The Good Girls

by Claire Eliza Bartlett

  But she doesn’t want to stop talking to him. His Star Wars ranking arguments are really compelling.

  The phone buzzes again. Claude rolls her eyes and re-adjusts the plaid-pattern pillow behind her head before taking a look. But it’s not Jamie. It’s Margot. You coming to the party tonight? XO

  Claude met Margot protesting a petition to reopen the coal mines around Lorne. Margot arranged it; Claude was the sole attendee. Margot’s nice, an ex-college student from Greeley who works in Lorne’s weed dispensary, which popped up soon after the first McMansions did. It’s mostly famous for being where underage JLH students get busted trying to buy.

  Margot also steals her dad’s pharmaceutical pads and runs a nice little business on the side.

  Claude looks at her mom’s last text. What does working late actually mean?

  Which party u thinking of?

  I hear kyle landry has a pretty sick hot tub.

  Claude can confirm, though she hasn’t been at Kyle’s place since he dumped her friend Monica. Claude firmly believes in friends before fucks—but Monica graduated last year and moved out of Lorne. That makes Kyle’s house fair game.

  She’s still grounded. But if Mom’s working a case late . . .

  She sends a quick text. Im bored. When do you think youll be home?

  It’ll be late honey, Mom replies. Im sorry but were in deep shit over here.

  And then, because Claude’s mom is no fool, she texts, remember u r GROUNDED!!!

  Vanderly girls. So bad at respecting authority. She switches back to her text conversation with Margot. on my way.

  Kyle Landry’s house is fifty years away from being the decrepit lair of a supervillain. For now, the dirt road up to his palace is strung with white twinkle lights, and a gate of curling black iron and red brick separates the house from the driveway. Kyle’s house rises three stories and juts back into the mountain. Lights are tastefully draped to illuminate the faux-Greek columns, the widow’s walk, the pine fence that circles the yard. Immaculately trimmed cypress trees surround the property like soldiers, and there’s a manger scene out front. Someone’s stuck a red plastic cup upside down on Mary’s head. Ariana Grande croons from a portable speaker, a base for the party’s laughter, chatter, and the occasional “Whoop!” Claude checks her phone before getting out of the car. She’s got maybe an hour. Guilt chewed a hole in her stomach as she drove over. She wants to unwind, but she also wants Mom not to hate her.

  The front door’s unlocked. Ben Nakayama sits happy drunk in the hall. “Claaaaaaude,” he says, like she’s what he’s been waiting for all his life. This is Claude’s party name. Claaaaaaude. “How was jail?”

  Claude ignores him.

  Kyle’s house is a showcase of another life. The floors are dark stone tile, the walls a pristine white. A moody modern painting hangs in the foyer, with a vase of willow branches on a shelf underneath. Shoes pile in an untidy mountain below them. Through a door to the right Claude can see stuffed white brocade chairs and couches, the corner of a dark wood table. At least one heap of people is inside. To her left there’s an open room with some books and board games and an out-of-her-depth freshman looking at her phone in a corner. Farther down the hall, the TV room is stuffed with people playing Mario Kart. They hold glasses of Coke and beer and some kind of punch that’s probably a mix of everything in the Landry liquor cabinet plus orange juice.

  She recognizes people in the kitchen. They lean against marble countertops that probably cost more than the entire Vanderly residence. A keg sits on the island in the middle. Shay fills a cup from a bowl with an atrocious pink cocktail in it, while Natalie pulls her brown hair into a ponytail behind.

  “Hey, Claude,” Shay says when she looks up. She’s the lone wolf who doesn’t consider Claude the absolute devil. “Beer?”

  “Claaaaaaude,” the rest of the kitchen choruses. Heads crane from the TV room.

  Fuck, she wants a beer. But she thinks of Lizzy Sayer’s Hyundai, parked haphazardly at the top of Anna’s Run. “Driving tonight.”

  She waits for them all to ask. How was it? Did they take your fingerprints? Did they strip search you, ha ha? Did they find the murder weapon? Did you do it?

  “Your mom let you go to a party?” Shay says instead. “You must have, like, the coolest parent of all time.”

  “Well, you know. No walls can hold me for long.” Claude tries to sound breezy. Maybe it will help her forget her growing impulse to throw up.

