Such a Good Girl

by Amanda K. Morgan

  He pulls himself up. “I—I just had to figure everything out, Riley. I didn’t expect Jacqueline to come back. I thought it was over. I thought she was gone. And then all of a sudden she was back, acting like everything was okay and normal, and I was suddenly supposed to act like that too, and I just panicked and I’m sorry. Nothing about my feelings for you have changed. Nothing about our plans have changed. And I haven’t touched her.” He holds up his hands. “I swear, Riley.”

  “Well,” I say, my fingers sliding over the silverware he’s set out for me. They pause on the knife. “I’m not sleeping with you until you get rid of her. I’m not that kind of girl.”

  His eyes flash. “I never said you were.”

  I shrug, and I feel like the space below my collarbone is hollow.

  “Okay,” he says. “I will, so long as you never go on another stupid date while we’re together.”

  “Fine.” My words are sharp and they hurt even before they leave my tongue.

  “Fine. Should we shake on it?”

  I stare at him for a moment.

  I need something more. Something bigger than a handshake. Something to make him remember who is really in charge.

  “No,” I say. I stand up and walk to his kitchen counter. “Take off your shirt.”

  Behind me, I hear the sounds of fabric as he slips it off. I take mine off and drop it behind me. His breathing quickens audibly.

  I pull a sharp silver knife from the wooden block on his countertop. It comes free with a snick. I turn it this way and that to catch the light from the kitchen fixture.

  Alex’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t step away.

  I draw it across my chest in a neat line, opening a short, shallow cut over my heart. The flesh opens more easily than I’d imagine. The blood wells and collects and falls down my chest in well-ordered lines.

  I hold it out to him, handle first, the blade resting loosely in my palm.

  He stares at the blade for a moment, then takes it from me. He grits his teeth and makes an identical cut just over his own heart, and then grabs me and hold me tight against him. I feel the warmth of his blood against my skin, and for a moment I am angry and hurt and want to give in to him completely all at the same time.

  “I promise.” He looks down into my eyes.

  “Me too.” I don’t blink.

  “It’s a blood bond, then. Unbreakable.”

  “It’s forever,” I tell him. I close my hand over his on the hilt of the knife.

  Things to Know About Riley Stone:

  • At age fourteen, Riley founded the Senior Friends Program through her church youth group. The group paired middle- and high-school-aged students with nursing home residents for companionship and fun. The group still thrives today.

  • At age fifteen, Riley taught herself to read Braille in her spare time after volunteering at a camp for blind youth.

  • Also at age fifteen, Riley briefly reentered therapy, but voluntarily quit after she realized she felt more intelligent than the therapist, attributing most of her issues to being overly type A.

  • Her parents eagerly agreed with her self-diagnosis.

  • Riley has standing prescriptions that she can call in for, however, and a therapist who will see her when needed. Of course, Riley thinks this is all quite amusing, as she has personally diagnosed at least twelve other people at her school who need therapy more than she does, one of whom is a teacher.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Original

  “So I heard you hit it off with Sandeep.” Neta and I are in art, and she’s pulling on her pink bubble gum with her fingers, which is something I really, really find disgusting, but I try not to bug her about. She does this thing where she pulls on it and wraps it around her fingers and then chews it again, then basically repeats the whole process, which is frankly just unsanitary.

  “How are your watercolors going, girls?” Mr. Wellingsby, the art teacher, stops by our desk, wiggling his long-fingered hands at us inquisitively. He is a total bohem—he’s very thin, with flowy, colorful clothes, and he’s always talking about seeing love and pain and energy in art and going on about how we can channel our feelings.

  “I’m conceptualizing.” Neta grins up at him and pops her gum.

  I don’t respond. I’ve actually got a pretty good watercolor going. It’s a waterfall. Which means about as much to me as a goldfish. Or a red Converse sneaker.

  Or nothing.

  “Let your mind flow,” he advises, opening his arms as if guiding Neta’s creative energies personally. “Riley! I see so much inner turmoil in this picture! Gorgeous!”

