He jerks back. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks slowly. “Because there’s no one out there.”
“I know, sorry.” I’m so jumpy. If I stay here one more minute, he’s going to think I’m a raving lunatic. More than he already does.
I push the door open and scramble out. “Sorry,” I say again. “I gotta go. I had a great time, thanks!” And that’s it. I leave him sitting there, probably thinking I’m off to rendezvous with the spaceship that’ll return me to my home planet.
The house is dark. Could Trish be asleep? Or more likely, she’s taking advantage of the fact that Mom’s away.
On the off chance Trish is in fact home, I unlock and open the front door as quietly as I can. As soon as I do, the living room light flicks on. She’s sitting on the sofa. Lying in wait. Shit.
“Well, well, well. Look who decided to come home,” she says.
“Yes.” I smile tightly. “You got me. I’m late. Why are you even home, anyway?”
She doesn’t answer my question. “No note, no phone call, no nothin’.”
I don’t say anything.
“I was really worried,” she says, her voice full of fake concern. “You never leave the house. God. I thought you’d been kidnapped.”
“And what? You were waiting up for the ransom call?”
She smirks. “So where were you?”
I’d planned for this moment, just in case, as I’d walked from Garret’s car. “I went to a party.”
“With who?”
“Willa.”
“Whose party?”
“Ava Clark’s. She’s in band. Grade ten. So you don’t know her.” I don’t really know her either, but I follow her on Instagram and I know for a fact she was having a party tonight. If Trish does any detective work, I’m covered.
She squints her eyes. “Your makeup looks good.”
I squint back at her. She says stuff like this sometimes. I think it’s to throw me off balance. Is she sincere? Sarcastic? Passive-aggressive? I can never tell. “Thanks,” I say.
“Don’t worry.” She pats my shoulder on her way to the stairs. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
I lay in bed wide awake for a long time going over every minute of the date. I think I was pretty on point till that last bit in the car. Then I start thinking about Trish and how she said she’d keep my secret. I almost believe her, basically because I’m betting she’s smart enough to realize I have way more on her than she could ever have on me.
At least I hope she’s smart enough.
* * *
Mom’s not home ten minutes before I’m summoned to the kitchen and charged with my crime. Surprise, surprise. Guess Trish isn’t that smart after all.
“I can’t believe you stayed out until almost two, Lizzie,” Mom says, slamming a pot onto the stove. “You’re the last person I’d expect that from. Trish, sure, but not you.”
“Hey!” Trish says looking all offended.
“I’m really sorry, Mom. But I wasn’t drinking or anything. We just lost track of time.”
“Who lost track of time?” she demands. “Where were you? Who were you with?”
“With Willa. And some other band people. It was a birthday party.” Saying it’s a birthday party somehow makes it sound more innocent. I feel terrible lying to Mom, but I have no choice. Trish is standing right there. I have to stick to the story I told her.
“Willa was with you?” Mom asks.
“Yup.”
She turns her back to me and starts opening a can of something. I wait. “We’ll talk about this later,” she says stiffly. “You can…go clean the bathroom.”
I frown. “But I just clean—”
“Do it again,” she says, almost shouting.
As I brush past Trish, I say, “Thanks a lot.”
“Hey, missy!” Mom calls after me.
I stop.
“Trish didn’t say a word, by the way. It was Mrs. Mitchell. She couldn’t tell me faster enough. I wasn’t even out of the car.”
I wince. Damn you, Mrs. Snitchell.
* * *
Do u wanna come over? Willa texts.
Can’t think I’m in trouble, I text back.
But I want to hear about the date.
I told u everything. And I had, first thing this morning.
And ur sure u didn’t kiss?
Um pretty sure. What did u do last nite? I try to change the subject.
Boston Pizza and new James Bond movie.
I heard it was good.
Boston Pizza was.
Haha.
I could come to u say we doing homework.
Maybe. I’ll text u back later.
