The Good Girls

by Claire Eliza Bartlett

  Problem: the camping store’s only open 9–5. If Dad realizes I snuck out, he will bury me in the backyard, I swear to god.

  I thought about waiting and skipping out on cheer practice. I thought about calling the store instead of going over in person. But if Lizzy truly was killed, I couldn’t do a half-assed job of finding the murderer.

  Lucky for me, Dad poked his head in while I was finishing my AP Calc homework. “I’m going to work in the garage for a bit,” he said. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Chili,” I said off the top of my head, because I knew I’d be chopping onions for it and Dad hates the smell of raw onion. Lucky I’m such a good liar and can keep my face casual. I wanted to pump my fist in victory. Dad’s been working on a new sliding closet door with an inlay of stained wood carved like the Rockies. It’s taking him forever, and that forever is exactly what I needed.

  I was not in luck when I got to the camping goods store. First I ran into Principal Mendoza—literally. If he ever mentions this to Dad, I’m a dead girl. “Hello, Emma,” he said, taking my shoulders to stabilize me. “How’s cheer?”

  “Fine.”

  “Your spring fling dance is going to be magical.” He wiggled his fingers. “Let me know if you need help with the makeup. I used to do theater.”

  “Yep.” So not here for you, Mendoza.

  My second blunder was that I forgot who manages the camping goods store. Art Miller, an old buddy of Dad’s. They used to go fishing together, before Dad got married. I don’t know why Dad didn’t get back to it after Mom left—I mean, of course I know, he wouldn’t take me along and he wouldn’t let me stay home alone—but they still chat sometimes.

  Art found me crouched in the shoe section, looking for the Pine Nation brand. “Can I help you?”

  I looked up. I realized my mistake. Art’s eyes widened in recognition and the lies started coming. “You sure can,” I said in my brightest happy voice. I pretend I’m Avery sometimes. It really helps when you want to manipulate people. “I’m trying to buy my dad a surprise present. I noticed his old boots are getting a little worn out”—I brandished my phone with the bootprint photo—“and I know new ones are outside the police budget.” Art smiled. Cute little girl, taking good care of Dad. I had him. “So I was recommended some Pine Nations.”

  Art frowned as he went through his mental stock. “We don’t carry those. But we can order ’em in, if you like. What’s his shoe size?”

  “Um, I don’t know.” I tried to pass off my blush as embarrassment. “But I was actually hoping to ask if anyone else bought some. You know, so I can find out how they fit. Shoes can be so finicky.” I turned my smile up, hoping he’d launch into the Girls just love talking about shoes mode of thinking instead of whatever was going through his mind instead.

  “They’re good,” said a voice from across the store. Art and I looked around. Principal Mendoza stood by the counter, ready to check out. He saw my frown and clarified. “Pine Nations. They’re a good boot. The entire faculty got them at Greg Cross’s Christmas party.”

  God. Damn. It. Everyone has them. Every single teacher?! This is worse than if Art had said that no one ordered them at all.

  Art was oblivious to my dilemma. He rambled on, telling increasingly unlikely stories of fishing trips with Dad, asking me about the Devino Scholarship, chatting about his college days river rafting and rock climbing. Like, come on, Art, some of us are gonna get murdered if Dad finds out we left the house. I finally coughed and said, “Maybe Principal Mendoza needs to check out.”

  “Right, right.” Art ambled toward the front of the store.

  We went over to the counter, where Principal Mendoza had been standing for about a million years. He waved for me to go first. “It’s okay,” I said.

  “They are great,” he said. “I wear them hiking all the time. Good for a muddy path.”

  And what would you know about that, Principal M?

  Mendoza went on, oblivious to my suspicions. “You’re friends with Avery Cross, aren’t you? Her dad was the one who bought them. I guess he swears by them. Gets a new pair every year.”

  Every year. That’s a convenient excuse to get rid of murder evidence. Mr. Cross has a lot to lose if it comes out he had an affair with a student.

  Mendoza finally paid up and left. “Should I put in an order for those boots?” Art said.

  “How much do your guns cost?” I blurted.

