Such a Good Girl

by Amanda K. Morgan

  A real kiss is different. A real kiss is with someone who means something.

  And so I have never had a real kiss.

  I watch Mr. Belrose as if there is nothing out of the ordinary. I take notes in deliberate, even handwriting, highlighting the most important sections in three different colors, and I write down my homework in my planner, which is a bit more than usual. And I don’t stick around after class to talk to him, because Riley Stone has no reason to stick around to speak to her teacher, not when she has absolutely everything under control.

  But when I get home that evening, I find the phone book in the cupboard underneath my parents’ landline (they still have both because they are stuck in the last century and don’t trust cell phones in disasters). I make a mental note of Belrose’s address.

  And then I grab my keys.

  I know the street, I think—it’s about twenty minutes away, not far from a park on the other side of town. It’s not a wealthy part of town, but it’s not like it’s horrible, either. It’s a typical lower-middle-class neighborhood: chain-link fences, well-tended gardens with chipped gnomes, kids playing basketball in their driveways.

  I drum my feelings out on the steering wheel, but I can’t process them. I’m not sure if my heart is working quite right. Or at all.

  Am I misreading all the signals? What am I doing? Did he even want me? Am I completely nuts?

  I park three blocks away, pull on one of Ethan’s old Denver Broncos baseball caps, and slip out of my car. I stare in the direction of his house.

  This is bad.

  This isn’t late-to-class bad. It’s not drinking-beer bad. It’s actually bad bad. There is no going back from this bad.

  He’s a teacher.

  He’s over eighteen.

  He’s married.

  And I am a good girl.

  My mind ticks back to his e-mail.

  If I go over to his house, then that’s gone. I’m not just stepping neatly out of the category I’ve been shuffled in—I’m basically blowing it up with a nuclear bomb.

  I can’t go back.

  But my feet start moving in the direction of his house. The street is friendly enough. There are tons of trees—old ones, with thick trunks, casting the trees in shadows. I glance at the little homes as I walk by. None of them are very big. Some have children and dogs in the yard. Some are empty. Some of the lawns haven’t been mowed in a while.

  My footsteps feel too deliberate and strange, like I’ve never used my feet before. Am I walking casually? How does one walk casually?

  I pull the baseball cap farther over my head and push my hair behind my ears.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have dressed so much like myself—all straight edges and J.Crew and neat. Maybe I should have worn a disguise.

  I feel oddly cold, and it’s a nice day. My fingers and toes tingle strangely. What am I doing? Is this who I am now? Am I really interested in Alex Belrose?

  Shouldn’t I learn to be happy with Zaynes, drooling over me while I play beer pong? With Robs? Rob is so sweet. Why can’t I be happy with Rob?

  Rob and I even have a history. I mean, we never really dated, but we were friends. We sat next to each other in fourth grade, and for my birthday that year, he gave me a pink unicorn pencil with a white heart eraser. Every year since, he’s slipped the same pink unicorn pencil into my locker on my birthday, and every year he smiles at me because we both know but we never say anything about it.

  My chest hurts.

  Because I can’t.

  Not with Rob.

  He’s not for me.

  I need something . . . else. Someone else.

  And suddenly, I’m there. I’m at his house. It’s a smallish brick thing with a barn mailbox. The yard is neatly mowed and there are yellow and pink tulips out front.

  And Alex Belrose is sitting out on the porch in a hoodie that says PURDUE. He leans forward when he sees me.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out. I have a new e-mail.

  Go around back.

  TWELVE

  Bad

  I know what he’s saying.

  Don’t walk in my front door. Don’t be obvious.

  But come here.

  My hands shake. I shove them into the pockets of my jeans.

  I walk three houses down and cut through a lawn toward the alley, which is lined with trees.

  And therefore hard to see from the homes on either side.

  Good call, Mr. Belrose.

  Alex.

  Mr. Belrose.

  I pause at the gate. It’s white and wooden and badly in need of a paint job.

