Such a Good Girl

by Amanda K. Morgan

  It won’t matter, though. I’m never late. Ever. And I have to do this. I have to try it. To see if Ethan’s right.

  I steady myself against a bookshelf, both of my hands against a wooden shelf with the letter S emblazoned on them in Courier, my eyes straying over the titles, from the tops of the shelves to the books at the very bottom, where the most neglected books live simply by the disadvantage of being written by an author with an unlucky last name. I’m somewhere in fiction, and I’ve been strolling through the library, through the rows of computers in the labs, through the last of the paper periodicals, waiting for the students lolling about during their passing period to clear out.

  Those students don’t care if they’re in trouble. They expect to be—they wait around on purpose, drawing out the time slowly, languidly. They know they’re up to something and everyone else knows it too, and they’re in the library to sop up as much time as possible away from class until they get in enough measurable trouble to have to return.

  It’s how they live: How much trouble is permissible? How much before it’s too much and affects them in some meaningful way?

  But they, the typical troublemakers, could never get away with what I’m about to do.

  In the corner of the library, there is a nondescript wooden door that the faculty enter through and exit from throughout the day. If I simply stood near the door and peered inside, I wouldn’t see much—mainly a white hall with two faculty bathrooms. Most of the students don’t even know what it is. The teachers keep it quiet. It’s better that way.

  But I know what lies past the hallway.

  I know a lot of things.

  If one would walk through the wooden door and down the hall past the two faculty bathrooms, there would be yet another door, this one with a little brown placard that reads two simple, powerful words:

  TEACHERS’ LOUNGE.

  I adjust my backpack on my shoulders.

  A library aide pushes a metal cart past me through the aisles, one wheel squeaking as she presses lonely books into gaps onto their shelves. She catches sight of me and smiles, hesitantly, as if she can sense I’m not a typical loiterer, and then pushes the cart on, the wheel complaining in evenly timed little bursts.

  She wouldn’t stop me.

  I can do this. I can break rules too.

  My heart thunders strangely and my palms feel cold. I don’t do things like this.

  But I will.

  I start moving toward the small door, my steps measured, even. I don’t pause for even a second—I push through it and disappear into the white hallway, where I immediately run into Mrs. Carter-Smithy, a freshman English teacher, a pile of student notebooks in her arms.

  “Riley!” she says, smiling at me.

  “Good afternoon,” I say smoothly, no trace of a quiver in my voice. Normal Riley would offer to help her with her notebooks and make conversation about her classes this year, but today I am not normal Riley.

  And Mrs. Carter-Smithy doesn’t ask what I’m doing.

  She doesn’t even pause.

  She leaves the hallway and walks back into the library, like there would be a perfectly good reason why Riley Elizabeth Stone is hanging out in the hallway outside the teachers’ lounge, where students are definitely not allowed.

  And there is.

  I walk down the hallway, past the two faculty bathrooms and the faculty water fountain that looks like it has never been used (or at least, never had chewing gum stuck to the spout).

  And then, I enter the teachers’ lounge.

  And it is glorious.

  When the library was redone, apparently they spared no expense when they renovated the teachers’ lounge. Art—good stuff, too, not just stuff that looks like it’s been lifted from the walls of a Motel 6—decorates the walls in polished wooden frames. There are pudgy leather chairs squatting comfortably around a small fireplace, a couple of mod tables with cute little stools, and best of all, free food.

  On a counter in the kitchenette area, a yellow bowl of fresh fruit sits next to an array of granola bars and packs of Skittles and M&M’s. A refrigerator squats in the corner with a sign on it that says FREE DRINKS—LIMIT ONE PER DAY.

  The teachers have it so much better than I ever thought.

  They barely look at me as I walk in.

  Mr. Wellingsby, the art teacher, is lounging in one of the chairs, legs up over an arm, staring bemusedly out the window, his fingers in a small bag of chips. Mr. Codsworth and Ms. Sidmore, both middle-age math teachers (unmarried, rumored to be dating), are deep in conversation at a table. And then there’s Mrs. Garder, the geography teacher, who is arguing with someone on her cell phone.

