The Good Girls

by Claire Eliza Bartlett

  It’s the last thing she says before she’s marched out, past the Christmas lights, with her family and their neighbors gawking from the windows. She knows what they’re thinking. Looks like that Gwen Sayer is as much trouble as her sister.

  22

  The Cheater

  CLINE: The date is December 7, 2018, the time is 8:47 p.m. Interviewing Gwendolyn Sayer. Present are Officer Cline, Officer Muñez, and Miss Sayer.

  Miss Sayer, are you comfortable? Do you need anything?

  GWEN: Why am I here?

  CLINE: We just need to follow up on a few things. We’ve had some developments in the case. For example, do you recognize this?

  GWEN: It’s a phone?

  CLINE: Your phone?

  GWEN: No.

  MUÑEZ: It’s connected to your address.

  GWEN: My phone’s in my backpack. You can check. And it doesn’t have a SIM card in it, because Mum and Dad pay per minute and can only afford one number. They bought Lizzy a phone, but seeing how she used it—

  Wait. That’s her phone.

  Why do you have it? I thought you gave us back her personal effects.

  MUÑEZ: Do you have any idea why Claude Vanderly would be in possession of this phone?

  GWEN: No. Can I have it back?

  MUÑEZ: I’m afraid we have to hold on to it for now.

  CLINE: Miss Sayer, may we also ask what you were doing at the Cross residence yesterday evening?

  GWEN: I, ah, I don’t know why you think that.

  CLINE: Neighbors saw a girl matching your description knock on the Crosses’ door. You spoke with Avery Cross for a few minutes, then left. Less than half an hour later, Avery Cross left her house as well.

  GWEN: I don’t know why Avery left home. I’m not in charge of her. Not her keeper, as my mum would say.

  MUÑEZ: But could you tell us why you were there, Gwen?

  GWEN: I . . . I wanted to give her my condolences. For Emma.

  CLINE: In your previous interviews, you didn’t claim to be close to Emma.

  GWEN: I wasn’t. But I knew Avery was. And I wanted to return a favor. A favor that Avery did me three years ago.

  The smell of death is flowers. Flowers are expensive unless you pick them from the side of the road, so we rarely had them in the house. But in the days after Lizzy’s funeral, flowers were everywhere. White roses and lilies and baby’s breath sat on every surface, overpowering the comforting smells of food and home with a scent that choked me. I couldn’t leave the house, so I held my breath, retreating to my room when I could and keeping the window open. Cards sat wherever the flowers didn’t. Line after line of We’re so sorry and Deepest condolences. Most of it was generic bullshit from people who didn’t know Lizzy at all. A lot of cards had butterflies, which only made it harder. Pilipala was our thing.

  I was trying to get rid of some of the flowers when the doorbell rang. Dad was at work; Mum hadn’t come out of her room that day. So I answered the door. I was expecting our neighbor Mrs. Flores. She kept us in soup and lasagna for weeks after Lizzy died. I stared uncomprehending at the pink skirt, the long pale legs, the spun-gold ponytail that stuck out from behind another bouquet.

  “Um. Hi,” Avery Cross said.

  Everything was fuzzy. I couldn’t muster myself enough to be polite. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I got you—I mean, your family—” She thrust the bouquet in my direction. “I’m sorry about Lizzy.”

  I should’ve said thanks. But honestly? Avery didn’t know Lizzy at all. Hell, she didn’t even know me. We passed each other in the halls and had PE together. “Why?”

  Avery gaped. Then she swallowed. “I guess . . . I think she didn’t deserve to die. I’m sorry you have to go through it.” She bit a pale pink lip. “Can I put these in some water?”

  “Come in.” I turned and went into the kitchen, trusting her to follow. I grabbed a dying batch of callas and upended them in the sink, refilling the vase with fresh water. When I turned back around, she stood just inside the door, wide-eyed. I imagined the house through her eyes: walls stained with the strains of living, paper crafts hanging around because we can’t afford fancy art. A picture of the Mumbles, Mum’s favorite place in Wales, propped up on a chest of drawers, with two plastic tea candles at the bottom corners. The tartan couch, more duct tape than fabric and sagging in the wrong places.

