Such a Good Girl Page 2

  Needless to say, Kolbie is very glam and high fashion, and if she wasn’t already a high school It Girl, a modeling contract would have made her one.

  Anyway, as soon as she graduates from high school, her serious boyfriend, Jamal, is transferring to NYU, and she’s moving straight to Manhattan to pursue her modeling career. She’s already making some serious dough. She promised her mom to do college on the side, but honestly, I don’t think she’s serious about it. And who would be if they had a major modeling contract? Besides, she can go to college at any age . . . but how often can you go to Paris and be in the “Teens Who Rock” issue of Claire? Kolbie told us last week she gets a full-page spread and they’re paying her five thousand dollars. When Neta and I found out, we planned Kolbie a full spa day to celebrate (totally on us, of course), and I bought her a two-year subscription to the magazine.

  “So, Neta,” Kolbie says, “now that RJ is out of the picture, who’s up to bat?” She picks at a little thread on the edge of her jeans. She likes her jeans perfectly frayed and is always tattering hers with pairs of scissors or trying to get the holes shredded just well enough that only a tiny bit of skin shows through.

  Neta sighs heavily. “RJ.”

  “What’s so great about RJ?” I cut in. “Didn’t he basically cheat on you with Lorna Chatsworth over the summer?”

  “They almost kissed.”

  “Because you interrupted them,” Kolbie points out. “And who knows how many other almost-things they did or didn’t do? Or actually did? There were totally rumors about RJ and Simone. And RJ and Gabriella, too. Don’t forget those.”

  Neta pulls her business book out of her backpack. “Please. It’s not like I’m going to take him back. I just like seeing him grovel. And I’m just saying I’m not quite over him.”

  “Neta—”

  I reach forward to touch her shoulder, but she pushes my hand off with a small smile. “We were together since middle school, you know? It’s hard to get over someone like that. You just hope that . . . that you mean more to someone than that.”

  Kolbie chews on the end of her pencil thoughtfully. “I get that. But in the meantime, distract yourself with something. Or someone, if at all possible. Let’s see.” She stands and walks to the window of the door, peering out at the library. “Who’s the hottest guy in the school? Let’s start there.”

  Neta doesn’t hesitate. “R—”

  Kolbie cuts Neta off with a look. “Don’t even think about him.”

  She sits back in her chair and sulks. “I was going to say, ‘Are you serious?’ Can’t I just concentrate on ROIs for once?” She flashes us her business homework, which I happen to know she’s already aced.

  “Really selling that, Neta.” I pat her on the shoulder and join Kolbie at the window. “There’s Donovan. The quarterback. I know it’s cliché, but it’s very all-American high school.” He’s sitting near the magazine section, but he’s paging through a thickish book. He’s a pretty smart dude. He did an extra-credit speech last year on James Joyce that earned him serious academic cred in my book, especially considering the rest of the football team did their speeches on stuff like MMA fighting and cafeteria food.

  “Boring.” Kolbie nudges me. “Ooh, what about November?”

  I follow her gaze. November is a hipster type whose real name is Francis Hastings Lee, but ever since he took up the guitar he insists on being called specifically November and nothing else.

  Which, I will admit, I thought was the most diva-ish thing I’d ever heard until I listened to him play his guitar. He’s actually incredible. There are rumors that three separate record labels are courting him, but I don’t know if that’s true. Still, he has a track or two up on iTunes, and his YouTube channel has more than two hundred thousand hits. That’s saying something.

  “I don’t feel like competing with groupies,” Neta says. “Besides, you guys can stop looking out that window. If we’re going purely by looks, it’s really obvious, isn’t it?”

  Kolbie sighs heavily and turns toward Neta, resting her back against the door. “Yes,” she says. “No contest.”

  “Uh, no.” I look at Neta and Kolbie. “Who? Am I missing something? I think we’ve covered all the standouts.”

  “Mr. Belrose,” they say together, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

  Ah.

  Mr. Belrose.

  Our French teacher.

  Our extremely attractive, jawline of a Greek god French teacher.

  Key word “teacher.”

  He actually looks like he stepped off of a television show and just magically appeared in our classroom in a stylish button-up. I don’t get it. There’s no denying he’s absolutely the most gorgeous man in a hundred-mile radius.

  “I didn’t know faculty was eligible.”