  Stop.

  I hear it in my head like someone is saying it, like someone is actually telling me.

  This is it.

  This is the line.

  Right here.

  And if I cross it, I become an entirely different Riley Stone. An entirely different girl. I will not be the good girl, the girl who loves bookstores, the girl who kisses boys because she has to because she’s in a play, or the girl who is perfect because that’s who she is and what she does.

  I will have a secret.

  I will have done something wrong.

  Really wrong.

  For one second, my body feels heavy, and I want to turn around and run. I want to sprint down the alley, as fast as I can, and cut back toward the street where Belrose can’t see me and just leave.

  But then I press my hands against the wooden gate and it swings open, revealing the backyard, choked with trees and an empty chicken coop and there he is. He is wearing khaki shorts even though it’s too cold for them and his hands are jammed into the pocket of his hoodie.

  And he’s smiling.

  Big.

  At me.

  Just at me.

  It’s not his teacher smile. It’s the Alex smile.

  “Wanna sit?” he asks, motioning at an Adirondack chair on his back porch.

  “Um, yeah.” I settle into the chair, sitting my purse down on the wooden planks. He sits too, opposite me, and we look at each other and look away and then look at each other and his eyes are so goddamn green and what am I doing?

  “Do you want something to drink?” he asks.

  “Sure.”

  He disappears into his house and comes back a moment later with two sarsaparillas.

  “Do you like root beer?” He twists off the top for me, so obviously he doesn’t expect me to say no.

  It’s not my favorite, but I take one anyway. “Sure.” It’s frosty and cold. I wonder if he has ice cream. We could make root beer floats.

  No. That’s immature. I’m an adult. I am grown-up. I am almost in college, and Mr. Belrose—Alex—is taking me seriously.

  He could have offered me a real beer and I would have said, “Sure,” and then I could have made a toast or something, but there isn’t a lot you can say about root beer. Which is something you give a kid.

  But a real beer—that would have meant something. If he would have given me a real beer, like an equal, I would have taken it, and I would have smiled at him, and that gesture would have said everything, just there, and I would have lifted my beer and said, “To you, Alex,” and he would have said, “No, to you,” and I would have known he was glad that I was on the same level as he was, and it would have been everything the party with Neta and Kolbie wasn’t. He would have been showing me he trusted me, and maybe I would have brought up something about L’Amant, and I could have told him how I really did understand the themes of repression and how we need to act on our desires.

  We sit in silence for a few seconds.

  He takes a sip of his sarsaparilla.

  “So.”

  “Uh, do you want to talk about how great my essay is or something?” My joke feels weak and flat as soon as I say it, and I wish I could take the words back.

  He laughs. “That seems like a safe topic.”

  I feel a smile working its way to my lips, and I don’t know if it’s because I am happy or because I’m ner
vous or because my stomach feels like something is alive inside of it. “We don’t have to be safe.”

  His eyes catch mine. “No?”

  I shake my head. “No. I’m not exactly the good girl that everyone thinks I am.” I take a drink of my root beer, and a little bit dribbles on my chin. I wipe it off quickly, hoping he doesn’t notice.

  “I’ve known that for a long time.” He looks away from me, into his backyard. “You’re more than just a good student. You’re better than that.”

  I cock my head at him. “Better?” What does that mean?

  “I think that just sort of reduces you to a few grades and some scholarships. And people are scared of that sort of perfection, aren’t they? They have to quantify you somehow to make you safer. So you’re a certain sort of girl to them, and then everything is just—easier.”

  “Yeah? And who am I to you?”

  He looks at me and presses his lips together. “I don’t know yet. But if it’s okay with you, I’d kind of like a chance to figure it out.”

  I feel a little warm. “I think I’d like that too.”

  I look up at the sky. The sun is starting to go down, and I can hear crickets starting up their insistent nighttime song. It’s getting a little chilly, and goose bumps begin to prick up on my arms. “What sort of man are you, then?”