  They all sort of glance at me, but no one bothers to even say anything.

  I take a deep breath.

  If I look like I belong, then I definitely belong.

  I cross the teachers’ lounge, threading my way through the little tables, and then open the fridge, which is filled with sodas and juices and waters and lunches labeled with first names I never bothered knowing.

  I grab a sparkling water and shut the refrigerator. Mr. Wellingsby looks at me quizzically, so I smile.

  He smiles back, disarmed, and goes back to his window-gazing.

  Someone robbing a bank wouldn’t smile, after all.

  And then I walk out, not bothering to hide the Pellegrino in my hand. I let the door close softly behind me.

  And no one says anything.

  No one stops me.

  No one runs out of the teachers’ lounge, asking me what I’m up to or why I’ve taken something.

  I blink slowly, turning back to look at the door.

  At the little wooden placard.

  TEACHERS’ LOUNGE.

  I. Did. It.

  I rush into the bathroom, blood singing in my veins, and lean forward, my hands resting on either side of the white sink, trying not to look at the hair trapped in the drain.

  I stare in the mirror.

  I, Riley Elizabeth Stone, just stole something from the teachers’ lounge.

  While being late to class.

  In front of actual teachers.

  And no one bothered to stop me because, well, I’m me.

  I smile at myself in the mirror. Maybe Ethan’s right. And maybe—maybe there’s something more to this whole thing.

  Maybe being a Goody Two-shoes is the best cover ever for having a little fun.

  What is it like to get in trouble, anyway?

  And suddenly, in an odd way, I’m excited.

  I walk down the empty hallway, my heels clattering on the tiles, and it feels . . . oddly normal, except that usually I have a pass in my hand, a piece of paper proclaiming me exempt from rules. I open the door of the Shakespeare classroom and step inside, counting my breaths. One second in, one second out.

  The Shakespeare oil painting hanging on the opposite wall stares at me accusingly.

  “Oh! Riley! I thought maybe you were out today.”

  “Nope, sorry, Mrs. Hamilton.” I give her my specially formulated teacher smile, with a lot of teeth, and she returns it.

  And I sit down.

  Just like normal.

  And she goes on teaching.

  Just like normal.

  Like I’m not late. Like I haven’t just been playing a thief in the teachers’ lounge.

  “Riley? Would you please read for Macbeth today?” asks Mrs. Hamilton.

  This makes me doubly sure she’s not mad. I love reading for Macbeth. It’s my favorite. And I love Mrs. Hamilton because she will let girls read big parts—she’s not one of those teachers who forces girls to read only the female parts and vice versa.

  I smile to myself between lines.

  It’s almost like being good is the perfect alibi for being bad. I read my lines on autopilot, and I think about my next class. PE.

  I actually like PE. And I have it with Kolbie and Neta, which means it’s a chance to hang out with my buddies. And today we’re supposed to just jog around the
indoor track, which means it’ll be pretty easy overall. Mr. Gladstone, the PE teacher, doesn’t really care if you’re giving a million percent as long as you’re moving around a little bit and he doesn’t have to do sex talks more than twice a year.

  But I don’t really want to change into my crappy gym uniform today, and I’m pretty sure I left my sports bra in the trunk of my car. Besides, Neta, Kolbie, and I were going to meet at Annie Up’s, a cute little coffee shop and café a few steps off campus, for lunch. Would it be so bad if I just went there a little early?

  So when the bell rings at the end of Shakespeare, I tuck Macbeth into my bag . . . but instead of going to gym, I slip out the side door next to the weight room and head over to Annie Up’s, where I snag a table next to the window and order myself a caramel latte. I put my sunglasses on and pull a long, dark pink ribbon out of my backpack, which I weave into my hair in a messy ponytail in lieu of my normal straight style. For just a few minutes, I allow myself to feel very special and sort of grown-up.

  Ethan would be proud of me.

  My phone buzzes.

  It’s the group messaging thread with Neta and Kolbie.

  From Neta: WHERE ARE YOU??? ARE YOU SICK OR WHAT?

