Dead Girls Society

by Michelle Krys

  I give her a small, awkward smile, and her lips turn down. Despite not being overly enthused to see her either, I can’t help feeling slightly offended. It’s not like I expected us to be sudden BFFs or anything just because we hauled a girl to the hospital together, but still, where’s the solidarity?

  And then Farrah’s gaze shifts, and she realizes what Sadie was pointing out: Mom. Now Farrah’s lips pull into a mocking smile. A wave of embarrassment crashes over me, quickly followed by guilt, then anger. Mom’s here because she cares about me; how dare they laugh at her?

  Screw solidarity. Screw what anybody thinks.

  I level them with a glare and slam my locker closed. “You know, Mom? I think I’ll come with you to the nurse’s office.”

  Mom leaves before the first bell rings.

  First period goes off without a hitch, but the principal calls me to his office between first and second to go over details about my return, so that by the time I walk into AP history, everyone is already in their seats and Mr. Crawford is deep into his lecture. There’s a round of stifled giggles when I enter, and suddenly I just know that (a) word has spread about Mom, thanks to Sadie and Co., and (b) I’ll be telling this story to a therapist later.

  Remember, you don’t care what they think anymore.

  “All right, quiet down, everyone,” Mr. Crawford says. “Miss Callahan, take your seat.”

  Thirty pairs of eyes follow me as I make my way to my desk.

  In the front row I spot a familiar face: Nikki. The last time I saw her, she was bumping into the hospital in a wheelchair. Her back is rigid, and her right arm is wrapped in a cast and held to her chest by a white sling; her road rash has expanded into a blackish-purple welt, and there are dark rings under her eyes. I can’t believe she didn’t take the day off.

  Nikki catches sight of me and turns sharply, painfully away.

  I take the empty seat next to none other than Tucker St. Clair, returning his bald-faced stare with a glare of my own.

  “As I was saying, this is an important day,” Mr. Crawford says. “I mentioned a midterm assignment at the beginning of the year that will count for thirty percent of your grade. Well, the time is upon us.”

  A round of groans passes through the room.

  “You will be doing this project with a partner,” Mr. Crawford says over the noise.

  The groans turn into cheers. Panic slices into me.

  “Yes, a partner,” Mr. Crawford repeats over the chatter as students excitedly pair up with their best friends. Crap. I slide down in my chair.

  “Hey.” Tucker twists in his seat and gives me a nod, a lock of white-blond hair falling across his forehead.

  “Hey,” I say back, with about as much enthusiasm as one usually reserves for visits to the dentist. I may have missed an epic amount of school, but I know enough about the goings-on of things to know he’s buttering me up now only to make fun of me later.

  “You want to work together?” he asks.

  “Is that supposed to be funny or something? Because it’s not.”

  “Why would that be funny?” he asks.

  I grip the pencil without breaking eye contact with him. He glances at it as if he’s worried I might attack. Good.

  “All right,” Mr. Crawford says. “Quiet down so I can tell you what the project is about.”

  “Anyway, I want a partner who won’t drag me down,” Tucker whispers. “Matt’s not exactly A-plus material, if you know what I mean.” He grins at me, like we’re buddies in on a joke.

  “Is that right,” I say dryly, because I don’t know what else to say. I still can’t figure out if this is part of a prank.

  “Come on,” Tucker presses. “Just be my partner. I get good grades in this class, and let’s be honest, you don’t have a lot of other prospects.”

  He’s right. Everyone else has already paired off in the time it’s taken us to have this conversation. At the front of the class, Nikki is giving Marisa a lecture and counting out items on her fingers.

  “Say yes,” Tucker says. “My house after school.”

  “Your house?” Now I’m certain this is a prank.

  “Unless you’d rather work on it in my car?”

  I roll my eyes. Tucker St. Clair’s house. This week couldn’t get any weirder.

  “Quiet down, everybody!” Mr. Crawford says. “Now that that’s out of the way, please open your textbooks to page two seventy-one, and we’ll pick up where we left off yesterday.”

  Tucker raises his eyebrows at me, a question.

