Such a Good Girl

by Amanda K. Morgan

  I nod and gather up the pages, very neatly, taking my time. I wouldn’t have hurried before “us.”

  I won’t hurry now.

  I tuck the scholarship pages into a folder, slide the folder into my bag, and don’t check to see if Alex is watching me as I leave his classroom. I know it doesn’t matter if he is.

  Because he’s mine.

  All mine.

  I head in the direction of the gymnasium, stick my backpack into my locker, and slip into my cheerleading gear. I’m the first one there, as usual, but before long Neta shows up, and then Bella Cooper, the cocaptain, who takes over when I’m sick. Mrs. Hernandez, the cheerleading coach, only shows up when she can, but she trusts me to run most practices. I’ve been in gymnastics and cheer since I was a really little girl, and I’m very good at it. And despite the fact that I have been avoiding it, I do love it. A lot.

  “Riley!” Bella says, bouncing up to me as I stretch out. “Are you feeling better?”

  I smile up at her from a frog position, taking her in. Bella is solid and perfect in about every way, and I try to stand her the best I can. “Yeah. Thanks for asking. Get stretched out okay? I want a good, hard practice today.”

  She puts her hands on her hips and looks down at me. “Are you sure? Maybe you should ease into it. You’ve been delicate and all.” Her tone is peppy, but I’ve been cheering with her since fourth grade, so I can hear the slight accusatory tone.

  “I’m sure she can handle it.” Neta plops down next to me into a butterfly stretch, pulling her feet in.

  I smile up at Bella. “I’ve got it,” I confirm.

  Bella is the type of person who would run a cheerleading practice like we were in a daycare. I’m all for kindness and everything, but if it were her, we’d spend half the practice sitting in a circle on the gym floor holding hands and humming “Kumbaya” at a friendly volume. She thinks I push the team too hard, but that’s also why we’re good. If I left her in charge for too long, she’d petition to have us removed from competitions on the basis that she wants to be friends with everyone and doesn’t like hurting anyone’s feelings.

  Of course, Bella used to be a lot more like me, but ever since her little brother was put into a juvenile delinquent facility three years ago she’s insistent on being very amiable all the time. I personally think she developed the character trait as a coping strategy.

  When the whole team is on the floor, I raise my voice a little. Everyone turns toward me. I know how to command power without yelling.

  I feel a smile in the muscles of my lips, but I tamp it down.

  “All right, girls. Get a stretching partner and count off, okay? As soon as you’re done, we’re in for some tumbling practice. I know it’s basic, but we don’t have room for sloppy stuff right now. Then, we’ll do some jumps, and we’ll take a short break and do some stunting. Okay? I want everything super clean today. We don’t have any room for injuries. Everything will be tight for the games, and we’re going to petition to get more competitions. We’ll finish with some cheers and chants as usual, and I need to go over some final thoughts.”

  The group finishes their stretches and lines up on the black line running the length of the gymnasium, and we begin counting off cartwheels and handsprings. We always do this—start simple. Keep it clean. And then it gets more complex. I pull off a neat back handspring followed by a roundoff back handspring, and Neta whoops and gives me a high five.

  “Looks good, Stone!” she says.

  “Thanks!” I smile. “Give it a shot!”

  She nods and bounces a couple of times and executes the roundoff-back-handspring combo perfectly.

  “Gorgeous,” I tell her, and she flips her ponytail.

  There is no room for Alex in my head during cheerleading. One false move, and someone could be seriously hurt. He sneaks into my mind a couple of times, but I kick him right back out.

  There is plenty of room for Alex after cheerleading, naturally. There is plenty of room for me in his house. In his arms.

  “You’re looking great,” Neta tells me halfway through practice, when I give the team its second water break. She pats me on the butt.

  I smile back at her. I feel good. “You too, Neta.”

  In fact, I barely even think of Alex.

