The Goodbye Girls

by Lisa Harrington

  * * *

  That afternoon I move through the halls, going from class to class, suspiciously eyeing everyone I pass. The result is the same as the last time I did it. There’s no one. I mean, there are tons of people who might be out to get Trish or even Olivia, who’s kind of annoying. I don’t really know much about Bradley or Claire, but I know Allan’s just a big teddy bear. There is no connection between them all, and nothing that explains why me and Willa are being hung out to dry.

  My head hurts from thinking so hard. I’m in a kind of brain-dead trance as I get my stuff out of my locker. That’s when a thought occurs to me. Willa and I talked about whether maybe the recipients of the rogue baskets were collateral damage, all just part of making us look bad. But what if our business is the collateral damage? Maybe someone’s seeking revenge on their enemies and just using The Goodbye Girls to cover their tracks.

  I spend the evening trying to remember everyone we delivered baskets to. I write each name down—I hardly know any of them. I know I’m missing tonnes, especially the ones from the other high schools. I also write down the people who received the rogue baskets. There’s no connection that I can see. Not between each other, or to us, or between our basket people and the rogue basket people. The only red flag, if I can even call it that, is Amy. I mean, she saw me, but did she recognize me? And even if she did, I can’t imagine she’d do anything like this. It makes no sense. Nothing does.

  Chapter 27

  I’m exhausted.

  As I walk down the hall at school, I swear the lockers are moving in a wave pattern. I zone out through English, my eyes glued to Willa’s empty chair. Maybe she really is sick.

  Using my entire body, I push myself out through the swinging bathroom door. Then, like a bright light at the end of a dark tunnel, I see him. Bradley. He’s wrestling Jordan Short right by the cafeteria doors. As I get closer it becomes apparent he’s not actually wrestling, he’s trying to give him a wet willy. Looks like he’s recovered from his mono.

  I keep on going. I can’t rush at him and start bombarding him with questions. I need a plan. Because I still have the same problem. How do I ask him questions about his email to The Goodbye Girls without revealing that I’m The Goodbye Girls? Or one of them anyway.

  I devote my entire French class to devising a plan.

  I figure it would be best if there was some way we could look at his email account together, so that’s what I’m shooting for. Depending on how quickly, or hopefully slowly, Willa sent a confirmation, there’s a chance it’s still there, attached to the original order request. Though if it was, Bradley probably would have seen it by now, wouldn’t he? Maybe not…most students don’t ever use their school accounts. I can’t remember the last time I was on mine.

  I come up with this pathetic idea to tell him I got an email from him telling me he likes me. And he’ll be all like, “What?!” and I’ll be all like, “Well, it’s from your email address. If not you, then who?” and he’ll probably say, “No clue,” and I’ll say, “We should look at your account because I replied, so the thread will still be there and maybe you’d be able to tell who sent it.”

  Then, if Willa’s confirmation email is there. I could be all like, “You hired The Goodbye Girls?” and he’ll be all pissed and out of his mind to find out who’s messing with him. Hopefully he’ll be able to remember someone he gave his address and password to, or someone who was using his computer when his account would have been open.

  It’s a long shot and totally convoluted. And there’s also one major flaw. If he’s on the ball at all, he will just say, “Show me the email on your phone.” I’ll say, “I don’t get my emails sent to my phone,” which is a lie, and we’ll have to go to a computer terminal anyway. I’ll make something up from there. Maybe I can’t remember my password…However it goes down, I’m coming away with a list of suspects.

  “Hey Bradley! Wait up!” I run up behind him in the hall.

  He turns. “Huh?”

  “Hi. You probably don’t even know me.” I pretend to be flustered and out of breath. “But I was just wondering if I can talk to you for a sec.”

  He says, “Sure.” He doesn’t look very sure.

  “Well, this is a bit embarrassing…” I fiddle with my watch strap and stare at the floor.

  “Hey, wait. Aren’t you Trish’s sister?”

  “Yup.” I smile brightly. “That’s my claim to fame.”

  “Yeah, thought so.” He points a finger at me. “You kind of look like her.”

  I can’t bring myself to say thanks, so I just hold my smile.

  “She’s in my Business Tech. She’s majorly hot.”

  I screw up my face. Ew.

  “But she’s really smart too,” he adds quickly, as if he realizes what he said may have been inappropriate. “She was my partner for the midterm project and she totally rocked it.”

  “Yes, yes,” I say. “She’s an absolute genius.” Stay on track. But then something clicks in my head. “Wait. Did you say Trish was your partner for a project?”

  “Yeah.”

  “In Business Tech?”

  “Yeah.”

  I have a vague recollection of Trish saying something about that. “Your class is in the computer lab, right? Like you do it all on computers?”

  “Yeah.” He starts looking bored.

  Just then two guys come running around the corner. They jump on Bradley, piggyback style, and they all end up on the floor. I have to step back so I don’t get knocked over.

  “Gym! Five minutes, shithead!” one of them shouts. The other puts Bradley in a headlock and violently gives him a noogie. After that, they both run off.

  “Look, I gotta get to practice,” Bradley says. “Is that what you wanted to talk about? Business Tech?”