  I smile. I should have texted them, really. Of course they’d think that something was wrong. I sip my drink.

  Skipped. At Annie Up’s. Will you two hurry? I’m starving.

  Kolbie texts me back. Are you insane?!?! Can you put Riley on the phone pls?? Seriously???

  I giggle, thinking of them running around the track with their phones out. They’re probably cursing.

  See you two at lunch. Cover if Mr. Gladstone asks about me.

  Neta: SERIOUSLY GIRL ARE YOU KIDNAPPED OR WHAT

  I push my sunglasses up and send them a picture of myself with my latte so they’re positive that I am not being held hostage or being forced to skip gym by hostile means. It would ruin my day if my two best friends put out some sort of Amber Alert on me. Then I might actually get in trouble for skipping.

  Kolbie: ????? WHAT THE ????????

  I text them back. Is there anything happening this weekend? This town is boring. Can we go to a party?

  I finish my latte, feeling sort of—smug. A waitress brings me the lunch menu, and I order my salad early and a piece of Oreo cheesecake for dessert. I also order Kolbie and Neta’s standbys: a grilled cheese, tomato soup, and lemonade for Kolbie, and a grilled chicken panini, french fries, and a strawberry smoothie for Neta.

  Twenty minutes later, my friends burst in, and Neta’s normally smooth hair is still in a lumpy gym ponytail. Kolbie is her normal perfect self. They both sit down at the table with me, and Kolbie looks super pissed.

  “What the hell was that, Riley?” she asks. “Do you want to explain?”

  I lift a shoulder, the same way I did at Ethan’s. “Didn’t feel like getting into gym clothes. Was Gladstone pissed?”

  Neta heaves a theatrical sigh. “No. He said he thought you had some extra work in the library or something and marked you like you were there. But seriously. Is something wrong? And what are you doing with your hair?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.” I see the waitress come out of the kitchen with our plates. “Oh, and I ordered your food for you so you don’t have to eat so fast to get to class. Hope you don’t mind.”

  Kolbie’s face softens slightly when she sees her order. “Thanks. But you need to talk to us, Riley. We were worried. Like, legit, Neta was about to call 911. No joke, she had it typed into her phone and everything.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, knowing they want me to feel bad. I stir the ice in my drink with my straw. “I should have told you before. It was a split-second decision, though.”

  “But why? I just don’t get you, Riley,” Neta says. “One day you’re having a total meltdown about losing a point on a test and the next day you’re risking detention. What’s going on?” Her lips are pinched with concern.

  “I’m just tired of being me all the time. I wanted to do something—different.” I sigh. I can’t explain it to them. It doesn’t make sense unless you’ve been . . . me.

  “Well,” Kolbie says slowly, “were you serious about the party this weekend?”

  I kick my feet up on the chair across from me and shave off little bits of Oreo cheesecake with my fork. “If you guys will take me.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t mean a fund-raiser? Or, like, some sort of event where you’re, like, saving malnourished owls or feeding hungry children or something?” Neta asks.

  I shake my head. She’s kidding, but not really. I’m sort of known for fund-raisers and social events where I order clothes from, like, Rent the Runway and then accept awards on behalf of high school kids who care or something while pretending to be a teenage Oscar nominee.

  But not this time. I want to go out.

  And I’m going to drink.

  Maybe even a beer.

  Neta hits me playfully in the arm with the back of her hand. “Seriously, Ri? Have we or have we not been begging you to party with us since we were in, like, eighth grade?”

  I let myself smile, just a little bit. “Maybe.”

  Neta grabs her strawberry smoothie and her phone. “It’s so on this weekend. You have no idea. Carlos is having a pool party in the hills, which is going to be nice. His parents have an indoor pool, you know. Or we could go to the south side to Alice’s, which is more of a chill hang. Or we could just go old school and drive around and we see what we run into.”

  “I’m in.”

  “Which one?” Neta asks.

  I smile evilly. “All of them.”

  SEVEN

  Almost

  “Jell-O shots for the ladies?” Mario Anders asks, holding a silver pizza tray of multicolored Dixie cups. “I have cherry, lemon, grape, and I think maybe a couple of strawberries left, but you’re going to have to act fast.”

