Avery folds her hands and tries to keep her leg from bouncing. “Hi.” Her voice is shy and scared when it should be fearless.

  “Hi, Avery. You remember us?” Avery nods. “We need to talk to you about a couple of things, okay?”

  Smart people call lawyers in these situations, right? Avery glances at Mr. Cross. He nods like it’s going to be okay. Because Avery’s such a good girl, she’s got nothing to hide, and her parents are behind her all the way.

  “Okay.”

  “We’re sorry about Emma.” Muñez does look sorry. “We’re doing everything we can to find out what happened.”

  “So what are you doing here?” Mr. Cross folds his arms, the shining knight for his princess daughter.

  “Greg,” Mrs. Cross whisper-snaps from the kitchen counter.

  “We’ve been talking to a few people on the case,” Officer Muñez says.

  “Claude Vanderly,” Avery says. Cline and Muñez share a look. “It was on this blog,” she explains, trying to tame the heat in her cheeks.

  “Do you know anything about the Adams West blog?” Cline says.

  “Just that it popped up. Without any warning or anything. Nobody knows who the guy is, and now he’s saying that you arrested Claude and—stuff.” She doesn’t need to go over West’s opinion on the arrest.

  “Miss Vanderly was tapped as a consultant,” Muñez says, and behind her Mrs. Cross slurps from her coffee, looking at Mr. Cross in disbelief. “She was found in possession of some pharmaceutical medication.” Mr. Cross snorts. “She said Emma was dealing them. She said they were for you.”

  The kitchen is suddenly large, and Avery is so small. She should be used to all eyes on her, but being the center of attention in a cheer routine isn’t really like being the center of a police investigation. “I—” she begins.

  “That’s ridiculous.” Mr. Cross pushes his chair back and comes around to Avery. He puts a hand on her shoulder, as if to protect her. She’s pinned to her chair. Her pulse rises in leaps and bounds. Her knee hits the table. “Avery doesn’t associate with people like that.”

  Officer Cline leans forward. “Are you and Claude friends?” His tone is kind enough, but Avery’s gaze catches on his broad shoulders, his blond buzz cut, the scar on one hand. The gun at his hip.

  “No,” she whispers.

  Muñez is more to the point. “Would you be willing to take a drug test?”

  “No.” Mrs. Cross’s voice is sharp and, though the cops wouldn’t know it, fearful. She puts on her angry face and comes around the table, so that she stands behind Avery’s chair with her husband. To Avery, it’s prison. “You said you had routine questions. How dare you accuse my daughter? She’s been nothing but compliant.”

  “Miss Cross, would you be willing to take a drug test?” Cline says it now.

  “I think you should go.” Mr. Cross’s hand presses down. Avery can’t breathe. A shock of cold washes over her, like she just dived into the river. “Listening to the lies of a juvenile delinquent and ignoring facts is not the way of the police of Lorne. Maybe you do things differently in the big city, but here—”

  “We are not interviewing you,” Muñez snaps. She turns her attention back to Avery. Her expression softens but her fingers clench around a cheap plastic pen. “Miss Cross?”

  “I can’t,” Avery says. She can barely hear herself.

  “That’s right,” her dad says.

  But Muñez glances at Cline. “You can’t? Or you won’t?”

  “This isn’t necessary,” Mrs. Cross says, but she sounds doubtful for the first time. “You’ve had your answer, and you can go.”

  She’s suffocating. She can’t breathe. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?” says Officer Cline.

  “We do hope you find Emma’s killer, but you can look elsewhere.” Mr. Cross moves away from her chair at last to herd the cops out.

  “We’ll get a warrant if we think we have to.” Cline stands, pushing his shoulders back. Reminding Mr. Cross that he’s not so big after all. “And that won’t look nearly as good as your daughter’s willing cooperation.”

  “I’ll fail,” she blurts.

  The kitchen goes still. Avery gasps as her mother’s fingers dig into her shoulder.

  Officer Muñez clears her throat and flips open her black notebook. “What will you test positive on?”

  “Valium.”

  Cline and Muñez look at each other again. It’s what they found in the locker.

  Mrs. Cross sags behind her. “That’s it?” she laughs, convincingly enough that the cops believe her. “Honey, why didn’t you tell me? I’d have set up an appointment with my therapist for you. I have a prescription, officers,” she explains, and moves away from the table.