  “No, I, uh.” I try to focus my thoughts, but my mind keeps racing ahead. Could it be? Could it be Trish? No. Just because she worked on a project with him doesn’t mean she could get into his email. How could that even happen?

  He gives me a strange look. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m good.” But the racing in my mind doesn’t stop. It keeps going back to the same thing. Bradley said it himself. Trish is smart. How smart? I have to find out.

  My original plan has completely gone sideways. I have to wing it. I straighten up, push my hair back from my face, and like a miracle, from nowhere it comes to me. “No. I didn’t want to talk about Business Tech,” I say, whipping a notepad out of my knapsack. “I’m collecting information for the office. There’s been a security breach involving a number of student email addresses.” I’m shocked at how much I sound like I know what I’m talking about.

  He scrunches up his nose. “I hardly use it. Just for school shit—homework and stuff.”

  “But do you allow other people access to your account? Your girlfriend? One of those guys who just threw you on the floor? A class partner, perhaps?” I hint.

  “No, never.” He shakes his head.

  “Good.” Phew.

  “Oh, just a second.” He starts nodding. “Trish used my account when we were working on our project.”

  “W-What?” No. I so wanted to be wrong.

  “Yeah.” He frowns. “She’d already closed down her computer and needed to email part of the project to herself.”

  I momentarily rest my shoulder against the wall. I need it to hold me up.

  He shrugs. “But no big deal, right? That wouldn’t have anything to do with anything, would it?”

  “Uh…” My mouth feels dry. I lick my lips over and over again until I’m able to make words come out. “We don’t recommend you allow anyone access to your account,” I say quietly while trying to sound official, like the words are straight from office administration. Then I do some fake writing. Bradley cranes his neck, trying to see what I’m putting down, but I hold my notebook close
r to my chest.

  Sighing loudly, he starts rocking back and forth on his heels, looking over his shoulder toward the gym.

  I know I have to keep it together and finish this up before I lose him. “One last thing. For security purposes, and so we can eliminate yours from the list of corrupted accounts, could you please verify your email account address and password?” I hold my breath, praying he won’t think twice about me asking for his password. That he wants so badly to get to the damn gym, he’ll give me anything I ask for.

  “Yeah, sure. Bfp675663@student.ednet.ns.ca.” He starts walking backward. “X1C6Y8.”

  I blow out a huge gush of air while I scribble it all down. “If you don’t get an email from the office, then you’re all clear,” I say, but when I look up he’s long gone.

  Heading for the library, I find an empty terminal and sit down. I log into the computer and open the student email page. Then I type in his email and password and wait for the page to load. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for—I guess anything that points to Trish. I’m still hoping I’m wrong, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not. I know Trish is smart. Smarter than most give her credit for.

  The first thing I plan to look for is the confirmation email from The Goodbye Girls. There’s a good chance Trish, or whoever, didn’t even know there was a confirmation email, and therefore wouldn’t have waited for it. If it’s there, the original order request will be there as well.

  His account pops up. There’s nothing in his inbox except a few emails from teachers, “Missing Homework” in the subject lines. Definitely no order confirmation. Willa must have responded right away, while whoever was still in Bradley’s account, and it got deleted. So I go to Bradley’s deleted items folder, hoping it’s still there. It’s not. Nothing is. It’s been emptied.

  I drum my fingernails on the table. Then I stop. I wonder…

  I click on the sent folder. There it is, our email address, and in the subject line, “ORDER.” This is the email supposedly sent to us from Bradley, ordering a basket for Claire. I didn’t need the confirmation email after all. Everything’s here—the filled-out questionnaire and the comment section requesting us to enclose the sealed letter, the one containing the photo. I check the date and time on the email: November 22, 3:09 P.M.. I drum my fingers some more. Last block on Mondays…what does Trish have? How much you wanna bet it’s Business Tech?

  I look at the date again. We would have scheduled the delivery for that Thursday or Friday. And Willa would have sent that info with the confirmation. Then I remember, it was Friday, because Simon Clark’s party was the next night. That’s when Garret texted me to come over. It was also the morning after that party that Trish barged into my room looking for the Advil, and that’s when she mentioned she was partners with Bradley. The timing works. I pull out my phone and take a picture of the computer screen. And as backup, I forward the email to my own address.

  I run home, my anger propelling me forward at a speed I didn’t know I was capable of. But then as my legs tire and my pace slows, my anger does too. I mean, am I really that surprised? I know this has to be about Garret. I guess I just can’t believe how she was able to pull this all off without me suspecting. I can’t believe how much she wanted to see me suffer. And I can’t believe that she was willing to humiliate herself just to get one step closer to her goal. Now that’s dedication.

  God, I feel so stupid!

  My phone chirps and I jerk to a stop. Willa? But no, it’s a text from Garret.

  Keep missing u at school did you get yur essay done?

  Right. I lied the night of the banquet and said I had an essay due.

  Yup, I text back. Why stop lying now? Hopefully see you soon :)

  I stare at the message for a moment, wondering if I should have written more. I shake my head. I just can’t think about him till I get all this other stuff sorted out.