  “Sure!” Neta squeals, taking a lemon. She grabs a strawberry and a grape, and hands the red one to me. “Only if you’re comfortable,” she assures me, and I sniff it tentatively.

  We’re all crammed on a fat leather couch on the second floor of a huge mansion up in the hills, and Neta and Kolbie seem like they’re having an amazing time because they’re on their third drinks already. The music is loud enough that the walls seem to be throbbing with it, and I am fairly certain the playlist has been lifted from the seventies or something because I have recognized only one song and that’s because I heard it in a movie.

  Kolbie and Neta are laughing and smiling at everyone, our legs are sweating and sticking to the couch, and I’m trying to imitate them and not think about how sweaty my butt is going to look when I stand up, or if I’m actually going to have something to contribute to a conversation at some point, or whether this is what they talk about every Monday in study hall when they talk about fun and what happened over the weekend and how I totally missed out again.

  Someone brought in cheesy disco lights, and they’re flashing around at the top of the main staircase in time with the beat, and there is a stocky blond boy in a cutoff T-shirt doing strange dance moves on the marble foyer downstairs.

  It’s not going well for him so far.

  I try not to look out the window for the eightieth time that evening. The cops are not here. In fact, there are no cops. If the cops were going to come here, they would not even be here to bust anyone. Carlos Rodriguez’s family is wealthy and well regarded, so no one would ever dare call the cops on a party at their house. In fact, if the cops were here, it would probably be to keep people from entering the party. That’s how exclusive these parties are, in fact.

  At least, that’s what Kolbie told me. Apparently, Kolbie and Neta have been to a million of Carlos’s parties, and it’s always pretty safe and a lot of fun. And that’s why they decided to ease me in with a fancy Rodriguez party before, like, taking me to a gas station to illegally buy forties or something.

  “Do you know how to do a Jell-O shot?” Kolbie yells into my ear,
grabbing the purple shot. I can barely hear her, and she’s right next to me.

  “I don’t have a spoon!” I yell back. I chance another look out the window, but I don’t see any flashing lights. I glance around. They didn’t hand out any plastic silverware, which seems like common sense, honestly.

  “You have to use your finger to loosen it up,” Neta says, running her finger around the edge of the cup. “And then you just tip it back.” She lets all of the Jell-O fall into her mouth and swallows it. “Yum. And you can’t even, like, taste the vodka. It’s so good, Riley.”

  Kolbie just squeezes the Dixie cup into her mouth, which looks a little less neat, so I decide to go Neta’s route. It’s actually not bad. It’s fruity and sweet and slides down my throat easily, but leaves just a slight bitter aftertaste on the back of my tongue. It’s better than the wheaty beer I’ve been nursing for the past hour and a half.

  “Are you buzzing?” Kolbie asks me. “Do you want anything else?”

  “Um, no thanks,” I say. I don’t think I like drinking much, and honestly, I don’t feel a thing.

  “The more you drink, the less you’ll worry about getting caught,” Kolbie says. “I know that’s terrible real-world advice, but it’s actually true.” She tosses her cup at some guy walking by with a huge garbage bag, who tries to catch it, but it bounces off onto the wood floor.

  Neta pulls on my arm. “It’s too hot on this couch. Let’s go talk to more people! We can see if there are any cute guys here from Bellview, okay? Oh!” She releases me for a second and digs in her wristlet, producing a bright pink tube of lip gloss. “Try this on, okay? I think you need some.”

  I stare at it for a second. It’s way too bright for me. I know it. But this whole party isn’t me. The point of the night isn’t me. So I unscrew the top of the lip gloss and dab a little onto my lips to appease her. “Right back, Kolbie!” Neta says, and drags me away to a group of guys that she just dives right into, introducing me to Zayne and Jordan and Benn (with two N’s, he tells us, which is apparently way better than a Ben with just one.).

  “I’ve heard about you,” Zayne says, taking my hand and holding it for just a second too long. “You’re the one who never comes out.”