  “The irrepressible Claude,” says Sam Galley from the corner.

  “Claudini,” Violet Pendler chimes from where she’s tucked into his arm.

  “Claude the unstoppable!” Jason Lennox calls. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes glassy. The hand that raises his cup is a little too enthusiastic, and beer sloshes over the side. “Claaaaaaude!” he bellows.

  “Claaaaaaude!” they all reply.

  Claude always plays a role, but the role she has for parties slips around her like a well-worn coat. Here she doesn’t prowl the halls like a defiant outsider. Here she’s queen. At parties her sarcasm is cutting and funny, not disruptive. Her short black hair is edgy. Her low-cut tank top and short shorts are sexy. Claude’s still Claude, more or less—but instead of giving someone the middle finger, she puts a hand on their arm. She laughs at a joke even if it’s a tiny bit sexist. She doesn’t have to be the first and last bastion of feminist watch.

  She pops the tab on a can of Coke and joins their cheer. Then she leans back and spreads her arms expansively. “What’s new in the world?”

  “I can’t believe Mrs. Willingham cried in class.” Jason smirks.

  Shay and Natalie shoot him identical looks, full of daggers. “She was handing back essays and Emma’s was at the bottom of the pile,” Shay says in an undertone.

  “I didn’t realize the Ham liked Emma so much,” Claude says, carefully keeping her face neutral.

  “Everyone liked Emma,” Natalie replies. Her expression is brittle, like it’s ready to break into something more feral if Claude only gives it the chance. Ah, yes. The cheer squad that scrambles so diligently to be the ones who loved Emma best.

  So Claude does the only thing she can do. She raises her can of Coke and says, “To Emma!”

  “Emmmmaaaaaaaaaa,” everyone in the kitchen yells.

  Shay wipes away a sincere-looking tear as she brings her glass down. Natalie’s eyes remain on Claude. She’s been wary ever since Claude got halfway down Michael Bryson’s pants at homecoming.

  “Anyway, I’ve got a laundry list of party goals, so I’ll love you and leave you.” The kitchen’s too one-note anyway; she can hear them toasting Shaaaaaaaaaaaay as she walks out the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard. A few heads glance her way, but she doesn’t feel like wasting precious minutes on any of them.

  The lights of the house bounce off the clouds, making the world a strange kind of gray-bright. The air raises goose bumps in a sweep across Claude’s neck and shoulders. She should put on a coat. Kyle Landry’s infamous hot tub is too stuffed with sentient bikinis, so she heads toward the first knot of people she sees.

  “Claude!” A hand lands on her arm and Margot pulls her into a brief hug. Margot is the kind of girl who never got a locker check in her life. She’s an ex-cheerleader with a round, friendly face and blond hair that she still pulls back in a high ponytail. She’s the only person Claude knows who had the option to leave Lorne forever and didn’t take it. She smells of lavender incense and, under that, a little bit of weed.

  “What’s up? I got extras in my car—do you need?” She raises her eyebrows. Extras means extra prescription pills.

  Claude wonders if Margot knows where she was last night. Mom’s furious, heartbroken voice echoes in the back of her mind. What the fuck, Claude? “I can’t. I gotta lie low for a while.” Maybe forever. Maybe she can find some other way to make cash in this godforsaken town.

  Margot’s eyebrows rise for real this time. “I always thought you made too much to qui
t.” Claude shrugs one shoulder. “All right. But if I find another dealer for JLH in the meantime, I can’t just give you your job back.”

  “That’s fine. Hey.” Another idea nags at Claude. “Do you know anything about hacking phones?”

  Margot takes a long, slow sip of beer. “Depends on what you need.” It’ll cost, too.

  Claude speaks with careful casualness. “Let’s say . . . someone has a locked phone, and it may have incriminating stuff on it. Is there a way to get in without knowing the pass code?”

  “Mmmm.” Margot swallows. “Do you want to wipe the phone, or just get in?”

  “Just get in.”

  Margot shakes her head. “You’re going to risk a total factory reset, which would delete everything. Maybe you can find out the password to your blackmailer’s cloud?”

  Claude didn’t say anything about blackmail, but she’s not going to tell Margot the truth.