  At least, I don’t until Fatima Patel pokes me in the arm after a single-twist basket toss. “Hey,” she whispers. “Don’t look now—but I think Mr. Belrose is checking us out.” She giggles and throws her thick black braid over her shoulder.

  I look toward the double doors that lead into the hallway of the high school, and there he is: Alex Belrose, in a T-shirt and shorts, like maybe he’s been working out in the weight room or something, his arms crossed over his chest, a smile on his face.

  And I can’t tell if he’s smiling because of me . . . or he’s smiling because of everyone.

  “Finish your jumps, girls!” I bark. “Toe-touches! Five, six, seven, eight!”

  There is suddenly more giggling than necessary for something so simple. And then, of course, the team executes the jumps flawlessly.

  “Okay. Herkies, then.”

  I join the girls, and we jump together. I don’t look toward the doorway, but I can feel Belrose there, watching.

  “Did he see?” Fatima asks, flicking a sweaty piece of hair that has escaped from her braid off her neck. Her pretty cheerleader smile is perched in place and she looks gorgeous, as usual.

  That is Fatima, of course. She isn’t a great student—she scores Cs, usually—is perpetually late to class, and always has a button in the wrong place or a shoelace untied—but she looks incredible doing it, and actually, quite secretly, puts in a lot of work on her I-woke-up-like-this selfies that she runs through at least three filters.

  I feel hot, thick jealousy in my chest that makes it almost impossible to breathe. “Again!” I shout, and they’re jumping again, and I know Alex hasn’t left the doorway, and everyone is jumping extra hard, trying to look good for him, and they’re my cheerleaders, so of course they do.

  I want them to stop.

  “Okay, everyone. Let’s break for water.” I clap, and they head to the bleachers—and then to the door.

  Where Alex is standing, his arm outstretched, hand out, the not-Belrose grin on his face that’s supposed to be for me.

  Just for me.

  And my entire team runs past on the way to the water fountain and high-fives him. Including Neta.

  When they all have perfectly good water bottles in the bleachers.

  Better water bottles, actually, because everyone knows that water fountains are disgusting places where germs go to live and breed and create mutant diseases than can take out entire populations.

  Pathetic.

  I walk to the bleachers by myself and grab my purple water bottle. Neta comes back to sit by me.

  “Wow, Ri, you couldn’t even line up for a high five?” Neta asks. She settles down beside me on the bleachers. “I mean, you have to admit he’s hot.”

  “Whatever. Can we just get back to practicing?” I push away from the bleachers. “Stunting, please.”

  “That was barely a break,” Claire Meadows mutters.

  “Line up, please.” I clap. “Now, let’s go. No more distractions.”

  I don’t glance back at the door, but I don’t make practice short, either. I make it long. Extra long. We go through stunts and cheers and do a second round of jumps. The team drags before the end of it. My legs scream with every additional movement, but I don’t care.

  When I finally let the team go and I’m taking off my shoes, my phone vibrates. It’s an e-mail.

  Are you coming over?

  The jealousy curls around my heart and squeezes.

  This is all too far. This whole relationship. Him and me. Everything is wrong. Everything. And I can’t handle this. I can’t handle him and me and the cheerleaders and the high fives and all this bullshit.

  It’s just wrong and it’s been wrong the whole time and I�
��ve been an absolute fool.

  No thank you, I e-mail back.

  And then I turn off my phone.

  I am done.

  SEVENTEEN

  To Play

  French class is French class.

  Alex is Mr. Belrose.

  I am a student. A straight-A student and head cheerleader. Someone who made a mistake and knows it.

  I am a student who does not put up with anyone flirting with other girls. Especially not right in front of her.

  Mr. Belrose hands out our essays. I haven’t let myself e-mail him or see him. I am good. I am the good girl everyone always thought I was.

  He pauses a millisecond longer at my desk. A millisecond only I notice. I face straight forward. Thea giggles and tries to draw his attention.

  He doesn’t even look at her.

  “Verb forms,” Mr. Belrose says. “Let’s start with, uh, Miss Stone. Riley—‘to love.’ ”

  “Oh. Hmm. I think it’s jouer.”

