Dead Girls Society

by Michelle Krys

“Why don’t we go inside and chat?” Mom says, stepping aside.

  “What?” I say, like it’s a three-syllable word.

  “Hope,” Mom says. “Don’t be rude.”

  Tucker smiles at me and steps past, following Mom inside.

  A million thoughts run through my head: If he wanted to know, he should have asked me, not my mother. I hope Mom’s wearing a bra under that sweater. She’s the one being rude in this equation. I wonder if there are any water cutoff notifications hanging around on the counter. I hate that I’m being discussed like I’m a thing instead of a living, breathing human. And I hope there’s at least a decent amount of food in the fridge in case Tucker catches a glimpse inside.

  Oh God, what if Jenny tries to rope him into an invite to one of his parties?

  It shouldn’t matter, I tell myself. I’m dying. I have much bigger things to worry about in the grand scheme of things than Tucker St. Clair chatting with my mother.

  When we go inside, Jenny’s standing at the sink in her pajamas, drinking out of a jug of milk. She gives us a big toothy grin that lets me know she was listening to the whole thing and couldn’t be happier with the turn of events.

  “That’s disgusting, Jenny,” I say. “Use a glass.”

  She smiles as she slugs back another sip.

  “This way.” Mom leads us through the tiny apartment. “Would you like something to drink, Tucker?”

  “No, I’m okay, thank you.” Tucker smiles politely, hands shoved into the pockets of his khakis as he ambles behind Mom into the living room.

  I don’t have time to be embarrassed about the brown plaid couch with the old gum stain and the full-back TV I’m pretty sure you can’t even get at garage sales anymore, because Tucker beelines straight for the family pictures in mismatched frames on the wall.

  “This one you?” he asks.

  I peer over his shoulder.

  “Yeah, that’s me.” The picture is from one of my many hospital admissions. I’m maybe three years old, and I’m wearing a green hospital gown and oxygen tubes up my nose. But you’d never know it based on the huge smile on my face.

  “You look so happy.”

  “She was a happy kid,” Mom says proudly. “Even sick as a dog.”

  Tucker turns to face her, expectant.

  And here it goes.

  “Right, have a seat,” Mom says.

  Tucker squeezes my hand before settling in on the couch. I’m too anxious to sit still, so I lean against the wall instead.

  “Hope was born four and a half months premature,” Mom begins. “Didn’t even weigh one pound.” She says this as if it’s an accomplishment or something. I cross my arms. If Tucker was serious about dating me before, he’ll change his mind after Mom is done with him.

  “She lived off a breathing machine for seventy-four days. Almost died twice. I watched them do CPR on her once for ten minutes—”

  “Mom.”

  “This is important, Hope, and he wants to know.

  “We thought we were past the worst of it, and then she was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis.” Mom shakes her head. “We practically lived in the hospital her first three years. First it was RSV—a viral lung infection,” she explains, “and then she kept getting pneumonia. With her CF compounded by bronchopulmonary dysplasia, she gets sick really easily. Anything could set her off.”

  “It’s not as bad as it sounds,” I say. But it’s no use. I let her do her spiel and tune her out, turning my attention to my cuticles. The kitchen is deathly quiet, and I know Jenny is listening to every word.

  “Well, you’d never know it,” Tucker says when Mom’s finally done. “She doesn’t let on that she’s sick at all.”

  “That’s part of the problem. We need to be diligent so she doesn’t run into trouble.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “She’s lucky to have you,” Tucker says. Mom’s exterior cracks slightly at the compliment. Give them an evening, and I swear they’ll be friends.

  And that’s about enough of that.

  “Well, thanks for the ride,” I announce. “Tucker, you should probably get going now. Don’t you have that thing in the morning?”

  He catches the pointed gleam in my eye. “Oh, right. That thing.” He stands up and flattens the nonexistent creases in his pants. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Callahan.”

  “Call me Debbie,” Mom says. Tucker wasn’t lying about his way with moms.

  When his back is to her, he winks at me, a hint of laughter in his eyes. Relief floods through me as I realize he’s not laughing at me but with me. And I see no sign that she’s scared him off with all this talk of my imminent doom.

