The Goodbye Girls

by Lisa Harrington

  “Of course you do.” She shoves my shoulder. “Isn’t this what you always wanted? To be Garret’s girlfriend?”

  Something in her voice, an edge, makes me sneak a sideways peek. Maybe I’m imagining things. I realize how hard it must be for her to make this offer.

  “Thanks, Trish,” I say. “I’d really like that.”

  Chapter 25

  “How about one of these?” Trish has a bunch of her dresses spread out over my bed.

  I can’t exactly tell her what I’m thinking—Waaay too slutty—so I say, “They’re nice, but they don’t really seem to be me, you know?”

  In a perfect world it would be Willa here, standing in my room, bossing me around, telling me what to wear, trying to create a smokey eye, but she hasn’t spoken to me since she stormed out of the dining room the other day.

  So Trish is here instead, offering to help me get ready, all because she feels guilty about letting the cat out of the bag. I’m the one who should feel guilty. Just a few weeks ago, Trish probably thought it would be her getting ready for the football banquet.

  “Trish? Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask. “I can probably handle it.”

  “Nah. I got nothin’ better to do.” She clears her throat, smiles tightly, and turns to face the dress display. “So none of these?”

  “I don’t think so.” My voice sounds really small.

  “I guess you can wear that turquoise dress,” she says unenthusiastically. “The one you wore for the grade nine graduation.”

  “I love that dress. The colour makes me look like I have a tan when I don’t. And it was expensive.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I remember.” She presses her lips together, gathers up her dresses, and tosses them on my desk chair. “Mom went with all her coupons and scratch cards, practically beat up the sales clerk, and got it for like, five bucks.”

  “It was a bit more than five.”

  “Not much,” she says. “Haul it out so I can match it to your makeup and nail polish.”

  I go to the closet and lift out the hanger.

  Trish spends the next hour layering on primer, foundation, eyeliner, shadow, mascara, brow gel, powder, blush, bronzer, lip liner, and lip gloss. You name it, I have it on my face. The whole time, she gossips about her friends. The stories are nonsensical and have no point, but it’s the longest conversation we’ve ever had.

  Next she does my nails in a colour that’s pretty much the same as my dress. While it dries, she starts on my hair. She flattens, crimps, waves, curls—I swear she has six appliances going at the same time.

  She gets frustrated when one piece of hair won’t go the way she wants it to. I hear her cursing under her breath.

  “Are you okay?” I say. “I can just pin that piece back.”

  “I’m fine!” She slams the curling iron down on the dresser. Then she takes a deep breath and picks it up again. “I’m fine,” she repeats calmly. She wraps the hair tightly around the shaft, yanking on my scalp hard enough to make my eyes water. After a minute she slides the shaft out. “Much better.”

  When she’s all done, she stands back to assess her work. “Not bad,” she says, tilting her head.

  “Can I look?”

  “Not yet. Don’t move.” She leaves and comes back a second later. “Here we go.” She holds up a skinny bejewelled hairband. “The finishing touch.” She slips it onto my head, tucks it behind my ears, then turns me toward the mirror. “Voila.”

  It takes a second for me to recognize the reflection. I think there was a part of me that expected her to sabotage my makeup and I’d end up looking like a clown. And maybe I would kind of deserve it. But I don’t look like a clown. I look good. Not just good—great.

  “Thanks, Trish. You did an amazing job.”

  “No worries.” She begins collecting her stuff off the dresser and packing them back in her makeup suitcase. “Let me know if you need help with your dress.”

  “I should be good, thanks.”

  “Do you want me to take a picture for Mom? She’s not going to be home before you leave.”

  Oh god. It reminds me of when I made the same offer to her, right before she left for the fall semi-formal. With Garret.

  “Uh…no thanks.” Also, I didn’t tell Mom I was going to the football team’s banquet. I told her I volunteered to work the football team’s banquet. I’m still not sure what she’d think about me going out with Garret. Mom hasn’t mentioned him, so obviously Trish hasn’t said anything to her about it. She doesn’t really confide in Mom.