  A gun, Em? Seriously? But I can’t help feeling like I’m going to need one. If a man’s capable of killing once to protect his secret, who’s to say he won’t kill again?

  The guns sat on a rack behind him, gleaming with fresh oil. Long-barreled Rugers and Marlins, lit from beneath.

  The look Art gave me didn’t say cute now. “Depends on what you’re looking for. You can get a good rifle for $800, or a nine-millimeter for about half that. But if you’re not on your way to a gun show or under the supervision of your father, you’re not getting a gun from me until you’re twenty-one, young lady.”

  “It’s for Dad,” I said again. “Surprise present, remember? I’m old enough to go hunting with him now but all he has is his issue handgun.”

  “I think shoes are more in your budget.”

  “I’ll think about it. I’ll be back next week. And remember, surprise present. Don’t tell Dad, please?” I tried out my winning cheer smile.

  Art didn’t smile back.

  I’m doing a lot more than risking Dad’s ire. The more people see me snooping around town, the more likely it is that the killer will find out. And I won’t even be able to buy a gun to protect myself.

  LYLA: hey can we talk?

  MICHAEL: sure. Missing some math homework?

  LYLA: Its abt Aves actually

  MICHAEL: uh sure? What abt Aves?

  LYLA: shes been acting weird ever since yall did . . . whatever.

  MICHAEL: uh excuse me???

  LYLA: come on, she told me all abt your unholy adventure wednesday night

  MICHAEL: wtf we haven’t been together for a week

  MICHAEL: u mean the night emma died???

  MICHAEL: she told me she was with u

  19

  The Sneak

  Snow piles against the windows at the top of the yellow brick walls. The halls are quiet, cold; and the sounds outside are muffled by the storm. The cars are all gone, the birds asleep. The last bus left half an hour ago, and around now Mum is going to realize that Gwen wasn’t on it. Again.

  Gwen hardly dares to breathe. She looks each way down the hall for observers, then takes the keys she swiped from Mr. G’s coat pocket at the gym and tries them with shaking fingers until she finds one that fits his office lock. She takes a deep breath, checks the hall again, then slips inside.

  Mr. G’s office has a deep brown faux-leather couch that looks like it came off Craigslist a million years ago. The coffee table has overlapping brown rings around the edges and the gray rug beneath is dotted with stains. The bookshelf against the office wall carries books on sports, psychology and physiology, and binders of student files. Gwen’s fingers itch to touch the S binder. But that’s not why she’s here. Focus. She tastes something metallic in her mouth and she realizes she’s biting her cheek. Instead of the binders, she goes to the other side of the room, where Mr. G’s desk is. Where his computer will hold, among other things, notes from his counseling sessions.

  She types in her office administration key. A few clicks get her to his client folders.

  Emma and Lizzy are both there. Her hand stills on the mouse, cursor hovering over Emma’s file. If Emma told anyone about the test scores . . .

  Maybe she should just walk away from this. Maybe she’s risking too much. If she keeps her head down and her grades up—

  Footfalls sound in the hall, far too close. Gwen leaps up from Mr. G’s desk just as the man himself comes in.

  “Gwendolyn?” He frowns.

  Heat rushes to Gwen’s face. “I’m sorry. Your door was open and I w
anted to talk to you.”

  Mr. G pats his vest pockets. His eyes land on his keys, just a hair too close to Gwen’s hand. She starts talking again, faster. “The police said we should report anything suspicious, right? I saw . . . somebody in the parking lot. A strange man.”

  “Take a seat,” says Mr. G, gesturing to his couch.

  Gwen sits. The couch smells like old sweat and disinfectant. Mr. G goes over to his desk—oh shit oh shit oh shit—but instead of looking at his computer, he opens the bottom drawer and pulls out a bandage roll. Then he comes over and sits across from Gwen in a battered office chair. “Tell me about this person you saw. Could it have been someone who works at the school?”

  She talks without thinking. “He didn’t look like a teacher or a parent. To be honest, he looked kind of . . . scruffy. He had on a big black coat, and combat boots, and a hat. Like a knit hat. And he looked like he hadn’t shaved for like three days.”

  The furrow between his eyebrows deepens. “Can you tell me more about this man? What about his build and ethnicity?”