  I walk him to the door. “See you tomorrow,” I say.

  He turns to face me. A smile dangles on the corner of his lips. Without warning, he leans in and gives me a kiss on the cheek, and then he’s trundling down the stairs and walking back to his car, his shirt flapping in a light breeze. I’m so stunned I forget to immediately murder Mom for humiliating me, as I planned.

  “He seems nice,” Mom says behind me.

  “Hope has a boyfriend!” Jenny sings.

  “Very mature,” I say, though it’s not very convincing when I can barely contain a smile.

  They’re both looking at me, so I push past them and shut myself in my bedroom, where I flop onto my bed and try to get a grip on what I’m feeling.

  Embarrassed.

  Jittery.

  Guilty.

  I think of Ethan and his incredible smile and silky hair, his throaty laugh and lean body, our never-ending well of inside jokes. I like Ethan. So much it physically hurts just to think about him. So why did I let this happen with Tucker?

  Because Ethan’s taken, I tell myself. He doesn’t want me. So I shouldn’t want him. Easy.

  And in some way, it is easy. Tucker wants me. The most popular boy in school finds me attractive. It’s hard to believe, but my stomach warms at the thought.

  It’s so surreal. So normal. Too good to be true. But he sought me out, shared his secrets, and drove me home when I wanted to take it slow.

  Wait….He drove me home. All the way from his front door to mine.

  But I never gave him the address. All I said was Iberville, and he took it from there. How did he know where in Iberville, unless he’d been here before?

  Jumping up, I scour the bed for any sign of another gift. Even though it’s broad daylight and it’s highly unlikely the intruder came back for round two before dinner and somehow escaped Mom and Jenny’s notice, I drop to the floor and check under the bed, then whip the closet open. Empty.

  My heart races. Tucker knew where I live.

  I think of the kiss, that sweet, perfect kiss as we sat on his unmade bed, and my lungs flutter in a pleasant way. But the fact remains: Tucker knew where I live.

  Frowning, I reach under my mattress for the spiral notebook. I crack it open to the first page, where I printed: SUSPECTS.

  It pains me to do it, but I scrawl TUCKER ST. CLAIR directly below it.

  My first kiss and first suspect, all in the course of an evening.

  I snap the notebook shut and shove it under the mattress. So much for normal.

  The car idles at the curb next to the big grassy quad in front of the school.

  It rained last night after I got home from Tucker’s. Big heaping buckets that sounded like sniper gunfire on the roof. The sky this morning is stained a muddy brown. Fallen branches are blown across the lawn, and rivers of water flow heartily down the gutters. The air is thick with the scent of wet grass. But it won’t be like this for long. The sun is already peeking out through churned clouds, and by midday we’ll enjoy another oppressively humid autumn day.

  “Are you sure about this?” Mom asks. “I can take the day off if you think you’re not ready.”

  “No!” I say it so sharply that I add, “I’ll be okay. Thanks.”

  Mom sighs and scrubs at a crease between her brows. She has dark circles under her eyes, a
nd her hands are as jittery as if she’d downed a case of Red Bull. Sometimes I forget how hard all this must be on her.

  “I’m sorry,” Mom says. “I know I’m being weird. I just worry about you.”

  “I know, Mom.” I lean across the center console to pull her into a hug. She wraps her arms around me and kisses my hair. I can’t be sure she isn’t crying.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say.

  “I know,” Mom rasps. “It’s just so hard to let go.”

  I smile into her shoulder. “I love you.”

  And now there isn’t any doubt about whether she’s crying.

  Mascara stains mark a path down her cheeks, and she forces a wobbly smile. It’s hard to be mad at her about yesterday when she looks so vulnerable. I’m the worst daughter in the world for lying to her for two solid days now. But a hundred thousand dollars? That’ll buy her some comfort.

  I get out and slam the car door, waving through the window.

  Mom presses her lips together, as if she’s trying hard not to say anything. “Take it easy,” she blurts out. “Don’t exert yourself too much. And call me if anything happens. Actually, just call me anyway.”

  I smile and shrug on my backpack, and she rumbles away at a blazing 5 mph.

