The Good Girls

by Claire Eliza Bartlett

  Mrs. Cross put a hand on her leg. “I know you’re at an age when you think you have the solution to every problem.”

  Avery stared into her cocoa. No one else had one.

  “But sometimes you need help, okay?” Mr. and Mrs. Cross exchanged a look. “We’re going to withdraw you from school.”

  Avery blinked. “Okay.” She wasn’t sure how she felt about that—but maybe she felt good. She wouldn’t have to walk the whispering halls. She wouldn’t have to hear people wonder aloud if she got raped, if she did it in a classroom, if she was less unwilling than she claimed. . . . She wouldn’t have to pretend that it didn’t bother her.

  “And we think you should take some time off from the dating scene.”

  That stung, enough for Avery to jerk her head. “Why?”

  “You need to process.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if I were still with Michael.”

  “That’s not true,” Mrs. Cross started.

  “I won’t stop being bi just because you tell me to.” Avery glared into the cocoa. She took a sip that congealed on her tongue, and her stomach clenched like a fist.

  Mrs. Cross sighed. “We’re trying to do what’s best for you. Okay?” And they don’t want to be seen with a daughter who dates girls. “Your father’s going to talk to some schools, see if this changes any minds about you being on a college cheer team.” More like see if they had to give bigger donations to get her on one.

  Mrs. Cross took a deep breath and pasted on a smile. Clearly this conversation was over. “Now, do you want to go to the fair? Your dad will stay home with you if you don’t.”

  Avery has learned to be tired of being a people pleaser, but the fair is her one shot at freedom. So she said, “Of course I’m going,” in her best good-girl voice and slipped into her coat.

  Avery carefully helps her mom set her plate of gingerbread cookies on the judges’ table at the winter fair. Mrs. Cross keeps one arm wrapped around Avery, holding tight and kissing the top of her head for the judges and effectively preventing Avery from sneaking off.

  “Can I go to the skating rink?” Avery says.

  Mrs. Cross purses her lips. “I don’t think that’s safe right now.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be safe?” Avery asks.

  “They still don’t know who shot the maniac,” Mrs. Cross says. “There’s a killer out here, and you’re going to be careful. This is what I mean when I say you don’t know everything you think you do, Aves. Claude Vanderly could’ve aimed that gun at you.”

  “Claude didn’t do it, Mom,” Avery mutters.

  Mrs. Cross isn’t listening. She fishes around in her purse. “But you can have this. For an hour. No more.” She holds out Avery’s phone. Avery barely contains her squeak of excitement.

  The sky is clear, the twinkling lights of the market dimming the pinprick stars. The market is full of kids who don’t care who Avery Cross is. They play tag in the stalls, get yelled at for throwing snowballs, barter for candy, and line up to rent ice skates. Avery can focus on them and ignore the whispers that circulate among the older ones. Every so often she glimpses a face from the halls of JLH, but no one comes to say hi. So she wanders, between Lincoln Log stalls filled with candles and little ceramic elves and things that everyone thinks they want but no one actually needs, and she thinks about how she’s free. She’ll never run into him at the grocery store. She’ll never catch his eye at a school dance. She’ll never change into jeans halfway through the day again because she’s more likely to see him after lunch. She doesn’t have to worry about him lurking places like the winter fair. She can go where she wants without having to think about where he isn’t.

  Something touches her arm and she turns. It’s Michael, with two hot chocolates. Blood pools in her belly, then rushes back to her face, making her hot and cold at once.

  “Hey,” Michael says.

  “Um.” Avery glances around. Mrs. Cross is talking to a judge, Mr. Cross is smiling at Heather Halifax. “Hey.” She gestures at the two cups of chocolate. “Got a date?”

  It’s supposed to be a joke. It falls flat. “Actually, I bought it for you.”

  Poor, sweet Michael. He didn’t deserve her. She takes the hot chocolate and glances back at her mom. Still occupied. Together she and Michael walk to the edge of the ice rink and sit on a bench. In the rink, groups of shrieking tweens and teens falter on their skates. A guy tries to impress his girlfriend by skating backward. It makes Avery think of Gwen. She imagines stumbling together on the ice, giggling at their own clumsiness until they can’t feel their toes. She thinks about buying Gwen a hot chocolate and sharing it in her car. She wonders what it would be like just . . . walking with her. In the market, through the halls at school, down Lorne’s empty little main street.