  “Not the Buckingham Palace you’re used to,” I said. I didn’t care whether I sounded bitter or angry or just resigned. “Probably not even the garage you’re used to.”

  “I like it,” Avery objected.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “It’s homey. In my house, we have couches Mom won’t even let me touch because they have to be perfect.”

  I stalked over and grabbed the flowers from her hands. “Poor little rich girl, has to live with more than one couch,” I said.

  Avery blushed and looked down. I felt a little bad as I dumped the flowers into the vase. “Want anything? We have a million lasagnas.”

  “No thanks,” Avery said.

  Right. Cheerleaders don’t eat. She blushed again, as though she’d read my mind.

  “I ate earlier.”

  I filled a glass from the tap and held it out to her. For part of me, it was a test. Could Little Miss Money bear to drink the water of the poor?

  She took it without speaking and drank the whole thing. She asked a couple of small-talk questions, I answered. I didn’t feel like chatting and she seemed to understand.

  A few days after, I texted her a thank-you. We sent them out to everyone. She said it was nothing, but it didn’t mean nothing to me. No one else from school had come by. Not Lizzy’s old friends, not the boys she made out with at parties, not the assholes who gave her underage self all the liquor. Avery was genuine. She was the kind of person who said sorry because she was sorry.

  After that, we said hi occasionally as we passed in the halls. Sometimes I texted her homework assignments if she missed school. And yesterday . . . I felt like it was a debt I could repay.

  CLINE: So you went over just to say sorry.

  GWEN: Believe it or not, I am capable of empathy.

  CLINE: Did you tell Avery Cross that you won the Devino Scholarship?

  GWEN: Of course not. I didn’t even know . . . How do you know about it?

  CLINE: Congratulations.

  GWEN: I . . . thought you had follow-up questions about Emma.

  CLINE: You must be excited. You’re going to college on a free ticket. It’s pretty amazing. Even I’m proud for you. You’ve been working toward this moment for four years.

  GWEN: Longer.

  CLINE: Of course, of course. But you weren’t the only one working hard. Emma was working hard, too. Harder even. She was doing better. She was ahead. She was going to win, until she disappeared. Do you know why she was doing better, Gwen?

  GWEN: She wasn’t doing better.

  CLINE: You know why Emma was doing better.

  GWEN: I don’t know anything, okay?

  MUÑEZ: You’re very defensive for someone who doesn’t know anything, Gwen.

  CLINE: Emma knew your secret, didn’t she? She knew just like we know. Were you desperate to keep her from talking?

  GWEN: I . . .

  MUÑEZ: It might have put your entire future in jeopardy.

  GWEN: Of course I was desperate!

  I’m sorry. I hate myself for cheating. I should never have done it, but I didn’t kill anyone over it! It was three and a half years ago and I’ve busted ass every day to make up for it. To prove that I can. Just . . . please. I need to get out of here. I need to leave Lorne and the endless shitty shift jobs and the having babies at eighteen and the knowledge that I’ll never ever make something of myself. Please believe me.

  CLINE: I, ah . . .

  MUÑEZ: That wasn’t the secret we were talking about.

  GWEN: Fucking . . . Well, I don’t know what else you might have been talking about.

  MUÑEZ: Now
’s not the time to be coy. Thank you for being honest about the exam, at least. We’re not here to be the final arbiters of whether you deserve the scholarship or not. We’re here about Emma.

  CLINE: And we . . . might be able to strike a deal with you on that point.

  MUÑEZ: We need help with this case. We need someone trustworthy to be our eyes and ears.

  GWEN: Seriously? What is this, CSI: Smalltown?

  MUÑEZ: Are we really in a position to joke, young lady?

  Thank you. Like we said, we need your help. And if you give it to us, we’re willing to overlook what you just said.

  CLINE: We don’t care about one little exam. You have a bright future ahead of you, and you deserve to take it. Co-operate, and you get what you want.

  GWEN: Can I think about it?

  No. Never mind. I’ll do it.

  MUÑEZ: We’ll get you set up in the front office. Wear the wire at all times. And don’t leave Lorne.

  Diary Entry

  Emma Baines—August 27, 2018

  BREAKTHROUGH.