  I fix him with an icy stare.

  I have given him the French word for “play.” Because that’s what he’s done to me.

  Play. I am his little game.

  “Aimer, Mademoiselle Stone. Incorrect. Surprising.”

  I stare at him, arms crossed over my chest, daring him to question me further.

  He doesn’t. He moves on to Keatra, and then to Cay, then Garrett, and Teri Von Millhouse.

  He doesn’t come back to me.

  I don’t meet his eyes.

  And when the bell rings, I pack up my books.

  “Riley, I’ll need you to stay after class, please,” Mr. Belrose says. He’s not asking, either. His voice is a quiet command, and I want nothing more than to walk out the door with the rest of the students.

  “Why?” I ask. My tone isn’t the respectful one I save for teachers, either. But he isn’t just my teacher anymore.

  He doesn’t answer, only watches as the students file out of the room. I watch them too, my backpack slung over one arm. I drop it on the floor as Mr. Belrose follows Thea to the door and closes it after her.

  And then we’re alone.

  In his classroom.

  During school hours.

  Alarms go off in my head.

  “You’re ignoring my e-mails,” he says.

  I tilt my head at him. I had thought Alex Belrose was a smart guy. But he’s not acting like one. Not at all. “Well, I haven’t wanted to respond, particularly. Or see you.”

  “Can I ask why?” His voice is quiet. And a little dangerous.

  “How many special students do you have?”

  “Excuse me?” He leans in, his hand next to his ear.

  “How many goddamn girls are you inviting over?” I ask. “One for every high five?”

  He smiles, his mouth pulled up just a little farther on one side than the other. “Is that what all this is about?” He motions at me.

  I stand up a little straighter. “What do you think it’s about?”

  “You think—you think there are others, Riley?”

  “How am I supposed to know, Alex?” I snap, and then hate myself for using his name. Damn it. He’s not Alex anymore. He’s Mr. Belrose. My teacher.

  Not someone who is fun to kiss.

  He takes a step toward me, and I fight not to step back. I have to be strong.

  “You’re the only one, Riley,” he whispers. “There’s no one else. I swear to God. There’s no one else in the world.”

  “How am I supposed to believe that?” I look at his eyes, but he doesn’t blink. He looks at me straight-on.

  “Because you’re the only one I’d ever take this kind of risk for, Riley. And I can’t stop thinking about you. Not for one second. And it’s driving me insane to know you’re angry at me.”

  He reaches out and links his fingers in mine. I don’t pull away. His hands are shaking.

  “Will you come back to me? Please?” he pleads.

  I feel my insides softening.

  “I only came to your practice to see you. I’m sorry for upsetting you. Besides, I have something really special planned. Just promise you’ll come see it tonight. If you hate it, you can leave.” His fingers tighten on my hand.

  I hesitate, dropping my head.

  “Please, Riley.” His fingers find the bottom of my chin and lift it, and he’s staring into me. “I’m begging you. Please do this. For me.”

  I nod, even though my stomach feels cold and hard, like I’ve just had a gallon of too-cold water. “I guess. But this is for me. Not for you.”

  He smiles at me. “God, I want to kiss you so badly right now.”

  “Do it.” I dare him. My words are hard and angry and I want him to but I don’t. I want him to hold me and never let go and I want him to leave me alone forever.

  I’m not entirely sure if I forgive him.

  The classroom door swings open behind us, and he drops my hand and my chin like he was never holding me and jams them both in his pockets, like his skin has some residue left on it, some evidence that he was touching me.

  “Due Monday,” he reminds me, like that’s what we were discussing all along. “And remember the bibliography.”

  I scoff.

  What a terrible cover.

  Like Riley Stone would ever forget a bibliography.

  I walk out.

  No looking back.

  Riley Stone never looks back.