  “He was white,” Gwen says quickly. “And, ah, tall. Taller than you, maybe?” Mr. G’s five ten. “And he was pretty skinny, I think. It was hard to tell because of the coat. It was one of those puffy coats. He kind of looked like a drunk. You know, red nose and eyes and stuff. And he had a scar, right over his lip.” She draws a line between her nose and mouth to demonstrate. “Do you think it’s West?”

  Mr. G taps the bandage roll against his thumb. “I don’t like to jump to conclusions. But I’m glad you brought this up. I’ll ask Principal Mendoza about it and make sure security is checking everyone on school property.” He looks pale under his gray-flecked goatee. “In the meantime, I have to get back to the gym.” His hand tightens around the bandage roll. “Do you need a ride home? When I’m done at the gym I’ll be able to drive you.”

  “No thanks.” She leaves with Mr. G and tries not to think about what she didn’t accomplish in his office.

  Her phone buzzes as she leaves the school. Snowflakes dance in the yellow light of a streetlamp, and she fumbles with her gloves to answer the phone. “Mum?”

  Mum sounds pissed. “Gwendolyn, tell me where you are right now.”

  “I’m coming home from school. I missed the bus.”

  “Gwen, you said you would come straight after school. You said you’d help decorate.”

  “I had yearbook.” Like every freaking Friday this year.

  “You are on thin ice. You said you’d be careful and you said you’d take the bus. If you don’t want to be grounded, you need to follow our rules. I need to know where you are.”

  “Geez, Mum. Do you worry about where Dad is? At least you know what I’m doing.” The same thing she does every week.

  Mum is quiet for a terrible moment. Then she says, “You do not talk about your father that way.”

  Gwen should back down. Instead she says, “That’s why he can do whatever he wants, right? If you policed him half as much as you police me, maybe you’d know where he goes every day after work.”

  More silence. Then the call disconnects.

  It’s been a while since Gwen pissed her mother off that much.

  She used to have a rule: She could be an asshole at school, but never at home. Never to her parents, who worked so hard to keep her going, to give her a chance for the scholarship. Never to her sister, who always took time out of her studies to listen to Gwen’s problems. Gwen forgot her rule when Lizzy died. How much has Mum been going through? How much of her sadness has she buried so Gwen’s life can stay together? So that Gwen can get out of here? Gwen’s thumb hovers over Mum’s name. She should call back and apologize. She should promise to be there as soon as she can.

  She feels eyes on her back. Slowly, she turns. The parking lot is empty, save for Mrs. Cross’s van in the pickup area. Snow coats the asphalt. Gwen can hear nothing, not even the wind. The world is so still, so silent, that she’s afraid to even breathe. There can’t be anyone else here.

  A shadow detaches from the wall.

  She can’t see its face, but she knows. She knows its eyes are fixed on her.

  It steps forward, and Gwen turns. She’s not the fastest in track and field, but that doesn’t matter. She only has to be faster than whoever’s following her.

  She runs.

  Diary Entry

  Emma Baines—August 25, 2018

  Someone wants to shut me up. It was just a feeling before, but now I know.

  Yesterday was a shitshow. I’d decided to announce Lizzy’s murder at the assembly for two reasons: first, because the seminar was bullshit, and overdosing wasn’t how Lizzy died. And second—the case is too big. I can’t handle it alone. I thought maybe calling it out might get the police involved. I should’ve seen that big fat nope coming.

  Yesterday I was put in counseling to “consider my actions” and think about how no one appreciated my “little outburst.”

  But today, well. Things are about to get worse.

  And in the meantime, I have daily extra sessions with Mr. G. The first one was yesterday and I’m already wondering. Did I really make this all up? Are my theories just elaborate schemes to bring sense to this senseless world?

  I am right. I am right about Lizzy. Every time I review the facts I’m convinced again. She was murdered.

  And I just revealed what I know, and no one fucking believes me. I am so sick and tired of not being believed. I’m sick of getting counseling when I should be getting protection. And now . . .