  “It was fun when we did that,” Michael says, and Avery comes to herself with a jolt.

  “Hm?” He’s looking at the skaters. “Oh. Yeah.” They’d clung to each other until Kyle Landry, the only decent skater in Lorne, had torn between them shouting, “Get a room!”

  Even now, she’s thinking about Gwen when she’s with Michael. “Though it was more fun when you lost the ball toss.”

  “I did not lose the ball toss. The ball toss cheated.” Michael laughs.

  “We had some good memories together,” says Avery, and Michael turns toward her with a serious face. Had.

  “Did we? All this stuff with Mr. G . . . Look, maybe you don’t want to talk about it, but it was going on at the same time, wasn’t it?”

  She pauses, then nods. Michael’s hand balls into a fist. “There’s nothing you can do about it now,” she says quickly.

  “I can still be pissed,” he snaps.

  True enough.

  “Was he . . . doing something the other day? When I walked in on you two at the gym?”

  “Um.” That’s a little harder to explain. “Yeah. But I was kind of angling for it.” Michael’s face screws up in confusion and the beginnings of anger, so Avery goes on. “We were looking for evidence. Gwen and me. She was supposed to break into his computer, I was supposed to keep him away from the room.”

  “By letting him molest you?” Michael says.

  “By faking my ankle so he’d look at it.” By letting him touch her. For Emma, for Lizzy, for the girls he wouldn’t ever get the chance to hurt. The understanding makes her feel lighter, even as she feels a crawling on her legs that she won’t ever be able to itch away. “I’m glad you came in when you did, though.”

  “I wish you’d told me.” Michael’s face is hard, but he’s not angry at her. “I’d have chopped that asshole’s dick off.”

  “Yeah,” Avery says, and she thinks, Maybe. Maybe he’d do it. Or maybe so many people would have accused her of lying first that he’d struggle to believe her. She’s not sure her own parents believe her even now. She’s heard the words pillar of the community more than once where Garson is concerned.

  “I mean it, Aves,” Michael says. “I would have believed you, and I would have done something. I’ll always believe you.”

  “Not just me, Michael. Every woman who tells you something. Promise?”

  Michael smiles over his cup. “Promise.”

  They finish their chocolate without speaking, watch a bunch of four-year-olds spend more time on their butts than their skates.

  “Weird that they didn’t arrest anyone for killing Adams West,” Michael muses.

  “What?”

  “The hobo guy. Adams West.”

  “He wasn’t . . .” Avery stops. She has to be careful with what she says. “Maybe it was unrelated.”

  He shrugs. “My money’s on Vanderly.” Avery smacks him. “What? She’s a cold lady. She’s got the chops for it.”

  Yes. Claude fits the profile of a stone-cold high school killer. In a way that sweet, sweet Avery never will. Maybe, Avery thinks, all a person needs to plan a perfect murder is a bunch of friends who are all willing to believe she’s stupid.

  Lucki
ly, she doesn’t intend to commit murder again any time soon.

  They hug and he walks away. The scent of his aftershave reminds her of safety and comfort, and she feels a pang at the loss of it. But while she misses it, she doesn’t really want it.

  She pulls out her phone. I think we’re in the clear, she texts to Claude. Then she erases it. She also erases everyone thinks u killed him and lucky u taking the blame. She wouldn’t be surprised if the police monitor their phones for months to come. She settles for, u ok? If Claude hadn’t gone after the gun, she might not have been arrested last night. And if Avery hadn’t called her on Friday, she wouldn’t have gone after the gun.

  “We have a huge problem.” Avery stood in front of Gwen’s window, feeling a little foolish, like she was about to serenade her love from beneath.

  She couldn’t think about these things now. “They found a body in the river.”

  Gwen’s face drained of blood. “Shit—”

  “It’s not her,” Avery said quickly. She levered herself up on the windowsill. “Can I come in?”