  He shifts in his chair. “Would it weird you out if I said I didn’t know yet?”

  I set my drink down. “Not really. I think sometimes people spend their whole lives just trying to figure out who they are. And I don’t know what the big deal is about having to define yourself immediately or even at all. Who says that you should have to discover exactly who you are by the time you graduate from college? I don’t think anyone knows by that point.”

  Belrose leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “You’re smart, you know that? And not like everyone has been telling you your whole life, either. But really smart. You see people.”

  I tuck my hair behind my ears and smile tightly in an attempt to veil how pleased the compliment really makes me. “Thanks.”

  And I realize that this . . . this is what it’s supposed to feel like. Not Jell-O shots in damp Dixie cups. Not some guy who smells like cheap beer and sweat.

  This.

  I wanted Alex Belrose.

  And not in a childish-crush way. Not in the stupid way that everyone kisses in the high school hallways and fights about prom dates and makes out in their parents’ basements.

  I really wanted him. Truly. So much I can barely stand it. So much it hurts in my chest.

  “I’d like to see more of you,” Belrose—Alex says. He reaches for me, but then pulls his hand back, like he’s unsure how I’ll respond. Slowly, I reach out, and I brush my fingers against his. He catches my hand and holds it.

  “I’d be okay with that.”

  “Maybe you could come over and . . . um . . . we could read. Or something. And we could catch up?”

  I nod. “Yeah. Of course.”

  He smiles, and I stand up, and he stands too. He pulls my scarf out of his pocket and loops it around my shoulders, using it to pull me close to him, so our chests are almost touching and I can feel the heat of him near me.

  My pulse quickens. I feel his breath on my face.

  “I like you, Riley Stone.”

  “I like you too . . . Alex.”

  “I like when you call me that.” He tugs me a little closer with my scarf. “Can I see you again soon?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “Do you promise?” he asks.

  “I promise.”

  He releases the scarf. “Good girl.”

  THIRTEEN

  New

  “Two suitcases? Two? ”

  Kolbie pants as she lugs the second leather suitcase into my room. “You could have helped.”

  I cross my arms. “Uh, I asked you to bring over a few outfits, not your entire wardrobe.”

  Kolbie gives me her sassiest hair flip. “Seriously? Don’t exaggerate. You know it would take a moving truck to get all my clothes up here. Plus they wouldn’t fit in your pitiful excuse for a closet.” She casts her eyes toward my non-walk-in closet, which holds all my clothes quite nicely, thank you very much.

  I hold up my palm. “Okay, can you tone down the sass, please? My wardrobe is actually pretty serviceable. I just want to try something new.”

  “Well, your wardrobe isn’t pitiful. It just needs expansion. Oh, and I bought you makeup! I’m so excited to be able to make you over!” She does a happy little hop.

  “I have makeup.” I nod toward my little bathroom, where I have a couple of things I apply to my face every morning. It’s very conservative, but it’s adequate. I look perfectly presentable.

  She unfolds a cosmetic bag across my bed. It looks like an artist’s palette. “No, I have makeup.”

  I approach my bed cautiously. What is this girl doing? I asked for new style, not to appear on What Not to Wear: Kolbie Edition. I am looking for exploration, not a whole new Riley.

  “It’s okay,” Kolbie says slowly, guiding me to a chair and sitting me down. “It’s not a wild animal. It’s not going to bite you. Besides, I owe you, don’t I?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Please. You were up with me until midnight going over my college applications with me, and I know for a fact you half wrote an entrance essay for Neta last week. The least I can do is fix you up.” She tousles my hair, and I resist the urge to smooth it down.

  “I’m not, like, fashionably challenged here,” I say. “I don’t want to go straight to Crazytown. I just want a little flair.”

  Kolbie begins sharpening an eye pencil. “Girl, I have got you a little flair. Relax, okay? This is going to be fun. And if you hate it, you can go straight back to J.Crew with the rest of your kind, okay?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing,” she says innocently. “Now, what do you use for an eye primer?”