I set my phone down then pick it back up again. I tap on Garret’s last message. I text, Thanks for last nite I’m still full, and press send.
Instantly he replies. Next time we should go to Darrell’s on a Monday 2 for 1.
He wants there to be a next time. I text him back a happy face.
I drag myself down the hall and knock on Trish’s door.
No answer. I go in anyway. She’s lying on her bed scrolling through her phone.
“I’m sorry that I thought you told on me,” I say.
She ignores me.
I sigh and start to back out of her room.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I’d probably think it was me too.”
“Well, still, I’m sorry.”
“You know, it’s kind of nice to see you be a rebel, break the rules. You’re always such a princess.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“And no offence, it’s also nice to see you get in trouble for once.” She goes back to scrolling through her phone. “Mom’s really mad at you. It’s the highlight of my weekend.”
* * *
Supper’s a silent affair except for the constant vibrating hum of my phone in my back pocket. There’s no way I’m taking it out, though. Mom would lose it. I can tell she’s in a mega bad mood. I feel the vibration again. I cough to cover it up.
I keep waiting for her to hand down my sentence, but she doesn’t, and I’m not about to bring it up.
Excusing myself to get the ketchup, I practically crawl inside the fridge to check my messages. They’re all from Willa. I don’t take the time to read them, but judging by the amount and frequency, it’s safe to assume something’s up.
“Um…do you think Willa could come over? We have to finish an English assignment.” I’m getting way too comfortable with the lies.
Mom lets her fork clatter down onto her plate and looks at me for what seems like a solid minute. “Maybe you and Willa should have worked on it last night instead of going to a party.”
I just stand beside the table and don’t respond. Part of me wants to wait till Trish is out of earshot so I can tell Mom what I really did last night. Maybe she’d be more understanding? But the other part of me is still not so sure how she’d feel about me going out with Trish’s ex-boyfriend, who broke her heart, and then lying about it. Don’t know if it’s worth the risk. Finally I say, “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“You’ve got an hour,” Mom says. “Not a minute longer.”
“Thanks.” I quickly clear the table and load the dishwasher, all without being asked. Out in the hall I text Willa to come. It’s as if she’s here before I press send. If I didn’t know better I’d think she was hovering out on the sidewalk this whole time.
She sees my surprised face. “Sean drove me,” she explains, kicking off her boots and racing me upstairs. “Have you been on Facebook?” she asks over her shoulder.
“No.”
She shoves aside the binder and textbook on my desk and sets up her laptop. Plunking herself on the chair, she opens up her Facebook page. “Okay. So listen to this post from Becky Duncan: ‘The Goodbye Girls has g
one to the dark side.’”
“What does that mean?”
“It took me a while to figure it out,” Willa says. “But from what I can tell by the comments, someone is pretending to be The Goodbye Girls.”
“What?” I go over and squeeze myself onto the edge of the chair beside her. “Why?”
“And they delivered a basket to Allan,” she continues.
“Allan, our tuba player?”
She nods. “Yeah. Last night.”
“But why Allan? And why do they think it’s The Goodbye Girls?”
“There was a tag on the basket, just like ours, saying it’s from The Goodbye Girls.”
“But he doesn’t even have a girlfriend. So who would be dumping him?”
She raises her eyebrows. “You haven’t even heard the worst of it.”
My stomach flip-flops. “There’s more?”
“Oh yeah. Seems the basket contained a few…unusual items. The most notable being a Ken doll with its head ripped off, and a container of brownies—you’re not going to believe this—iced with Ex-Lax.”
“Ex-Lax?”
“You know…the laxative?”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “I know what it is, it’s just…what?”
“Apparently we’re all just hearing about it now because he’s been glued to the toilet for the past fifteen hours.”
“Oh god.” I scratch my forehead. “But wouldn’t he wonder about the basket? Think it was kind of sketchy? Like, who eats random brownies from a basket that has a headless Ken doll in it?”