  “Be quiet,” Gwen whispered, and smoothed over her bedcovers. Avery slipped her shoes off and landed lightly on the bed. She’d never been in a bedroom with Gwen before. “It’s him.”

  Him. The man they didn’t know, the man who’d attacked them.

  “Oh.” Gwen frowned. Then realization hit her. “Oh. Oh shit. Garson’s going to know she’s not dead, isn’t it?” The Welsh expression slipped out. She sounded just like her mum as she started to pace, still whispering furiously. Avery watched her and tried to focus, even though her heart constricted every time a lock of hair fell in Gwen’s face, every time she took a deep breath and bit her lip, thinking. Did Gwen know she took on her mother’s Welsh accent whenever she was upset? “Okay. Okay. Is Garson going to the competition tomorrow?”

  She looked expectantly at Avery, catching the other girl staring. “I hope not. But I think so,” Avery said.

  “So we’re going to have to get evidence while he’s gone. But we can’t break into his office. Shit. But maybe he stores his stuff on the cloud, so we can break into his house computer.” She snapped her fingers. “Does he have a home security system?”

  “I’ve never been to his house,” Avery said, horrified.

  “And I won’t have a car, so I can’t get over there. . . .” Gwen picked up her phone. “We’re going to have to ask Claude.” She flopped down beside Avery on the bed. The gentle brush of their arms made Avery shiver in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

  “Do you think she’ll do it?” Avery said.

  “Will she be mad? Yes. Will she do it? Also yes.” Gwen punched the call button and they leaned over the phone together, hair and breath intermingling. Waiting.

  Her phone buzzes. Avery expects Claude, or maybe a text from Mrs. Cross saying, Get back here now. But her sender is one Study Buddy: Look behind you.

  She turns.

  Gwen leans against a booth selling reusable hand warmers, arms folded, smiling. Her dark hair is tucked under a winter hat. Slowly she approaches, and though Avery sees the same weight in her eyes, Gwen seems to have a measure of hope, too. “This seat taken?”

  “Actually, I was thinking of going for a walk.” Avery shivers. Her butt is numb from the bench.

  “Cool.” Gwen holds out a hand.

  Clasping it feels strange, somehow. More intimate than when they made out in the back of Avery’s car. Everyone can see the linked hands, and everybody knows what they mean. It feels like she’s being performative again. But at least this time, she’s performing for herself.

  “Your mom let you come out tonight?” Avery says.

  “We agreed we didn’t want to just stay home,” Gwen says. “And I knew you’d be here, you keep going on about that gingerbread competition like your mom’s baking for Jesus—”

  Avery laughs, drawing a few looks from vendors. The glances they throw her are almost disapproving, like she’s supposed to be tragic and traumatized now that they know what she’s been through. But she doesn’t have to pretend for anyone anymore. She wants to ignore her mom’s no-being-bi rule, especially while Mrs. Cross is distracted.

  “Aves?” Gwen seems nervous.

  Her stomach jolts unpleasantly. She’s had enough breakup conversations to be worried when she hears this tone. “Yes?”

  “You know I’m going to leave Lorne when I graduate.” Crap. “And my parents have decided to move away, too.” Double crap.

  “Uh, yeah.” She wishes she hadn’t drunk her hot chocolate so fast. She could use something to hide behind.

  Gwen stops and turns. Takes Avery’s other hand and looks her in the eye. “Okay, we all know Lorne is a shithole. And if you want to get out, even if we don’t work out too well—you can be my roommate. You can work or go to school or something. But you’ll have a place that’s not here.”

  Avery’s mouth falls open.

  “What?” Gwen says.

  She wants to lean forward and kiss Gwen, under the twinkle lights of the winter fair, with cheesy Christmas music playing around them. But Lorne’s not ready to see two girls kiss in public. So Avery turns her answer over, carefully, before replying. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” Not many people believe in the future of Avery Cross.

  “We’re all going to get out of here. You, me, Claude,” Gwen says as they start to walk again.

  “Adams West?” Avery suggests.

  They stop at a shop selling snow globes. The vendor takes her time talking to a hetero couple at the other end of the stall, but Avery doesn’t care. She can watch the snow swirl in a little snowglobe with a bridge and a stream and a troll inside.