  When she’s gone, I turn to the school. Hartley is slouched against her bike with her ragtag group of delinquents. She gives me a two-fingered salute. Lyla stands at the edge of a small cluster of the girls’ basketball team, looking a little like an outcast, and Nikki makes her way in from the parking lot, arm still bound in a sling. And then there’s Farrah, standing by the flagpole with the popular kids, trying hard to ignore whatever nonsense Sadie is spouting this morning.

  For one brief moment our eyes meet. Our circles don’t overlap, but for just a flash of a second we make a new circle: the Rich Girl, the Smart Girl, the Bad Girl, the Sporty Girl, the Sick Girl, and the Society.

  I have an urge to gather them together, to ask if they’ve had any unwanted visitors, any mysterious texts, but Nikki shakes her head and makes a beeline for the door, and the moment is broken.

  “Hey.” The voice is so near I jump. But it’s only Ethan. “So how terrible was he?” he asks.

  It takes a second for my brain to catch up to what he’s asking about.

  “Um, not terrible at all, actually.”

  Ethan pauses, then peers intently into my face. “I don’t think I heard you correctly. We’re talking about Tucker St. Clair, right?”

  “I know, but he was different than I expected. I mean, he wasn’t snobby, like how he seems in school. Actually, he was nice.” I try not to sound too defensive. After all, he is suspect number one on a very short list.

  “What happened to ‘emotional depth of a puddle’?” Ethan says, quoting what I’d said about Tucker mere weeks ago. It seemed funny then.

  I shrug.

  “Oh my God,” Ethan says suddenly. “You like him, don’t you?”

  “I barely know him.” It isn’t a lie, but it comes out with the ring of one.

  There’s an unbearable pause, then: “Something happened, didn’t it?”

  Words aren’t coming, and I’m all too aware of the throng of students nearby.

  “Hope!”

  “We kissed, okay?” I blurt out.

  Ethan’s face goes slack, like I slapped him or accidentally discovered an off switch. He recovers slowly. “Oh, well, hey. If you want to earn a trip to the free clinic…”

  And suddenly I’m furious. “Ethan! What is wrong with you? Have I said one bad thing about Savannah?” I look over his shoulder and spot her watching us from the flagpole. “No. I haven’t. Because that’s not what friends do.”

  “Sorry,” he mutters. “You’re right. I guess I just…Never mind. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I say softly.

  We reach the front doors. Inside, the halls are loud with sneakers squeaking on linoleum, lockers slamming closed, and kids laughing and talking, but there’s a weighted silence between us.

  “So how was your swim meet yesterday?” I ask.

  “Fine.”

  “That guy who’s been trying to get you off the team—nothing happened with him?”

  “No.”

  “That’s good.”

  This is terrible. Worse than if we weren’t talking. I grapple for another topic that won’t steer us back to troubled waters. But I’m too late.

  “See you later,” Ethan says, voice gruff, and before I can respond, he turns and walks away.

  Tucker is already seated when I walk into history. He’s wearing a blue checked button-down partially tucked into dark trousers and a pair of shiny loafers. It’s strangely sexy that he isn’t embarrassed to dress up for school.

  He looks up and sees me. At first I think he’s going to ignore me. Pretend the whole thing in his bedroom never happened. But then his face morphs into a smile that makes that damn dimple pop out, and warmth spreads over my cheeks. I smile back, and we’re suddenly in his room again, a hairbreadth apart and ready to kiss.

  “No mom today?” he asks as I take my seat next to him.

  I smile. “Sorry, that was weird yesterday.”

  “I thought she was great,” he says.

  “She is pretty great.” I twiddle a pen between my fingers.

  The class is filling up fast. All around us students fall into their seats and talk and laugh and gossip. When the second bell rings, Mr. Crawford pulls out the ancient TV on a cart. A chorus of cheers rises through the room.

  “That’s right, it’s movie day,” Mr. Crawford says. “But just because we’re watching a movie doesn’t mean it’s a free pass to fool around. I want you paying attention. No cell phones, no iPads. You’re going to be quizzed on this.”