  “A what?”

  She groans theatrically and makes fists. “I have so much work to do with you. I for real need your foundation, though, because mine is not going to work on that pasty-ass skin of yours. Now stop squirming.”

  “I’m not even!”

  “You are too!”

  “Then stop pointing that eye pencil at me like it’s a weapon!”

  She puts it down and laughs. “Damn, Ri. Has anyone ever told you your room is too clean?” She leans over and unzips her other suitcase, and then pulls out the Bluetooth speaker she brought to study hall and turns it up. “Do your parents care if we have wine?” She pulls out a few little Sutter Home bottles.

  I shrug. “If we don’t drive, I guess.”

  The truth is, I don’t know what they’d think. But as long as we aren’t incredibly obvious I don’t think they’d mind. Besides, the last time my mother checked on me in my room, I think I was, like, nine and playing with toy horses and had some sort of accident with red Kool-Aid that resulted in my mother having to replace my carpet.

  I unscrew the cap on mine and try a sip. It’s a little bitter and sugary all at once. “What is this?”

  “Uh, chardonnay, I think.” She tries a sip too. “It’s good, right?”

  “I guess. I don’t really know anything about wine. My parents only let me drink a glass on holidays. And at communion at church.”

  “I thought that was grape juice.”

  I give her a withering look. “Please. The blood of Christ is not grape juice at my church.”

  She holds up a perfectly manicured hand. “Whatever. Hey, I was going to ask you. What’s the deal with the sudden makeover request? And you wanting to go to parties and skip class all of a sudden?”

  “Because I want to.”

  Kolbie gives me a look. I know the look. It’s basically saying, Come on, I’m not that stupid. That is the problem with having smart friends who are not total clichés. In movies, the three popular girls are always, like, traipsing down the hallways at schools in tiny clothes an
d looking gorgeous and never actually doing schoolwork. But my girls are not just caricatures.

  “It’s not about a guy,” I say. “It doesn’t always have to be about a guy.”

  Lie number one.

  “I know it’s not.”

  “I’m just tired of being the same and looking the same. I’m bored. I want to have some fun, you know? Before high school ends? Isn’t this supposed to be, like, the best time of our lives and stuff?”

  Kolbie takes another sip of her wine and sits it on the end of my dresser. She begins laying the clothes out along my bed. “First of all, no. If high school is the best time of our lives, that’s kind of sad. That means you’re getting all the good stuff out of the way pretty fast, doesn’t it?”

  I smile at my friend. She really is brilliant. And of course she doesn’t get enough credit for it on account of being super beautiful.

  “I guess so. But still. Even that idea . . . doesn’t that mean I should be having more fun than I’m having?”

  Kolbie starts hanging her clothes along my closet doors. “If you want to have more fun, have more fun. Just do it, you know? Seriously. I’ll tell you what. Jamal is going to be in town this weekend, he’s bringing one of his good friends. And honestly, it’s fun to date. So why don’t you come along next time?”

  “I told you this wasn’t about finding a man.”

  Kolbie looks back at me over her shoulder. “It doesn’t have to be. It’s about getting out of the prison you call a comfort zone. So have fun. And if you like the guy, awesome. And if not, well, you hopefully had a good time and you ate some pizza or whatever. And I promise it’ll be better than a lame party. Okay?”

  I hesitate.

  What about Belrose?

  What about Alex?

  But that’s why I need to. I can’t look like I have any attachment to him whatsoever.

  I have to do this. For us.

  “I’m in.”

  Kolbie beams at me. She pushes her hair back into a knot on top of her head, like a ballet dancer.

  “Now, the look is professional chic. I am thinking this”—she pulls a pencil skirt off the bed—“with these and these”—she yanks a pair of patterned black tights out of her second suitcase. “And I’m thinking maybe a cute V-neck, fitted, of course, with a scarf.”