  “Hope you make it work.” Margot looks sympathetic. “Let me know when you want to get going again.” She pats the pocket of her vest. It crinkles.

  Someone hands Claude a beer, which she holds on to as she circulates. People shout when they see her. She gets hugs, she gets cheers, she gets snacks off other people’s plates. In the clear, crisp mountain air, in the alternating shadow and golden light of the house, the thing that is Claude seems to stretch and take on new shape.

  “Claaaaaaude,” says a boy she doesn’t know. “How was jail?” His friend smacks him, but he’s more than a little drunk and he pays it no mind. The people around them lean in, ready to share in her delinquency.

  Claude runs her free hand through her hair, letting them follow the line of her slim arm. “It was bullshit,” she says. Her smile is jagged and dangerous as river stones. “No torture, no police brutality—they barely asked me any questions.” She grabs another pretzel off the plate next to her. “Seven out of ten. The last arrest was better.”

  They crow around her. The thing that is Claude swells off their adoration.

  “Did you set the fire in the woods?” asks a freshman girl, sounding hopeful.

  An odd expression flickers over Claude’s face. A moment later it’s back to her easygoing party self. “Course not.”

  The music changes out on the lawn. The few dancers stop, bewildered. But Claude just laughs. “Meat Loaf?” She puts her beer down on the lawn and beckons. “Come on. Let’s show these fools how it’s done.” She parades to the flat stretch of green that answers for a dance floor here.

  Claude’s not a member of a dance squad or cheer team. She’s not even graceful. But nobody laughs at her lack of style. The way she punches the air makes blood sing. Figures follow her out, and soon the grass is full of people hopping awkwardly, losing their self-consciousness as the music slides under their skin.

  As Meat Loaf is replaced by another power ballad, Claude slows to adjust to the new music. A hand slips over her hip. She turns. “Man of the hour,” she says.

  “Yeah?” Kyle takes that as an invitation, putting his other hand on her lower back. His pale brown hair is messed up from dancing, and he smells like a combination of body spray and beer. His eyes are hazel and his arms have a nice muscular slope to them. Claude starts to relax. She’s got thirty minutes before it’s time to panic about Mom. “I dunno,” Kyle says. “You’re the one everyone’s talking about. And you can get anyone to dance to . . .” He wrinkles his nose. “Whatever this is. Mark has the worst taste in music.”

  Claude laughs. “Meat Loaf is my mom’s favorite.” Don’t think about Mom. To soothe her own guilt, she presses in. She’s interested in seeing how he reacts. Whether he leaps back like the virginal I’m going to save you from yourself boys or whether he grabs the excuse to grind up against her.

  He lets his arm slip lower down, resting just above the line of her shorts. The feeling in her belly is less sickness, more hunger.

  “Ridiculous,” Kyle says. “It’s Top 40 or nothing.”

  “You’re missing out,” Claude says.

  He smiles wider, bright Golden Boy teeth shining in the dark. “Not right now, I’m not.”

  Kyle Landry isn’t JLH’s smartest, or kindest, or most tactful boy. But his attention is all on her, and that’s how Claude likes it. His fingers trace little patterns on her back and arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps in his wake.

  “You’re not cold, are you?” he says after a few minutes.

  “I wouldn’t mind going somewhere warmer.” Somewhere more private.

  He cocks an eyebrow. “Like where?”

  She slides her thigh against his and is rewarded when his grip tightens on her skin. “Dunno. How about your parents’ secret bunker?” she jokes.

  “Huh?” Kyle looks nonplussed.

  Jamie would’ve gone with it. Suggested a base on the moon or a cabin belonging to an outlaw from the Gold Rush days. Would’ve made a joke about lumberjacks.

  Kyle’s not Jamie. That’s the point. “Never mind,” Claude says. “Let’s go.”

  His smile turns smug. He detaches from her and takes her hand, weaving toward the house. Heads turn to look as they approach, and unease tickles her spine. Kyle swaggers. One guy fist-bumps him as they pass.

  It’s not that Claude cares if people know what she’s doing. But it’s none of their business, either. She doesn’t need to wave the proverbial banner high.