We look at each other. “Allan,” we both say. Then we sit quietly, almost like a moment of silence for poor Allan.
“How would you even ice brownies with Ex-Lax?” Willa asks.
“There’s the pill kind, but there’s also a version of it that looks like little squares of chocolate. Tastes pretty much like chocolate too.”
“How do you know so much about it?”
“My grandmother always has it in the house.”
She scrunches up her nose. “And you would be able to make icing with it?”
I shrug. “You’d probably just have to melt it down, throw in some butter…icing sugar….”
“Yummy,” she says making a face. Then she points at her laptop screen. “You should know, everyone thinks it’s us, and we’re getting some seriously bad press.”
“But how? They must know it’s not really us. We said that we weren’t taking any orders right now. It’s on our website.”
“Yeah, well, they think we’re lying. They think we’re”—she pauses for air quotes—“‘taking the business in a new direction.’”
I turn the laptop so I can see better. There, under the comments, it’s just like Willa said, along with other comments such as, “How could they deliver that basket knowing what was inside?” and “What kind of person/people would do this?” and “They’re so greedy they’ll do anything for a price.”
“They’re right, except for the part about it being The Goodbye Girls.” I turn the laptop back around so Willa can see. “Like, who would do something like this to Allan? He wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
“Which takes us back to the question: if this isn’t about Allan, is this about us, or The Goodbye Girls?”
I think for a second. “Do you think it could be related to the Claire-Bradley thing? Could it be the same person who sent the party pic?”
“Maybe…but that basket was an actual order on the website. This is a…a….”
“A rogue basket?” I offer.
“Exactly.” Willa clicks her laptop shut and shakes her head. “I seriously can’t look at any more of those comments.”
“So what now?”
“Well, I’ll put a disclaimer on our website saying we had nothing to do with Allan’s basket. With any luck, people will believe us.” She doesn’t sound too hopeful.
“Okay.”
“Then, like before, I think we’ll just have to wait it out, see what goes down at school. That’s really the only way to gauge things.”
I bob my head up and down in tiny nervous nods.
“Look,” Willa says. “The masses can be all irate at The Goodbye Girls till the cows come home. But we’re still safe. No one knows it’s us.” She threads her arms into her jacket. “So like, really, what’s the worst that can happen?”
Chapter 19
“Shit.” Willa sticks her arm in her knapsack and feels around. “Do you have an extra pen? I only have pencils.”
“Um…maybe.” I unzip my own knapsack.
“Got a French quiz, and that freakshow Madame la Croix will only let us use pen. I thought I had one.”
All my pens and pencils usually roll around loose at the bottom so I start pulling things out and dumping them onto the bus seat between us. “Got one!” I raise it above my head as if it were the Olympic torch, but Willa doesn’t respond. She’s frowning at my giant pile of crap. “I know,” I say. “Secretly I’m a hoarder.”
She looks up at me then back down at my pile. “No, this.” She pulls Trish’s scarf out from under my makeup bag and my key chain full of mini highlighters.
“Oh. That’s Trish’s. Forgot I had it. A while ago Mom told me to take it and spill some food on it.”
Willa’s frown deepens.
“Long story,” I say.
She rubs the material between her fingers. “This is the one I have but in a different colour.”
Nodding, I scoop up my stuff and start throwing it back into my bag.
“It’s the one from my dad’s apartment,” Willa says still holding the scarf. “The one that was on the floor in his closet.”
I stop what I’m doing to study the scarf hanging from her hand. “You mean it’s like the one from your dad’s apartment.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Okay…it’s like the one from my dad’s apartment.”
I tilt my head. “Didn’t you say it’s from Forever 21?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, there you have it. Half of Halifax probably has this scarf.” I go back to re-packing my bag. “Not to mention Dartmouth,” I add. “Because, like, what’s the alternative? That Trish is having an affair with your dad?”