  I nod seriously. I know exactly how to deal with Mr. Wellingsby. “I’m glad you picked up on that. I really wanted it to show what I’m going through.”

  He strokes his goatee with his arachnid hands. “I get it. I do. Do you want to talk to the class about it when you’re finished?”

  I shake my head, keeping my face calm. “I want my art to speak for me. Please.”

  He touches his head and then extends his finger in an arc. “Yes, Riley. Yes.”

  And then he sort of wanders off to the next table, managing to look really high and sort of lost. Which he probably is.

  He’s strangely a great teacher, if you can get past his muddled exterior.

  “So Sandeep,” Neta reminds me. “Is he the cause of your inner turmoil?”

  I snicker. “Oh yes. I’m definitely pining away for him. I think of him day and night. I write long letters for him and send them by the Postal Service. I got his name tattooed on my left breast.”

  I think of the cut on my chest where my fake tattoo is, and feel the corner of my mouth pulls up. If she only knew.

  “Then why did Kolbie say you blew him off?” Neta is still messing with her stupid gum. I want to grab it from her and throw it across the room, only I don’t actually want to touch it.

  “Because I guess I did.”

  “And why would that be? If you were having a good time, why’d you ditch him?”

  For a moment, I resent her. I resent my gorgeous, gum-snapping friend. I want to tell her to leave me alone. But if the tables were turned, would I ask the same question?

  Yes.

  I bend over my watercolor. “Please don’t be mad at me, Neta.”

  She sighs heavily, the air whooshing out of her lungs, and finally, she stops playing with her gum and drops her hands. “I’m not mad. I just—I don’t get it. If you liked him, what the hell?”

  “I was scared, okay? And I’m not ready. If I get into something, I give up a lot of other things. And maybe in college I’ll be ready to actually be with someone for real, and yeah, Sandeep is almost perfect, but right now, I’m just not.”

  Neta just sort of looks at me. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Ri.”

  I paint green into my waterfall so I don’t have to meet her eyes, which I know without looking are too kind right now. “I know.”

  “Hey,” she says. “Look.” She points across the room.

  I follow her finger. “Um, what?” I see Anthony Waterford, half asleep on his arm, in the corner.

  “No. Look at Kamea.”

  I glance at Kamea, who I sort of don’t like, just on principle. It’s not because she’s a bad person or anything. Because she’s not. And not because she’s particularly irritating.

  Of course, it’s not like she’s great, either. She dresses almost exactly the same, every single day, in these stupid button-up cardigans. Her closet probably looks like a cartoon character’s closet, with just the exact same outfit, over and over and over and over. She couldn’t get more boring if she made an actual effort.

  And of course she’s this cute, perky little girl-next-door type of blonde who is basically built to look good in any type of clothes. You know, the ones who fit into everything when you go shopping together and then look amazing in it?

  Kamea has that body.

  But she wears the same stupid cardigans.
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br />   And on top of that, she has one of those voices. Those high-pitched baby voices that belong on a girl, like, ten years younger that of course guys find attractive but is actually sort of disgusting.

  And Neta and Kolbie both like her.

  And she has been in second place for valedictorian for as long as I can remember.

  “Look at the necklace,” Neta prods.

  My eyes drop to the gold chain around her neck, and my throat tightens.

  Oh my God.

  Holy shit.

  A little wooden chess piece hangs from the chain.

  A little wooden king that doesn’t look one-of-a-kind at all.

  “You and Kamea must shop at the same store.” Neta giggles. “Awkward.”

  I don’t answer her. My fist closes around my own necklace and I’m pulling on the chain until it digs into the back of my neck. And somewhere, deep in the recesses of my mind, I’m imagining pulling the necklace tight around Kamea’s neck until her eyes bug out. And she doesn’t even struggle. She just stares at me, like she does in class when she doesn’t know an answer, like maybe, just maybe, I’ll help her.

  Because it looks like maybe, just maybe, Kamea’s also getting a little French tutoring on the side.