  He leads her through the house—she ignores the chorus of oooohs from the kitchen—and up the stairs. They pass a couple making out in the hallway and head to the door at the end. Kyle opens it onto an expansive king-sized bed in royal blue, a pristine white carpet, and bay windows that overlook the party. A tidy bookshelf is filled with things like the Gray’s Anatomy textbook and The Psychology of Love. “This . . . isn’t your room,” Claude guesses.

  “Of course not.” Kyle flips the lock. “It’s my parents’.”

  “Seriously?” Kyle wants to have sex in his parents’ bed? “I think we should do this somewhere else.” Even on top of a mini fridge would be preferable.

  “Nah, we’ll be fine.” Without preamble he grabs her wrists, pushing her back toward the bed. When she makes a tiny gasp, he leans in.

  The kiss isn’t gentle, like most guys are at first. Kyle mashes his mouth on her, pushing her own lips against her teeth. His tongue swipes across her firmly closed lips and smears half her chin in his saliva. She jerks back. Jamie never pulls shit like this. He’s always gentle, waiting for her to say yes or to make the first move. His first preoccupation is always what’s making her happy. He doesn’t try to jam his tongue down her throat without even asking first.

  And he always tells her how beautiful she is, right before he kisses her. Like it’s so important to him that he has to remind her.

  Kyle doesn’t tell her she’s beautiful. He doesn’t say anything at all. He tries to pry her lips open like she’s a walnut. Other memories rustle at the back of her mind, memories from a time she tries to keep locked up tight. Of a hand up her shirt, of threats issued in a silky voice. Of her own brain, screaming no, no, NO—

  She twists her hands out of Kyle’s grip, but it’s too late. Her knees hit the back of the bed and Kyle nudges her until she sits. He fumbles with his belt. He’s practically panting.

  He hasn’t looked at her since she said Let’s go. His eyes are on her chest, her legs, her ass. He doesn’t want her, he wants a sack of meat that will gently moan once in a while.

  He wants to satisfy himself, and he doesn’t care what she thinks about it.

  “Hang on a sec, sport,” she tries. Her voice is shaking. She has to get it under control.

  Kyle doesn’t notice. “Why?” His jeans fall free. She can see the tent in his black boxer shorts. “I’m ready.”

  “I’m not,” she says.

  She sees the flash of his Golden Boy grin again, and his eyes dip up to meet hers. “Let me help you with that.”

  She takes a deep breath. This isn’t the same incident. He isn’t forcing anything. She�
��s safe, even though the door’s locked and no one would help her if she screamed. It’s just Kyle.

  He leans down and rips open her shorts.

  Her knees come up like a shot, hitting him in the side of the head. Kyle reels back. “What the hell?”

  “What the hell yourself,” Claude snarls. She rolls away and stands. She can’t stay pinned to the bed. “I said I wasn’t ready.”

  “Come on, you’re always ready for it.” His smile flickers, like he knows he maybe said something wrong. Maybe. “I mean, tell me what you want.” And he shrugs, like her pleasure is an inconvenient roadblock, worth it only so they can get on to the truly important matter of getting him off.

  “Actually, my mom’s going to freak if she realizes I snuck out. I should probably go. Next time, Landry.” She moves toward the door.

  “Wait, hang on.” Kyle steps in front of her. The smile has disappeared. “Please. Please, please, please. I’ll do whatever you want, okay?”

  Her stomach is back to churning. “You sound like I’m threatening to kill you.” Her stupid voice won’t stop trembling. She clenches her fist until she can get it under control. “Just—I’m not into it anymore. Next time.” Next time being absolutely never.

  “This was next time. I waited for you the whole night at Steve’s party and you never showed. And, I mean, come on.” His smile is a little more sheepish. “Everyone already thinks we did it. We might as well.”

  Claude thinks of Jamie in his puff coat, determinedly earnest. “Why does everyone already think we did it, Kyle?” Her voice is soft and serious. Dangerous.

  He takes a step back, as if he senses her anger, and scratches his head. “I mean, we’d have done it if you’d actually showed up to the party.” Like she didn’t have a choice. Like she couldn’t have resisted him.

  “Who exactly claimed we had sex on a mini fridge?”

  “Um . . .”

  “Kyle, did you start the rumor?” She’s past the shaking voice now. Never has she sounded so calm in all her life.