  She shrugs. “All right, then. Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “Yeah. Thanks again, Trish.”

  I make sure I’m waiting on the front porch when Garret comes to get me. I don’t want him to come to the door. Talk about awkward.

  I get a little breathless when I see him. He’s wearing a suit and looks like he’s about twenty-five. And gorgeous.

  He takes a step back. His eyes sweep over me, up and down. “You look…off the hook.”

  I feel my cheeks get warm. “That’s good, right?” I joke.

  The banquet is at the Future Inn just down the street from the school. The room and food are done up pretty fancy considering it’s all high school kids with a few coaches thrown in.

  The evening consists mostly of speeches, awards, and a lot of bro-hugging and back-slapping, even though they didn’t have that great a season. That seems to be all forgotten tonight.

  During the speeches, Garret casually drapes his arm over the back of my chair. He’s taken off his suit jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. I can feel his skin against the back of my neck.

  Garret receives the Most Sportsmanlike award. Which I guess is the football version of Miss Congeniality. Before he goes up to get it, he looks right at me, smiles, and squeezes my hand. In his acceptance speech, I’m half expecting him to thank me for making it all possible. Of course he doesn’t, but in my imagination he does.

  The other girls, or dates, are outwardly nice, but I can tell they are all wondering about me, wondering what the hell I’m doing here with Garret. I don’t know how many know I’m Trish’s sister, but I know some do, and I suspect they’re sharing a few comments behind my back. I don’t care though. I know I look smokin’, and I’m with the most popular guy there.

  After three glasses of punch I need a bathroom break. I’m in one of the stalls when I hear some girls come in. There’s the sound of water running, the clicking and snapping of compacts and assorted makeup cases opening and closing, then—

  “Can you believe that slut-bag came here? With her sister’s ex-boyfriend?”

  “I know, right? Doesn’t she know that Trish’s baby is probably Garret’s?”

  “I mean, duh.”

  “God. That’ll make for some interesting family Christmas dinner convo.”

  I don’t move a muscle, not even to breathe. Thankfully my cheeks and neck bursting into flames don’t make a sound. I close my eyes and pray for them to leave. They finally do. I remain in the stall for a few moments to settle myself down. I pull open the door and check my makeup in the mirror. There’s a tear hanging precariously on the rim of each eye. Tears of anger? I blink and let them fall, then quickly dab them away. I adjust my hairband, put on a brave face, and return to the table in the banquet room. Their coach is giving another speech.

  “Everything okay?” Garret whispers in my ear.

  “Yeah,” I whisper back. “Fine.”

  When it’s all over, Garret says, “Everyone’s going back to Josh’s to hang out. Do you wanna come?”

  Not for all the money in the world. And also, it doesn’t fit in with my plan to be home and de-glamourized before Mom gets back, so I won’t have to explain why I’m all dressed up.

  “Um, not to sound like a downer,” I say, “but I should get home. I h
ave an essay due Monday.” Lie. “But you go, of course.”

  He frowns. “Are you sure? I’d really like you to come.”

  “Totally sure. Go celebrate. Plus you’ll have more fun if I’m not there.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because I don’t really know anybody, and if I’m there you’ll just be worrying whether I’m having a good time.”

  “Oh.” He thinks about this, then shrugs. “I don’t have to go. It’s not that big a deal.”

  He’s so nice.

  We go back and forth for another minute until he finally gives in and agrees to go without me.

  He drives me home and walks me to the front step. As we stand under the porch light I silently pray Trish is up in her room, which is on the side of the house.

  “I had a really good time,” Garret says, facing me.

  I make myself shove the bathroom incident to the back of my brain. “Yeah, me too.” My voice is all shaky because I’m nervous. He’s going to kiss me, I know it. I lick my lips to get ready.