  “Hopefully already gone,” Gwen says quietly. “But I guess we’ll just have to see about that.”

  The Good Girl

  On the night of March 25, 2016, a body was found at the bottom of a ravine in Jefferson National Forest. The body was one Elizabeth Sayer, resident troubled teen of the nearby town of Lorne. The death shook the town and served as a cautionary tale: good girls didn’t do what Elizabeth Sayer did. She partied too hard and had too many boyfriends. She slept through class and ignored the advice of her teachers and friends. But not one year before, Elizabeth Sayer was the top of her year, beloved by students and administration alike. She was a heavy contender for the most prestigious scholarship in Colorado. She’d never been caught with a drink or with a boy. Lizzy Sayer was the textbook example of the good girl. What happened?

  Lizzy Sayer was always precocious. She wanted to be the best at everything she tried, and she was—whether it was a spelling bee or a musical performance or an Advanced Placement Calculus exam. She still had time for her friends, her sister, and the younger students, who looked up to her as a mentor. And she had big plans—to win a full scholarship to a college on the East Coast, to major in business with a minor in biology or physics, to start a company that would change the world.

  The broken body found near Anna’s Run tells a different story: a girl overcome by addiction, in great distress, her future in shambles. When her body was found, police ruled the case a suicide. They determined that fresh boot prints on the scene had belonged to a hiker and not to a companion. Their redacted report concluded that Lizzy, overwhelmed by her stress and distraught at ruining her own life, made the choice to end it.

  The police have done what so many men and women do constantly: they assigned Lizzy a label that made them comfortable, that explained her life the way they saw it, and not the way it was. They placed the blame on her, so that they didn’t have to go looking for who might be responsible.

  Lizzy Sayer was a thorough young woman who documented everything. She wrote about the first time she was approached, after school, by lacrosse coach and school counselor Kenneth Garson. According to her diaries, he asked how the scholarship applications were going. He offered to give her some help and they made plans to meet in his office. Lizzy thought Ken Garson was funny and hand
some, too sharp-witted and interesting for Lorne. She recounts his stories of adventure in his days before Lorne, and she writes with compassion about his mother’s long illness, the move home to take care of her, the ultimate heartbreak when the elderly Mrs. Garson passed away from lung cancer.

  Records show that Ken Garson moved to Lorne in 2012 from Arizona. Census information reveals that Mrs. Garson is alive and a retired nurse in Phoenix.

  Lizzy also described the first day she was alone and unsupervised with Garson: he invited her on a hike. She was excited at the prospect of climbing a fourteener, something she’d never done before, and was under the impression that others would be joining them. In her diary she notes her surprise when she discovered they were alone. But she wasn’t worried. She was comfortable around Mr. Garson. He felt she was the only one mature enough for a venture like this, she writes. She was the only one who wouldn’t balk at taking a sip from his flask when they finally reached the top of the mountain.

  They stopped for lunch on the way home. Garson paid. Lizzy, who had never been on a date before, wondered if this was what dates were like. She jokingly asked if they could go hang gliding next time.

  Mr. Garson said yes.

  Receipts from office administration show funds going to Garson for “field trips” that take place outside Lorne: hiking, ziplining, a bear-watching tour in Rocky Mountain National Park. Despite administration rules, he never provided a list of students who partook in these excursions, nor any permission slips obtained from parents. Announcements for these trips could not be found in physical form or on the school website. No student has claimed to have gone on one aside from Lizzy. But the money disappeared.

  At the same time, Lizzy began to experiment. She stayed up later and complained of fatigue, writing eventually in her diary that she’d “fixed the problem.” She also started alluding to a new boyfriend. Though she never mentioned him by name, her references to the age difference made it clear: she was seeing an adult. He pushed her boundaries—she drank a beer, even though she’d always thought her first beer would be with her dad. She skipped a class to go see him. When her grades dipped, he was there to console her. He encouraged her to forget about her extracurriculars and the classes she once prized. As her old life slipped away from her, she clung to the idea of this wise older man who got her drunk or high for her own spiritual enlightenment or for her own maturation. She became obsessed with keeping her lover, and just as obsessed with keeping this lover a secret.