  “Don’t freak out, Ri. It definitely looks better on you.”

  I whip my head back to Neta. “I’m not worried.”

  But I know that Alex has a free period not next period—but the period after.

  And when he does, I march directly into his classroom and close the door, my arms behind my back.

  “Hello, lovely.” He touches the space above his heart where he cut himself. Mine barely stings anymore. I have two Band-Aids over my cut and I’ve religiously applied Neosporin. A blood bond is one thing, but I don’t want a scar.

  Inside, my temper rages, but I force myself to look at Alex. To study him. I thought he was smarter than this. I thought he would know better than to try to play two of us.

  Especially when I’m one of them.

  His eyebrows lower slightly. He’s figuring it out. He rises from his desk. “What’s wrong, Riley?” he asks, coming toward me. “Is everything okay?”

  He doesn’t touch me like he did last time we were alone in his classroom. That is a wise decision. I am not sure I could handle his skin. I would melt or I would attack. I am not sure which.

  I put myself at risk for him, and he doesn’t even care.

  “Kamea Myers,” I say, my voice a whisper.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Kamea Myers.” I repeat myself. I look at him.

  There is no response. Absolutely nothing. His face doesn’t color. He doesn’t look at his shoes. His eyes are trained on mine. “I don’t understand, Riley. Would you mind catching me up here?” Finally, his eyes take on a small note of panic. “She doesn’t . . . know about us, does she?”

  Very slowly, I unhook the little necklace from around my neck. I hold it out to him, the chess piece swinging back and forth, hypnotic.

  “This is what I’m talking about, Alex. This.”

  “Your necklace?”

  His face is still a canvas of questions and innocence. He’s good.

  “She has the exact same necklace, Alex.” I crush his name between my teeth, grinding out the two syllables. “Now, do you want to tell me how that’s possible? Has she been getting extra French tips on the side, maybe? Some private lessons?”

  He shakes his head, finally breaking eye contact. “No. Absolutely not. And that’s impossible. The man . . . he told me those necklaces were one of a kind. She couldn’t have one. It doesn’t make sense.” He lets out his breath, then looks at me again. “I swear on my life—on your life—that I didn’t give her a necklace, Riley. I never would. That’s not her. That’s you and me. That’s us, okay?”

  He doesn’t blink.

  “Huh,” I say.

  “Trust me, Riley. I’ve never felt about anyone like I feel about you. Please, please, just trust me on this, okay?”

  I don’t.

  Trust him.

  And he’s pleading.

  His eyes stray now, from me to the window behind me, to make sure what we’re doing looks PC. But he’s desperate for me to believe him. Desperate. He looks disheveled, somehow, not the in-control teacher who I stopped by to see.

  “Okay.” The word I give him is tight and brittle and already splintering around the edges. “Fine.”

  His face relaxes.

  I turn toward the door to leave him. I suddenly just want to go back to class.

  “I’m leaving Jacqueline tonight.”

  It bursts out of him. I pause with my hand on the door, and I turn back to him. “Make sure you do. I’m not a mistress.”

  And then, without waiting for him to say another word, I walk back to class.

  I don’t even look back to see if he’s watching me.

  I know he is. Just like always.

  It doesn’t cross my mind that I might have underestimated him.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Mobile

  There was a password on my iPhone, but it appears Alex knew it.

  He knew I knew that he knew.

  I lay in bed, staring at my ceiling, my cell phone resting on my chest.

  My mom would yell at me for that. She says you can get cancer that way, by keeping your phone too close to your body.

  I don’t know why I’m even thinking about that right now.

  Not after what just happened.

  Not after what I just found.

  I stare at it. I imagine it jumping with my heartbeat. I imagine it starting on fire so I never, ever have to find out.

  Alex left me something on my phone.

  Something in a photo album. One that I don’t recognize. One that I don’t remember being on there before Alex took my phone away from me. One that is titled FORRILEY.

  A photo album that I definitely have never, ever seen before.