  He leans in. It’s like everything’s in slow motion. The kiss is brief but not too brief. It’s moist but not slobbery. His lips taste like the molten lava cake we had for dessert. It’s what I’ve been imagining since grade three. All in all, it’s perfect. Just like him. I’m having visions of kissing him all over New York, us walking hand in hand through Times Square, making out at the top of the Empire State Building.

  I feel all light and spacey when I walk in the front door. Trish is just coming down the stairs. She didn’t see anything!

  “Hey,” she says. “How was it?”

  “Good. Nice.” I nod. “Nice and good.” I try to sound toned down, like it was just okay.

  “Your makeup stayed set.” She tilts her head like she’s studying me. “Your lip gloss is a little smudged, though.”

  I gasp and raise a hand to my lips.

  “Just teasing,” she smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

  “Well, uh, thanks again for helping me get ready, Trish.” I’m uncomfortable talking any more about my night, and I can’t imagine she really wants to hear about it. I start up the stairs.

  “Hey, Lizzie,” she calls after me.

  I turn. “Yeah?”

  “You do look really pretty.” She says it as if she’s just noticed for the first time.

  “Uh…thanks, Trish.”

  Up in my room I undress and sit down at my desk. It takes about four makeup wipes to get all my makeup off. The makeup Trish laboured to put on me.

  I pull my phone out of my purse and check for messages. I’m only looking for one from Willa. There isn’t one. I should be texting her all about the night, the banquet, the bathroom. She would want to know every single detail; she’d have a fit if she even suspected I was leaving anything out. Then I could tell her how I’m feeling, about how maybe it’s not such a great idea, me seeing Garret. Then she would tell me I’m crazy, that everything happens for a reason, and she’d offer to beat up the bathroom girls, and so on and so on. We would talk more about our plans for New York, figure out how to make sure we got to room together. And I haven’t even told her about my idea to sneak off to Greenwich Village, where Taylor Swift lives. I’ve even researched Taylor’s favourite place to eat—The Spotted Pig. Then I would describe the kiss and the banquet in detail all over again.

  I toss the phone on the bed. She probably didn’t even remember it was tonight.

  Chapter 26

  I’m walking down the hall to Art when Mrs. Spencer, the vice-principal, taps me on the shoulder. “Ms. Turner. Mr. Scott would like to see you in his office.”

  My breath catches. “W-what?”

  “Hurry along,” she says. “I’ll let Mrs. Devane know you’ll be late.”

  Telling myself not to panic, I go to the front office. “Mrs. Spencer said Mr. Scott wants to see me,” I say to the secretary.

  She gestures for me to go on back. Mr. Scott’s door is open. I step inside and close it behind me.

  He’s sitting at his desk, papers and folders spread out in front of him.

  “Have a seat, Ms. Turner,” he says. “Can I call you Lizzie? That’s what you go by, right?”

  I nod and sit. Oh god, oh god, oh god.

  He comes out from behind his desk and sort of half-sits on the corner, letting his leg swing free. “Do you know why I called you in here?”

  I clutch the armrests. “No, sir.”

  “Let’s get to the heart of the matter, shall we?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “I suppose you are familiar with this Goodbye Girls business. It’s been the talk of the school lately.”

  I feel my heart rate speed up. “Yes. I’ve heard of it.”

  “Well, apparently these people are branching out.” He looks at me with raised eyebrows. “As I’m sure you’re well aware.”

  As I’m well aware? Why would I be well aware? But I go ahead and nod again.

  “They’ve delivered baskets containing some rather disturbing items to a number of students, including your sister.”

  Of course. Trish, my sister…phew. “Right,” I say. “It was awful.” Did he call me in to offer up a list of Trish’s possible enemies?

  “The thing is, this morning I found a letter slipped under my door saying you and Willa Carlson are the ones responsible for it all.”

  It’s like the air is sucked out of the room. “What?”

  “Now I know the petty differences that go on between students, but this—”

  “It wasn’t us!”