  My dad didn’t want extra sessions interfering with my classes, so I have to meet Mr. G after school instead. Which runs directly into my time at the Jefferson-Lorne Inquirer, but apparently no one cares about independent journalism anymore. I still had forty-five minutes after counseling today, so I hurried for the little closet that is the Inquirer’s newsroom. Even though most people had abandoned the halls by this time, I still kept my head down, focusing on my sneakers. I just . . . didn’t want to deal. With the looks. Some pitying (Poor Emma, she’s lost her mind), some angry (Can’t she just leave it alone?), some sensationalist (The freak’s coming. Quick, get a good look!). If I don’t see them, I can pretend they’re not happening.

  But there were two people I did have to deal with. Samantha Johnson, our editor in chief, would not let me miss a deadline. And Mr. Pendler was our adviser.

  “You’re late,” Samantha said as I came in. She’s one of those people who think that being a hard-ass will somehow inspire us.

  I didn’t bother to answer. She knew where I was, everyone did. Instead I went over to my side of the desk.

  The old Dell computer was already on. And my notes—they weren’t in the place I’d left them yesterday.

  The alarm bells in my head started, softly. I ignored them. I couldn’t afford to panic. “Have you been working on my article?” I asked. Samantha does that sometimes—takes over when she thinks something’s too far behind schedule. It’s a bitch, but then, so is she. And I knew it when I signed up this year.

  “No.” Samantha looked at me like I’d asked if she’d kicked my puppy.

  I took a calming breath, pitched my voice even. I thought, Don’t freak out, Emma. Everyone would just think I was losing it again. “Were you looking for something in my desk?”

  “Believe it or not, I don’t riffle through other people’s stuff. A journalist’s desk is sacred.”

  Mr. Pendler butted in. “No one’s been near your desk, Emma.” He fixed me with a stern look.

  The alarm bells rang louder. Deeeeep breaths. I opened the top drawer.

  My interview list was gone.

  I had Lizzy’s friends, exes, family, suspects, all on that list. Who would take it? And under that, my Lizzy Sayer notebook? Also missing. Every scrap of info I had on the case, every casual comment that sounded like someone might know more. The receipts that prove she was at a gas station half an hour earlier, and sober—and the note. That note would have blown her case wide ope
n. It’s all gone.

  I stood, shaking in front of the computer. Sam and Mr. Pendler eyed me warily. They didn’t condone the Lizzy investigation in the first place—Sam said she’d never publish it, for the good of the student body. I knew before I logged on to the computer, my files on the Lizzy case would be gone.

  Anyone with an admin login could have deleted the files. Lots of people have a key to Mr. Pendler’s room. Practically anyone could be responsible for the murder and cover-up. And I’ve just told the whole school that I know.

  I can’t go anywhere alone now. They must be watching me, and I’m so fucking scared, and nobody believes me.

  Nobody.

  20

  Claaaaaaude

  Working late. Takeout menus on the fridge so get what u want but DELIVERY ONLY!! Still grounded. Love u xx

  Claude can’t remember the last time she was stuck inside on a Friday night. She flops on the couch. She’s been watching crappy Christmas romances on Netflix for the last four hours. She should be working on her APCoGo essay, but she blew it off. And Jamie texted her: are u ok?

  No, she replied, sometime in the middle of a Miracle on 34th Street rewatch.

  U need to talk abt it?

  She ignored that. If she replies he’ll do something like rank the Star Wars tie-ins from best to worst, or have her guess whether the names he sends her belong to nail polish colors or preteen pop songs. He’d even talk her through the APCoGo essay if she asked. Anything but the talk he wants to have. But it’ll still be lurking in the subtext. The Is this what boyfriends/girlfriends do? question. And honestly? Claude doesn’t fucking know. She’s never had a boyfriend and she’s never wanted one before. Boyfriends make pretty promises and knock you up and tell you you can’t get an abortion and then three years down the line they leave you and your daughter high and dry. That’s what she’s heard in this house, anyway. Sex is nice and uncomplicated. Well, it was.

  She should stop talking to him. It’d be better for everyone in the long run. He’ll be sad but then he’ll get a proper girlfriend and he’ll stop talking to Claude and all of a sudden her best friend will have disappeared on her.