  I sigh. I suppose if I can jump off a roller coaster…I nod. An answer.

  My phone buzzes against my hip. Shit. I fumble to turn off the ringer before Mr. Crawford notices, but my eyes catch on a text from a blocked number on my home screen:

  Time to cut the cord, don’t you think?

  Well, who am I to judge? As long as you weren’t planning on telling Mommy about our little fun last night…

  All the blood drains out of my head. I whip around, heart punching out of my chest. The Society knows I’m here. Knows I’m at school. One of them could be sitting right here in this classroom.

  I skim my classmates for someone obviously texting. Caroline Dampeer stifles a giggle as she stares into her lap, fingers tap-dancing over her phone. Could the captain of the cheerleading squad be behind this? It doesn’t seem likely. Besides, would someone behind the game be so obvious?

  Georgia Murphy halfheartedly listens to the lecture while checking her hair for split ends.

  Ashley Eagerton pushes back her cuticles.

  Percy Porter scribbles a drawing on the cover of his five-subject notebook.

  Wyatt Beasley slinks way low in his seat and agonizes over popping a zit on his cheek.

  Who here has the motive to pit the five of us against one another in a midnight-dare club? The Society has to get something out of this, right?

  “You okay?” Tucker whispers.

  I turn to him. He’s gripping the edges of his desk, his brow turned down over piercing blue eyes narrowed with concern. Sudden, out-of-nowhere concern. Could Tucker be a part of the Society? I focus on his fingers. I would have noticed if he’d texted from right beside me. Right?

  “Hope?” he whispers.

  I realize how nuts I must look right now and force my tense shoulders to relax.

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  I guess it doesn’t have to be someone in this class. Just someone who knows Mom was here with me today. Which could be…anyone at school, thanks to Sadie.

  I cradle the phone in my lap and analyze the text.

  A shadow falls over me. Mr. Crawford raises his eyebrow in a silent warning. Heat flashes over my cheeks, and I quickly stow my phone back in my purse.

  But it doesn’t matter. The fact is, there’s no way for me to deduce who sent this text without checking every single student’s phone and seeing who has this message there—if they haven’t already deleted it.

  I don’t see Ethan again until lunch. He waves me over from our usual spot by the vending machines with Jackie and a few guys from swim.

  A shot of energy goes through me. I have so much to tell him. The stolen car. The dare club. What happened to Nikki. The text—he’ll think of a way to figure out who sent it. He’s good at this kind of thing. My body fizzes with anticipation.

  Ethan, I was right. The invitation wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t nothing.

  I wade through the caf to our table, where Ethan’s picking the wrapper off a tube of Smarties.

  I drop heavily into the seat next to him.

  “Hey, where’s your bestie?” he asks, referring to Mom.

  “Ha ha,” I answer, deadpan, though I manage a wry smile. Ethan’s allowed to make jokes like that. I know he loves my mom.

  He gives me a devastatingly sexy smile. “So how’s your first day back?”

  “It’s fine. But you’ll never believe what happened.”

  “Oooh, gossip, I love it,” Jackie says. Mike Andruzz
i leans in. So does a face I don’t recognize but I assume must be Ethan’s new leech.

  I hesitate, the text flashing into my head. What if it’s one of them? Obviously it’s not Ethan, but someone close to Ethan might have access to my phone number. Or what if it’s someone from a table nearby? What happens if I get caught talking?

  Tell no one.

  Dammit. I’ll have to tell Ethan later.

  “Spit it out!” Jackie says.

  I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “Well, Tucker St. Clair asked me to be his partner for the history midterm assignment.”

  Ethan pauses with a Smartie halfway to his mouth. Jackie’s jaw drops.

  “Yeah. Weird, I know,” I say.

  “Tucker St. Clair?” Jackie asks, leaning across the table.

  “Little louder, I don’t think the guy in the back heard you. And yes.”

  “What did he say when you said no?” Ethan asks.

  “I didn’t say no.”

  Ethan gapes at me.