  Muñez and Cline look at Avery. “I borrowed it from my mom’s bathroom,” she says, quiet as a mouse. Quiet as a good little cheerleader who’s so ashamed.

  Muñez and Cline look at Mrs. Cross. Mrs. Cross says, “You want me to show you my prescription bottle?”

  “Yes, please,” Cline says, and she heads back through the marble hallway toward the stairs.

  Cline waits at the bottom of the stairs. Muñez stands and tucks the notebook back into her belt. “We trust you on this,” she says. For now, she plainly means to add, but doesn’t. “We’re not here about your mom’s pills, but don’t self-medicate, okay? Even if you think it’s not hurting you, it’s hurting you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Avery whispers.

  Mrs. Cross trots back down the stairs and hands the bottle to Cline. “We’ll get Aves a slip for it,” she says. “We had no idea she was so stressed.”

  Cline says something to her in an undertone. Then Muñez joins him, and Mrs. Cross opens the door for them.

  At the threshold, Cline stops. He turns, and against the light of the door Avery can only see his silhouette. But she knows he’s looking at her. “If you need anything, or if you think of anything, you’ll get in touch?” he says.

  “We’ll get in touch,” Mr. Cross replies for her, and ushers them out.

  As soon as the door shuts behind them, Mrs. Cross comes back in. Her face is pale, her hands shaking—and Avery doesn’t think it’s the effects of too much coffee. She opens the bottle and pours the pills out on the table. “Valium?” she says, so quietly Avery can’t hear her breathe. She quickly counts the pills by twos. “Avery, I thought you understood. No drugs, no drinking. No trouble with the police.”

  Tears swim in her eyes. “I—” But she doesn’t know what to say. It is what her parents taught her. No drugs, no drinking, no being bi, no illicit soda, no unsanctioned carbs, no fats, no snacks, no sleepovers with anyone but Lyla, who’s so aggressively heterosexual she deserves a medal. No gaining more than three pounds above her target weight. She knows the noes are for her own good. But she’s still suffocating.

  “Were you lying? Or is it really Valium?” Mr. Cross says. His voice is thunder.

  Avery just nods. She can’t speak past the lump in her throat.

  Her mom’s already lost it. She dabs at her cheeks with a Kleenex, careful even now not to smudge her makeup. “Why?” she chokes. “We take care of you. We love you. We’v
e always protected you, and you do this? And we find out from the police?”

  “I’m sorry.” She knows how stupid it sounds. Her face is burning and turning blotchy as she tries to maintain control. “I’ve been . . . stressed. . . .”

  “About what?” Mrs. Cross shouts. “What makes your life so hard?”

  Avery knows the question is genuine. Her parents want to hear why.

  She also knows she can’t tell them.

  Mr. Cross takes her arm and steers her back to sitting. Avery lets him. There’s a faint buzzing to the world, like she’s hearing it through an old radio. Mrs. Cross dabs at her face with a new tissue. “We can’t talk about this outside the house. Do you understand?”

  Because if word gets out and Heather Halifax hears that Avery Cross sneaks Valium, she might tell Mommy and Daddy, and Mommy Halifax will kick Aves off the cheer team, and Daddy Halifax won’t make the right introductions for her parents at his party. The Harvard cheer squad will say no—every college will. Avery nods.

  “We’ve worked hard to build up this life for you, Aves. Other people would kill to be where you are now. Don’t throw it away.” Mr. Cross straightens his tie. “I can’t be late for my meeting.”

  Mrs. Cross nods, a brittle, broken movement. Avery doesn’t look up from the table. She knows she hasn’t had real hardship in her life. Not like Emma or Natalie or Shay or Gwen. She doesn’t choose the anxiety any more than she chooses to feel sick whenever she takes a sip of Lyla’s milkshake.

  For a while, all is silent. The tears come, even though Avery tries to prevent them. After a minute or two she feels a cool hand pressing a tissue to her face, too. “Come on,” her mom says gently, wiping carefully around Avery’s eyes. “Buck up.” Because big girls don’t cry, and nothing hurts happy Avery. Their eyes briefly meet. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

  Avery shakes her head. “Nothing.”

  Silence for another moment. She almost thinks her mom won’t push it. Then Mrs. Cross breathes out hard through her nose. “Avery.”

  Avery thinks she’ll say something more, but instead she stands. She goes out to the hall, grabbing Avery’s backpack from where it sits at the bottom of the stairs. She comes back and upends it on the table.