Willa laughs out loud. “He’s not her type. He reads books and can talk in full sentences and stuff.”
“Hey!” I give her a shove. “Then what are you saying about Garret?”
“I guess everyone’s entitled to a lapse in judgement,” she says dryly.
The bus jolts to a stop in front of the school.
I hear Willa take a deep breath. I do the same and comb my fingers through my hair. The scarf thing was a nice distraction from The Goodbye Girls situation, but now it’s back to reality. Bracing for whatever awaits, we get in line and shuffle toward the bus door.
Inside, the first thing we see is Allan coming toward us. “Hey, Allan,” I say hesitantly. I can’t help feel a little guilty.
He smiles and waves as he passes by.
Willa and I look at each other and frown. Without a word, we turn and follow him. As we watch, it soon becomes apparent that he’s okay with everything. People are slapping him on the back, high-fiving, tossing him rolls of toilet paper, and shouting things like, “Have you lost weight?” and “Hey, where’s your throne?” and calling him “King.” By mid-morning he’s actually achieved a sort of celebrity status.
Bonus is, I don’t once hear anyone mention The Goodbye Girls.
I’m suffering through double Math when Mr. Stevenson says, “Open your textbooks to page 115, and start on the first four questions. Please remember to show all your work.”
The room immediately fills with the sounds of deep sighs and the rustling of paper. I notice Neil, who’s in front of me, smells like he just crawled out of a bottle of Axe—every time he
moves it seems to stir it all up. My eyes are practically watering and I can’t concentrate on my work. Then a light bulb goes off in my head. I reach into my bag and pull out Trish’s scarf. Looping it around my neck, I spread out some of the fabric so it covers my mouth and nose like an oxygen mask.
As I read the first math problem, I slowly breathe in and out through the scarf. At first I think it’s not working because I can still smell something. But then I realize it’s not the Axe, it’s something different—nicer, more subtle. I know that smell. Chanel N°5. Mom’s perfume.
I set down my pencil, tug the scarf off my face, and lean back in the chair. Why is Mom’s perfume is on Trish’s scarf? Chanel isn’t trashy enough for Trish. Then I remember that morning a while back, in the kitchen, and Trish saying, “Is that my scarf?” and Mom saying, “Yeah. I guess it is. You don’t mind, do you? I think you actually still owe me for it.”
My mouth suddenly goes dry. I keep running my tongue over my teeth, trying to make some moisture so I can swallow. But nothing’s working. I feel like I’m going to gag.
I go up to Mr. Stevenson’s desk and ask to be excused. He waves me away with his hand.
In the bathroom, I lean into the sink and talk to myself in the mirror. “Could this really be the scarf Willa saw in her dad’s closet?” I loosen it from around my neck. It feels like it’s choking me. “Mom and Willa’s dad? Is it possible?” Not surprisingly, my reflection doesn’t answer. I rinse my mouth out and splash some water on my face. I tell myself no way, what are the odds? It’s too far-fetched. But the more I think about it, the more it doesn’t seem that far-fetched. Actually, it seems close-fetched.
Shit, shit, shit.
Back at my desk, I try to concentrate on my math. It’s no use. Willa. What am I going to tell Willa? I break out in a sweat just thinking about it. I tap the tip of my pencil on my paper over and over so loudly that Aidan, behind me, pokes my shoulder. “Sorry,” I whisper.
I have to talk to Mom. I have to find out for sure.
I plan my escape. Lunch is next. I need to avoid Willa, so I text her that I’m staying for extra Math help, but I hide out in a practice booth in the band room—no one goes there. After lunch I have Science, then PAL. I can’t get marked absent, or I could lose my exam exemption. After suffering through Science, watching the clock the whole time, I show up for the beginning of PAL, long enough for attendance to be taken, then I go up to Mr. Reynolds and tell him I’m having really bad period cramps. He shifts uncomfortably and nods without taking his eyes off his clipboard.
The Goodbye Girls Page 12