  The first picture is the album—the thumbnail—and it’s blurred. I can’t tell what it is. No matter how long I look at it.

  But it’s the color of skin.

  I close my eyes slowly and then reopen them, focusing on the ceiling. What did he take pictures of while he was sitting at his desk all day? Am I even ready to see this?

  Is this going to be gross?

  No. Alex isn’t like that.

  I bite down on the inside of my bottom lip.

  I click the album open.

  The first photo is the blurred photo.

  And the second photo is of me. Asleep. My right hand is tucked under my head, and my hair is wild, like I’ve been tossing and turning. My legs are tangled in the sheets.

  My sheets.

  In my bed.

  Oh my God.

  I flip through the rest of the pictures quickly. It’s all me, in my white tank top and pajama pants, in various positions as I slept. In some, my arms are splayed out. In some, my top has ridden up, showing my stomach. In others, I’ve barely moved in my bed.

  My bed.

  In my own house.

  Alex didn’t take any pictures when he confiscated my phone during class. He broke into my house when I was sleeping and took pictures of me with my own phone.

  And somehow, I had no idea.

  Why would Alex do that? Why wouldn’t he tell me he was there, or wake me up? Why would he chance getting caught sneaking into my room?

  I think of Alex in my room at night, watching me, and my heart feels strange and scared and angry and excited, all at once. What is this, though? Is this some sort of insurance? Is Alex trying to scare me?

  This is not normal boyfriend behavior. Even a girl who has never actually dated knows that.

  It’s been three days since he told me he was going to break it off with Jacqueline. Three days. And he hasn’t done it. Jacqueline’s teal-blue car is still parked out in front of their curb every single day, and every single day Alex tells me the same exact thing: Soon. I swear. I love you.

  I tel
l him that I love him back, but a little hate seeps in around the corners. And then I let him go home to Jacqueline.

  My room is strangely cold, but I don’t want to go down the hall to check the thermostat. I just want to lay here. My heart hurts in my chest in a way that has become strange and familiar all at once.

  And I think of Alex, standing over me while I slept, my phone in his hands.

  My phone buzzes, turning the screen from my strange sleeping photos to Kolbie, smiling sweetly at the camera, her hands behind her back. I want to turn her off, to be wholly alone, but I force myself to answer.

  “Hey, girl.” I try to sound visibly cheerful, but I feel strange. My skin feels odd, like it’s falling asleep over my muscles.

  “Don’t ‘hey, girl’ at me, Riley. Why haven’t you been answering your phone?” Her tone is definitely Pissed Kolbie. I’ve heard her this way before, but never at me.

  I cringe and hold the phone about an inch away from my ear. “Uh, what?”

  “How many times did I call you? Don’t you think maybe your friends need you? Or are you too caught up in Ri-Ri land to care?”

  “I . . . don’t know,” I finish, because it’s the truth. I suppose I noticed they’d called some, but I actually went home early on Friday and I’ve spent most of the weekend studying and organizing, with thoughts of Alex crawling around in the back of my head. Which was stupid. I always swore I’d never be one of those girls. And maybe, just maybe, I hadn’t checked my messages all weekend. I pull my covers over my head but keep my phone to my ear. I deserve to hear her out. I know it.

  “Well, you’re being a shit friend, Riley, because first you walked out on Sandeep, and you wouldn’t even talk to me about it.”

  “Yeah, well, I panicked, okay? I don’t want him to get in the way of my priorities. I’m sorry.” My words are defensive.

  “I know, Riley, but if you were just going to ghost a good guy, I wouldn’t have set you up with Jamal’s best friend. You could have at least given him some sort of explanation.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, and this time I actually do sound properly sorry.

  “Just don’t expect me to set you up with someone good again until you can actually handle it. Sandeep felt like shit, just so you know. And so did I. He really liked you, Ri.” Her voice softens, just slightly. “I’m not saying you had to be with him if you weren’t into him. And if he did something weird, you’d tell me, right? I won’t be mad. I swear.”