  EIGHTEEN

  Gifts

  It is dark tonight, and unseasonably cold. I vary the times when I arrive at the Belrose house, but I don’t think any neighbors have seen me. I dress quietly, and I wear hats pulled low over my face, but even so I change where I park, and my clothing, too. Tonight, I arrived well after the sun went down, and the cloudy night sky hid me well. Summer is barely gone, but the air already feels like winter. It’s strange. Everyone says it’s due to climate change, because normally at this time everyone would still be wearing shorts and running their sprinklers and lolling about on their lawns with glasses of lemonade on Sundays.

  It’s lucky for me that the early cold is keeping everyone indoors.

  And there was no one to see me slip toward the dark home.

  There are no lights on in the Belrose house.

  But when I push on the back door, it swings in, like he was waiting for me. And that is where I am right now.

  I stand in the den, alone. I unwrap my scarf from my neck. Something is different.

  “Hello?” I call, and I take a step inside. The house isn’t completely dark . . . there’s a faint glow coming from the hallway. I close the door softly behind me, my senses blinking on high alert.

  My heart beats a little oddly. Is everything okay? I tiptoe toward the faint light. Why is everything off? Alex asked me to come. Did he forget? Is he gone?

  Is Jacqueline somehow back and he wants me to leave?

  I move toward the glow, my heart beating thunderously in my ears.

  Oh.

  Oh.

  Several gorgeous, white, long-stemmed candles line the hallway. I follow the path down the hallway and through the little kitchen where we’ve cooked together, and finally, into his living room. And there he is. Alex. He looks at me, over his arm, which is on the back of the couch.

  “Come sit with me, Riley.”

  No one has ever lit candles for me before. I thought it was something that only happened in movies. Silly movies. But he did it.

  I walk to the front of the couch and curl into the crook of his arm, so that my back is against his chest.

  “Hello,” I purr against him.

  “Hello,” he says, smoothing my hair back. “I’m happy you’re here.”

  “I am too.”

  And I am. The strange feeling in my stomach is all but gone. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me tight. “I have something for you,” he whispers.

  “You don’t have to get me things,” I murmur. And I mean it. I’m not the type of girl who needs things. But all the same, I’m excited.
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  “Close your eyes and hold out your hands,” he whispers in my ear. He untangles his arms, and he places something in my palms . . . something light. “Okay. You can open them.”

  My eyes open. In my hands is a small rectangular box wrapped in light periwinkle paper, tied with a pretty white bow.

  “A present! What is it?” I turn it over and look at the bottom, as if that will give me some sort of clue that I’m missing.

  “You’ll have to open it,” he says. He touches my arm. “I hope you like it.”

  I slide my index finger under the paper, opening it neatly. He’s given me something. Something special. He’s lit candles and he’s given me a real gift, something I can hold on to and keep. I unfold the paper, and there’s a dark blue velvet box inside. Is it jewelry? I give him a quizzical look.

  He smiles and nods.

  I lift the top off the box.

  It’s a necklace.

  He’s given me a necklace. It is a tiny wooden chess piece on a delicate chain. A king.

  My fingers stray to the hollow below my throat, where the little charm will hang when I wear it.

  “It’s gorgeous,” I tell him.

  He works the clasp apart. “Hold up your hair,” he tells me, and I gather it all up while he drapes the necklace around my neck. The wood is cool against my skin. “I got this at a little shop in Paris,” he says, “just along the Seine.”

  I let my hair drop and turn to face him, my fingers running up and down the little chain. “It’s from Paris?” I breathe. I’ve never owned anything from Paris. Not anything from out of the country, until you count the little sand candle my aunt brought me from Puerto Vallarta.

  “The man who owns the shop makes the charms by hand, and his vision is slowly failing, but his jewelry, it’s all beautiful. It all has these tiny imperfections, you see, so they’re all completely one of a kind. And I used to love chess when I was little. I played it against my grandfather at night after he closed the restaurant.” He touches the necklace with a knuckle, and then leans in, his lips just barely grazing mine. “Do you like it, Riley?” he asks, his lips moving against mine.