  He flicks the lights out, and a World War II documentary flares to life. I feel Tucker’s eyes on me and glance across at him. I was right. He’s leaning across his desk with his hands steepled together, his face flashing in the pale light of the TV screen, a grin pulling up one corner of his lips. And he’s looking at me. I send him a shy smile.

  He takes out a notepad and scribbles something. When Mr. Crawford’s back is turned, he slips it onto my desk. I squint to decipher his scratchy boy writing.

  I want to kiss you again.

  I’m suddenly glad of the dark so he can’t see how red my face is. I don’t know what to say. Do I want Tucker to kiss me again?

  He grabs my hand in the dark and traces the creases of my palm with a featherlight touch. My breath stalls. It’s somehow infinitely sexier than a kiss.

  I can do this, I think. I can like Tucker. And who knows, maybe it would help me to get over Ethan, which I very clearly need to do. And I really need to stop with this whole Tucker-Could-Be-Part-of-the-Society business. I mean, a guy can’t like me unless he secretly has an evil agenda? Talk about low self-esteem.

  Someone cackles in the back of the room, and Mr. Crawford clomps between the desks to deal with it. Tucker snaps his hand back. I write out a reply under his note, check to make sure Mr. Crawford isn’t watching, then slip it to him.

  Do it.

  His lips curl into a wicked smile.

  I spend all morning wondering when it’s going to happen, if it’s going to happen, but by the time lunch approaches, Ethan is on top of my mind again. I just want things to go back to normal. I’ve only got so much time, and I don’t want to spend it being in a fight with my best friend.

  But when I walk into the caf, Ethan isn’t at our table. At first I think he’s not here yet, but then I catch a glimpse of his inky-black hair over at Savannah’s spot with the other do-gooders. Their heads are bent together, and he’s laughing.

  My heart plummets into my stomach. Savannah throws her blond head back with a laugh, and Ethan joins in.

  I don’t know what to do. Where to go.

  Jackie talks animatedly with Mike at our usual table. I could sit with them. But Jackie and I aren’t friends so much as we’re friends by proxy. Etha
n is what holds us together.

  I scan the caf. My eyes catch on Nikki’s perfect bun. She’d freak if I tried to sit with her. Hartley waved at me this morning, but she’s not here. Where’s Lyla?

  For a crazy moment I think about sitting with Tucker. Let’s see what Ethan thinks then. But even the idea is too foreign to consider, and I can’t make my legs move. Ethan glances over, and I feel so stupid and pathetic just standing there, watching him.

  I turn around and run.

  There’s a bathroom outside the caf, but it’s bound to be full of girls, and I don’t want to be seen right now, like this, so I turn down hall after hall until I’m in the empty tech wing, sawdust heavy in the air. I slam into the bathroom, out of breath and huffing. I check under the stalls to make sure no one’s there, then hork up wads of phlegm into the sink, running the water full blast to cover the sound. My skin is shiny with sweat by the time I’m done, and there’s a long string of saliva leading from my mouth to the sink, but I can breathe.

  Running was a bad idea. Running into a dusty area was worse. The pain is back, and it’s an hour before I should take more meds. But who am I kidding? What does it matter if I shoot my liver to hell when the rest of me is already circling the drain?

  There’s a knock on the door. Ethan. He came.

  “Hope?” a girl’s voice says.

  I wilt against the counter.

  The door edges open. “Can I come in?” Lyla asks.

  I stand up straight and wipe my mouth, hyperaware of my bloodshot eyes and pale, damp skin. “It’s a public bathroom.”

  The chatter from the hall roars into the bathroom, then becomes muted again as the door thumps closed behind her.

  Lyla’s wearing a Nike T-shirt and a pair of shiny black track pants, her hair pulled into her characteristically high ponytail. She takes in the scene. I self-consciously run a hand through my hair.

  “Are you okay?” she asks carefully. “I saw you run out of the caf.”

  So she was there.

  “Oh, yeah. I’m fine.” I give a brittle laugh.

  “You don’t look fine.”

  “Just a flare-up,” I admit. “Happens all the time.”

  “Are you sure?” She hikes a thumb behind her. “I can get the nurse.”