  I still manage to make it to my front door in record time, beating Trish. I go straight to the kitchen and whip open the cupboard door. It’s where Mom has our class schedules taped up.

  My eyes zero in on Trish’s schedule. Monday, to be exact. I slide my finger down the page, stopping on A block, last class of the day, 2:20–3:20. Business Technology.

  Chapter 28

  I sit on the edge of Trish’s bed and wait. My palms are sweaty. I wipe them on her duvet. Mom’s at work, so except for the occasional whoosh of a car passing on the street, everything is quiet and still.

  Rarely allowed entrance into Trish’s room, I take a look around. Mounds of clothes litter the floor, and more clothes are strewn over every piece of available furniture. Makeup, assorted empty water bottles, and Tim Horton’s cardboard cups clutter her dresser top. Then I see the bejewelled hairband she lent me hanging off the corner of an open drawer.

  It was all a lie. There was no sisterly bonding. We weren’t becoming friends. She was acting. It was all part of her plan.

  She takes Drama, too.

  I hear the front door open then close, the sound of stuff being dumped on the hall bench. My body stiffens into battle mode. I practiced everything I wanted to say. I can’t wait to tell her exactly what I think of her.

  “Hey.” She doesn’t seem surprised to find me in her room. She tosses a calculator and textbook onto the bed next to me. “I don’t suppose you know anything about grade twelve Calculus. God. I can’t believe they make you take it for nursing. Like I’m ever going to actually use it.”

  I watch her peel off her hoodie. The static makes a bunch of her hairs stand up, spray out like peacock feathers. She smoothes them down. “So what’s up? You’re never in here.”

  “I’m never invited.”

  She raises her eyebrows. I think she can tell by my tone that something’s up.

  “Look Trish, I—”

  “Let me guess. You wanna borrow something.” She smiles and wags a finger at me. “Just because I offered to lend you stuff for the banquet doesn’t mean you get the run of my closet now.”

  She’s acting so normal, nice even…but I can’t let that distract me. I take a deep breath and square my shoulders. “Trish, I know it’s you.”

  “Know it’s me, what?” She drapes her hoodie over the back of her desk chair.

  “That it’s you sending those baskets, trying to get me in shit.”

  She stays quiet for a second. “Oh. That.”

  “Yeah!” I snap. “That!”

  More seconds pass. “How’d you figure it out?”

  “Bradley,” I say. “He said you’d used his email account.”

  “Ah, yes, Bradley,” she mutters.

  “You deleted everything except the sent folder,” I add.

  “Oh.” She sits down at her desk. “Sucks to be me.”

  Her whole demeanour fills me with disbelief and confusion. She’s not shocked, she’s not worried. She’s certainly not sorry. Everything I’d rehearsed is suddenly out the window, a giant mind sweep. The only thing I can manage to get out is, “Why?”

  “Why did I do it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Her eyes darken to an inky black. I’m pretty sure she wants to rip my face off.

  “You stole my boyfriend,” she says through clenched teeth.

  I knew it! “No I didn’t!”

  “You sat back and watched me be all in love with him.” She glares at me and shakes her head. “Bet you loved every minute of it.”

  “What?”

  “Not only that,” she says. “You knew I spent two hundred bucks on a watch for him for Christmas. You even let me wear your sweater on my last ever date with him. You were having a grand ol’ time, weren’t you?”

  “I didn’t let you wear it. You took it!”

  “And all along you knew he was going to break up with me! You knew how I felt about him, and you let me go on living in some…some dream w
orld!”

  Déjà vu. It’s basically what Willa said to me when she found out I knew about my mom and her dad. She was right. They both are, as much as it stings. But both situations had extenuating circumstances. I struggle to get some words out. “Well, I was trapped. I couldn’t say anything, I….”

  Her cheeks flush and her chest heaves up and down.

  “I didn’t steal him!” I shout.

  “Oh, puh-lease. People couldn’t wait to tell me how you two were all over each other at the wake-a-thon.”

  “We weren’t.” But my voice doesn’t come out very forceful.

  “And always all cozy, tucked in a corner at Tim’s!”

  “That was once!” I’m back to shouting.

  “So you admit it!”

  “No! We were just getting something to drink after we went fundraising.”

  A loud bang sounds over our fighting. We both stop and look at each other. “Mom’s home,” I whisper.

  Trish goes and peeks out the window. “It’s just the wind. It knocked over the Mitchells’ green bin.”

  I let out a breath. “Like I was saying.” I try to keep my voice calm and even. “It was a drink after fundraising. To warm up. He had a coffee and I had a hot chocolate. That’s all.”

  “Isn’t that precious. You remember every detail,” Trish says bitterly, sitting back down at her desk. “Is that what you had when you went to that movie at Park Lane, too?”

  My eyes widen.

  “Yeah,” she smirks. “Olivia’s brother works concessions. He knows Garret. Did it make it more thrilling? All the sneaking around behind my back?”

  Now my cheeks flush red. “We went to one movie. Nothing happened.” What else could I say?

  She leans back in her chair, looking pleased with herself.