  “What?” I grab my sandwich out of my bag and pull off the plastic wrap as Ethan sputters for something to say. If we weren’t surrounded, I’d tell him the best way to find out if Tucker is a part of the Society or not is to spend more time with him. Instead I shrug like it’s a minor irritation. “It’s not like I had my pick of the litter.”

  Airy laughter erupts from the back of the caf. Ethan turns his gaze to where Tucker is sitting with his friends—Farrah included—in their reserved spot at the window, and for one crazy minute I think he might actually be jealous.

  “He’s hot!” Jackie says.

  Mike makes fake puking noises.

  “Oh, whatever, just because you like girls doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate a fine specimen when you see one,” Jackie says.

  “Speaking of fine specimens.” Mike looks at something beyond me.

  I glance up in time to see Tucker crossing the caf toward us. My spine stiffens. Surely he’s just passing by—

  Tucker drops next to me, straddling the bench seat between his legs.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey,” I answer uncertainly. Everyone at our table is suddenly silent. They’re not the only ones. Sound seems to have vacuumed out of the caf because Tucker St. Clair is slumming it at our table.

  “I realized I didn’t give you my address for tonight,” he explains.

  “Oh. Right.” I dig in my bag and pull out my cell. Tucker recites his address while I type it into my phone under the weight of dozens of stares.

  “I should get your number too.” He pulls out his phone.

  “Um, sure.” My cheeks pinken, and I can’t look at Ethan as we exchange information.

  When we’re done, Tucker stows his phone in his back pocket and drums his hands on the table, then looks beside me, seeming to notice Ethan for the first time. “Hey. You’re looking better than the last time I saw you.”

  Ethan clears his throat.

  Tucker turns to me. “Did Ethan tell you he puked all over my backyard the other night?”

  “Ethan got drunk?” I ask in disbelief.

  Two pink circles bloom on Ethan’s cheeks.

  Ethan never gets drunk. He did it once when he was fourteen and had to get his stomach pumped. His mom practically disowned him, and the whole thing was so traumatizing that he never has more than one beer—if that.

  “Yep. Savannah was feeding him these gross sugary cocktails all night. The last I saw him, she was dragging him to a bedroom,” Tucker continues with a laugh.

  The smile freezes on my face.

  “Don’t you have a lacrosse meeting or something?” Ethan asks tersely.

  Tucker laughs. “Nah, not until tomorrow.”

  I realize I haven’t said anything in too long, but I can’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t be weird. Ethan didn’t tell me any of this. What did he and Savannah do at the party? Are they a couple now?

  Tucker drums his hands on the bench seat again. “All right, well, I better get back to my lunch before the bell rings. See you tonight, Hope.”

  I give him a little nod as he crosses back toward the window.

  “I can’t believe Tucker St. Clair just sat at our table,” Jackie says the minute he’s out of earshot. I concentrate very hard on keeping my breathing even. I can’t look at Ethan. If I do, I’ll cry.

  “Hope, can we talk?” Ethan whispers.

  So he can pat my back and tell me it’s okay, that he’ll take me on a charity outing in between his dates with his girlfriend?

  I pop up from the bench seat.

  “Where are you going?” Jackie asks.

  “I need to do a treatment,” I lie. “See you later.” I leave the table without ever once looking at Ethan.

  Of course Tucker lives in the Garden District, one of the wealthiest, most respected neighborhoods in town and the perfect embodiment of Southern aristocracy. The quiet street is full of giant period mansions, pristine gardens, and huge live oaks weeping Spanish moss, all of it hemmed in by an intricate wrought-iron cornstalk fence.

  Mom pulls the car to a stop across from the address Tucker gave me and shifts into Park. “I’m not sure this is such a great idea.”

  I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes. That might as well be the title of her memoir: Debbie Callahan: I’m Not Sure This Is Such a Great Idea.

  “We’re just working on a project,” I say. If she thinks this is bad, what would she say if she knew what I did last night? That a stranger was in our house?

  “I know,” she answers. “But it’s been a big day for you. It seems like too much.”

  “Mom, I’ll be fine. I’m not going to be playing basketball. I’ll be sitting at his kitchen table working on homework, which is exactly what I’d be doing at home.”