  I wish I felt elated. But right now, all I feel is sick. I know who ransacked my desk at the Inquirer.

  It had to be Gwen.

  She has two reasons to do it. Well, three, I guess. But honestly? Only one matters.

  Gwen’s pissed at me about the Lizzy shitstorm. (Gwen’s words, not mine.) And she wants to put me behind in the running for the Devino Scholarship.

  Gwen knows I know she cheated, and she wants to put me behind in the running for the Devino Scholarship.

  Gwen knows I know she’s gay, and she wants to put me behind in the running for the Devino Scholarship.

  Well, bring it on, Sayer. I can do so much worse than you. How does academic probation sound? How do you feel about getting disqualified from the scholarship? I can expose everything you are, you little liar.

  Don’t fuck with me. Don’t fuck with this. It’s so much more important than you.

  I’ll ruin you for her, if I have to.

  DISPATCH: 911, what is your emergency?

  MAN: I’ve got—shit. I’ve found someone. A, ah, body.

  DISPATCH: Sir, what is your location?

  MAN: I’m just off Highway 143, Maleta Drive. I’m down by the water where it slows and turns east.

  DISPATCH: Please stay on the line. We’re sending a car to your location now. Do you know CPR?

  MAN: Uh, no. It’s not gonna work. He’s long gone.

  DISPATCH: Okay, please stay on the line. Tell me how you came upon the body.

  MAN: I was hiking, but I took a detour, you know, because the police crime scene cuts through the trail. I came down to the water so my dog could splash around where it’s safe, and—well, I thought he was sleeping, till I got close.

  DISPATCH: Could you describe him for me, please? Police are on their way.

  MAN: Yeah, uh. He’s got one of those puffy black coats. He’s maybe kinda tall? And not too big around. He’s probably white. He’s got a beard, he’s got one combat boot. He, uh—he smells.

  DISPATCH: Please stay on the line. A car is almost there.

  23

  The Heartbreaker

  When the knock comes, at nine p.m., Avery knows it’s the police. They don’t believe she takes Valium. They’ve untangled her lies. They’re taking her in. And she’s tired enough to go with them.

  Her black Adidas gym bag lies on her pink-clad bed, half full and freshly ransacked thanks to Mrs. Cross’s drug check. It’s a stark contrast to the princess decor of her room, the desk strewn with sparkling pens and Pandora jewelry and a pink wide-ruled notebook. She so loved being a princess when she was little. She doesn’t know whether she loves it still. She just knows she’s supposed to. And expectations like that sour all things.

  She puts down the extra skirt she folded for the weekend game and leaves her room, skipping over the squeaky floorboard that connects her to the pristine white hall. Her parents will want her to go quietly, like good girls do when they’ve got nothing to be afraid of. Also, they can tell the neighbors she’s “just helping.”

  She feels sick. But that’s a good thing, she decides dully as she heads for the stairs. Feeling sick keeps her from feeling hungry. Both she and her mom pushed most of their dinner around on their plates.

  Mrs. Cross opens the front door. “Thank you for coming,” she says, and gives Michael a hug.

  Avery stops midway down the stairs. It’s snowing again.

  Michael steps in and brushes the snow off his coat, pulling his boots off as Mrs. Cross fusses over him. Avery clears her throat and they both look up, guilt flashing across their faces like spinning snow.

  “Hon, I thought it would be nice if Michael came by for dessert. I need a test subject for my gingerbread cookies.” Mrs. Cross makes gingerbread cookies for the Winter Fair every year, but she never wins the baking prize for them. She’s been saying This is my year for the last six months.

  Avery doesn’t know why Mrs. Cross really asked Michael to come. Maybe she thinks he’ll convince Avery to confess everything. Maybe she thinks he’ll solve Avery’s pill problem. She must believe they’re not having sex after all. But that’s the problem—the Crosses are so obsessed with appearance, even Avery doesn’t know what they really want.

  “I’ll leave you two in the living room. No closed doors, no lying down. Half an hour.” She gives Avery a hug, squeezing until Avery grunts from the pressure, then gives her a behave yourself glare at an angle that Michael can’t see. Then she walks briskly down the hall.