  He holds up a hand. “I understand your distress, but I had no choice but to call you in to explore all the possibilities. I mean, either you and Willa are responsible, or someone mistakenly believes you are, or someone has an axe to grind.”

  “It wasn’t us,” I repeat. It’s all I can think to say.

  Sighing, he strokes his chin. “Unfortunately, Ms. Carlson is absent today, but I didn’t think we should put off having this talk.”

  “She must be sick.” I automatically cover for her.

  “Yes, I’m sure she is.” He reaches around behind him and picks up some folders.

  My heart rate speeds up again, thumping in double time, so loud I can hear it in my ears. “Honestly, Mr. Scott. We didn’t do this. Willa would say the same thing if she was here.”

  He nods. “I’ve spent much of the morning speaking with your and Ms. Carlson’s teachers, and after looking at your records—they’re both exemplary, by the way—I confess I’m inclined to believe you.”

  My breathing evens out a bit.

  “Not that I haven’t been wrong before,” he continues. “But I find, as do your teachers, that this type of behaviour would be highly out of character for you two.”

  I’m afraid to agree in case he thinks I’m agreeing that’s he’s been wrong before, so I say nothing.

  “And I find it hard to imagine you would deliver such a basket to your own sister,” he says dryly.

  “No, no. I wouldn’t.” I shake my head.

  “But Lizzie, I must ask, do you have any idea who would? Or any idea what this is all about?”

  “No,” I whisper.

  He sits quietly for a moment, thinking. “What I’d really like to see happen is you, Willa, Trisha…” He leans over to glance at another folder on his desk. “Allan, and Olivia, come in here to see if we can get to the bottom of this. See if we can discover some common thread that connects the five of you to this Goodbye Girls business.”

  “Oh…um, can we really be sure it’s The Goodbye Girls, though? Like, maybe it’s some copycat, some random person.”

  He frowns. “Why would you think that?”

  “I heard, uh…that’s what it says on their website.”

  “Yes, well, you can’t believe everything’s that’s on t
he internet, and also they could be protecting themselves.”

  “I guess,” I say, because I can’t come across too pro–The Goodbye Girls. “Regrettably, neither Allan or Olivia have come in to see me. Only your sister has. She’s actually the one who told me about the other two.” He shakes his head, an expression of frustration on his face. “The police should be involved in this. These incidents are beyond bullying; they’re out-and-out harassment, and this school has zero tolerance for that sort of thing.”

  The mention of police makes me dizzy even though I’m sitting down.

  “I’m hoping the other victims come in of their own accord, but we’re running out of time. Perhaps you, your sister, or Willa can nudge them a little?”

  “Oh, I, uh, don’t really know them.”

  “Well, we’re all going to have to get together at some point, definitely before Christmas break. That only gives us a few days.” He stands and returns to his desk chair. “You’re free to go, Lizzie. If you think of anything, or learn of anything, please come see me immediately.”

  He doesn’t have to dismiss me twice. I’m out of there like a shot. Rushing down the hall, I duck under the stairs by the guidance office and press my back against the concrete wall. I need a minute to think in private and have a nervous breakdown. It’ll be quiet here until next class change.

  Should I tell Willa I was hauled into the principal’s office? Will she even care? She’ll care when I tell her she’s probably next. And she’ll care if Mr. Scott drags the police into this. All the rogue baskets say they’re from The Goodbye Girls. How do we prove that they’re not? Or do the police have to prove that they are? I don’t know, I don’t know. One thing I do know is, a disclaimer on our website isn’t enough. That doesn’t really prove anything.

  God. If the police get involved, they have special equipment that can examine or track computer stuff and whatever, even if it’s deleted. They’ll know we’re the original Goodbye Girls in no time. They’ll probably ask for Willa’s computer. That’ll erase any doubt. Then what happens?

  I drag my hands down my face, stretching the skin tight over my bones. Okay, Lizzie. Time to get it together! I’m going to find out who’s doing this. By myself. And I’m starting today. Because I don’t have any other choice. Like Mr. Scott said, we’re running out of time.