  She chews on her lip. “Does he have any pets? Because something as little as a flare-up—”

  “No, he doesn’t have any pets,” I interrupt, even though I have no clue if that’s true. She doesn’t have to know I’ve pet our neighbor Mrs. Boudreaux’s Yorkiepoo every chance I’ve had and lived to tell the tale.

  Mom looks up at the house, a sprawling Greek Revival with huge white pillars, covered balconies on both floors, and professionally manicured lawns. I guess she doesn’t see anything overly offensive there, because she finally says, “Well, okay,” and I release a long-held breath.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  As I start to climb out of the car, she calls, “Wait!”

  She pulls me into a hug. I almost forgot. I could die planning this history project.

  “I love you, Hope.”

  “I love you too, Mom.”

  She grabs my face and kisses me lightly on the forehead, thumbs the freckles across my cheeks. Jesus, I hope Tucker isn’t watching through the window.

  “Mom,” I complain.

  “Okay, okay.” She releases me, and I climb out of the car and shrug on my backpack.

  “Call when you’re done,” she shouts after me. “And keep your phone on!”

  I wave.

  She starts the car but idles next to the curb. I realize she isn’t going to drive away until I go inside. So embarrassing.

  I ring the doorbell.

  There are footsteps, and then a small, dark woman opens the door, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Oh, hi. I’m—”

  “You came.”

  Tucker appears behind the woman. He’s changed out of his school clothes and is wearing a pair of khakis and a plaid dress shirt unbuttoned over a white tee. His hair is clipped short on the sides, with the longer top swept up and back like a ’50s greaser. I guess that’s what passes for dressing down when you’re rich.

  “Martina, this is Hope,” Tucker says. “Hope, this is Martina. She’s practically my second mom,” he adds, slinging an arm around her shoulders. Martina beams at him.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say, shaking her hand.

  “You too. Come on in.” She opens the door wide to let me pass.
r />   I step inside. The foyer empties into a sitting area full of gold furniture that looks as if it would break if anyone actually sat on it; gilt-framed paintings span the length of creamy white walls. I search them for any sign of the rose insignia the Society is so fond of plastering on everything, but the paintings are roseless.

  I follow Tucker up a wide staircase to a door at the end of the hall. When he opens it, it takes me all of two seconds to figure out we are about to enter his bedroom. There’s a rumpled duvet at the end of his bed, the bookshelf headboard is overflowing with novels and trophies and picture frames, and there are piles of dirty laundry everywhere.

  I freeze at the door. Mom would kill me. Ethan’s allowed in my bedroom only because we’ve been friends forever and she doesn’t remotely suspect that anything is happening between us.

  Tucker misinterprets my hesitation and kicks underwear beneath his bed. “Sorry. I should have cleaned before you came.”

  It makes me strangely happy he didn’t. Tucker St. Clair isn’t perfect. He kicks a pile of clothes toward a laundry basket and mutters more apologies. It’s hard to believe he could be the mastermind behind the Society at the current moment, and it makes me suddenly less uncomfortable in his room.

  I cross to a telescope by the window, bending to take a closer look. “You into astronomy or just a Peeping Tom?” I ask.

  He chuckles. “It was sort of a fad I went through. Astronomy, that is.”

  From the looks of it, his fad could feed my family for a month. One hundred thousand dollars. A drop in the bucket for the St. Clair family but a new life for mine. I leave the telescope and pad over to a giant map of Europe on the wall that has tacks pinned all over it.

  “Have you been to all these places?” I ask.

  Tucker comes up behind me. “Some. The yellow tacks are where I’ve been, and the red tacks are where I want to go.”

  “There’s a lot of yellow on this map,” I say.

  “I guess, but a lot of it is following my dad on his work trips. Those are just two- or three-night stays where we didn’t really get to see a whole lot.”

  He says this with such a sense of sadness that I can’t help snorting. Poor Tucker. Been to nine million places across the globe, and he’s bummed he didn’t get to spend more than a few days in some. I’d give an arm for two days in Paris.