  “How’s your ankle?” Michael says. Right. Avery “hurt her ankle.”

  She lets him help her into the living room, a sparse space with white carpet, white overstuffed furniture, white vases in white bookshelves that have barely any books in them. Michael settles her on a white-on-white embroidered couch and lifts her ankle up for her. “I’ll get something for that.”

  Sweet, sweet Michael. Avery never gets the feeling that he dates her to make himself look good. He’s always looking out for her. He goes into the kitchen and she hears his voice rumbling like a far-off storm. Avery plays with the cuff of her flannel pajamas. She’s not ready for this. She can’t see him.

  But far too soon he’s back. He sits, pulling her leg onto his lap, and pulls up the cuff of her pajamas. She wrinkles her nose as the ice pack touches skin, but she smiles—more of a grimace, really.

  “What’re you going to do about the competition tomorrow?” he asks, touching her ankle.

  “Mr. G said it should be no problem. I just have to rest up tonight.”

  “It doesn’t look swollen.” He presses on it and Avery gasps. “Sorry!”

  “It’s okay.” She chews on her lower lip. The lie feels awful and her stomach twists like the river gorged on snowmelt. “Bet you didn’t come all the way over here to ice my leg.” Does it sound too flirtatious? She swallows.

  “Not for cookies, either. Your mom asked me to come. She said you’re . . . going through stuff. Anxious.”

  “Always,” Avery laughs.

  Michael’s brow furrows. He doesn’t believe it. Why would he? Avery always keeps the pleasant facade.

  And maybe Michael’s part of the reason she’s anxious.

  His fingertip traces a pattern on her calf. “She said you maybe needed a friend.”

  “I’ve been taking Valium,” Avery says.

  “Why?” Michael’s frown is deeper. Something darkens behind his eyes. Who is this new Avery? he’s thinking. “What are you so stressed about?”

  His words echoes her parents’, and it cuts. “The competition tomorrow. College applications. Grades. Emma.” Oh, Emma. She’s been causing Avery stress longer than anyone knows.

  “The competition’s just a competition. It’ll be fine.” Michael shrugs. Avery balls her hands into fists. It’s just cheerleading. It’s not big and important like the lacrosse games, or the basketball games, or the football games. Everyone wants to see the pretty girls dance. Everyone agrees it’s
worth less.

  “And I didn’t think you cared about college,” Michael continues, oblivious.

  “Of course I care about college.” She surprises herself with her bitterness. She wants to go to college. Not an Ivy League like her parents want, just somewhere she can have fun and be free of Lorne. Maybe a technical school. She wants to leave, and she doesn’t want to do it as a trophy girlfriend.

  “And Aves . . . I’m sorry.” He keeps his eyes on her knees, like he’s afraid to look at her. “I need to ask you something.”

  That does nothing for the flipping in her belly. “Okay?”

  “Aves, can I trust you to be honest?”

  No. “Ye-eess,” Avery says.

  Michael takes a deep breath. “Where were you that night?”

  “What night?” She already knows.

  “Wednesday. That night.” He laughs softly. “Was it really just Wednesday?” Then the smile washes away. “I’ve been texting Lyla.”

  The fluttering in her stomach turns to an iron ball. “Why?” Her voice is colder than it should be, considering. She’s such a hypocrite.

  “’Cause we worry about you, Aves.” He shakes his head, like he can’t get distracted. “She asked what we did on Wednesday. You told her you were with me, you told me you were with her, and now . . .”

  And now a girl is dead.

  She feels hot and cold all at once. She wants to twine her fingers through Michael’s, pull him down for a kiss. Make him forget about the question. More than anything, she wants to feel the heat of his mouth the same way she used to, as though it burns but she’ll never get enough, as though it pushes into her and fits some empty piece she never realized she had in the puzzle of her.

  But she also doesn’t want that. Because she already has it. Just not with him.

  “I’m . . .” Her mouth is dry. How do people form entire sentences? “I’m sorry.”

  It feels like a coward’s way out, but her throat closes before she can say anything more. Tears start at the corners of her eyes.

  Michael takes a deep breath. His hands clench around her ankle. Then he lets go, because Michael never liked to think he might hurt her.