  “Oh,” Neta says, giggling, “he’s eligible, all right.” Her cheeks get a touch rosy. “I mean, seriously, is there anyone that even compares?” She fans herself with her ROIs assignment.

  “Nope,” Kolbie says.

  “Not even close,” Neta says. “There’s a reason why our school has the highest French scores in the state. And it’s probably because every straight girl in the school—and some of the guys—sign up for his classes.”

  “And maybe because he’s a really good teacher.” I put my hands on my hips. “Besides, shouldn’t there be some sort of age limit in place?”

  Kolbie puts up a finger. “You are the biggest prude I have ever heard of, Riley. He’s at most twenty-eight. Like, tops. We fangirl over celebs who are, like, eighty-six.”

  “That’s pushing it.”

  She gives me a withering look. “You know what I mean.”

  She’s not wrong. He is super young for a teacher. I’m pretty sure he only graduated from college four years ago. Or maybe less than that—not that long ago he was student teaching for the old French teacher, Mr. Andersen-Kraus.

  “He’s twenty-six,” Neta says. “Same as your brother, Ri. They were in the same class.”

  She’s not wrong.

  “Regardless of age, he’s mad altruistic,” Kolbie points out. “Didn’t he raise, like, ten thousand dollars for the cancer run last year?”

  “And he volunteers at the hospital in his spare time, reading to children and, like, bandaging their little heads and stuff,” Neta adds. “He’s literally the perfect man.”

  I shake my head. “If only he wasn’t married, right? You forget he’s wifed up.” I wiggle my ring finger.

  Neta shakes her head, hair bouncing. “Come on, Riley. Loosen up. It’s not like we’re seriously considering a teacher. We’re just fantasizing.”

  Kolbie thumps back in her chair and throws her feet up on the desk. “Seriously. You can’t even admit he’s fine, can you?”

  “He’s, um, a very nice-looking man.”

  “A very nice-looking man,” Neta says in a high, squeaky voice, and they both crack up.

  “For real? Are you trying to imitate me or Kermit the Frog?” I pretend to throw my chem book at her, and suddenly I’m laughing again too.

  The door swings open while I’m fake-clobbering Neta and Liam stops, his eyes wide. “Um, excuse me,” he says. “You know I think you girls are cool, but please, quiet down. And Riley, please don’t assault anyone.”

  I clutch my book to my chest and suck my cheeks in to keep from smiling. “They should really put that in the library rules if they want it to be top of mind, Liam.”

  He nods. “I’ll think about having signs put up,” he says, completely dry.

  We wait until he’s closed the door to collapse in laughter again.

  “This year,” Neta announces, wiping away tears, “is the year of Hook Riley Up.” She stands and holds up a bright pink pen and touches me on the nose with it, like she’s knighting me or something. “You will get a boyfriend, or I will die trying. Or so help me God. Or whatever.”

  I back away. “Oh, no, no, no. I’m all set.”

  Kolbie clutches he
r hair. “That is so boring, Riley. Check yourself, girl. You’re, like, incredibly smart, super funny, and mega hot.” She checks off my dating qualifications on her fingers. “Like, one hundred and twelve percent of the guys in the school would date you. Not to mention Jamal’s college friends. And you could use a college guy. They’re way more mature.”

  I straighten my blazer. “I have priorities that are more important than men. Like actual college, not just the men who attend the institution.”

  “Haven’t you already gotten in to, like, eight schools?” Kolbie says. “Plus, not sure if you noticed, but men are fun. And if you get a good one instead of a douche-wrangler like RJ—”

  “Hey!” Neta scowls.

  “You know I’m right. Anyway, it’s the best thing ever. Jamal is a good dude, and he makes me happier every day, you know?”

  Something in my chest twists a little bit, and I think about Ethan and Esther, and how weird and messed up and perfect they are together.

  And for all of Ethan’s mistakes, how much more my parents seem to like him than me. It’s like whenever the two of us are around, both of them just gravitate to him. Like he is easier to be around, in spite of the fact I did everything right and Ethan . . . well.

  Ethan is Ethan.

  “Come on, Riley!” Neta urges. She puts her arm around me. “It’ll be fun! We can double-date or something!”

  I put my hand on Neta’s shoulder. “Look. I appreciate you guys. I do. But as soon as I graduate, I’m out of here. A man will only slow me down. And since when do I need a man? I’m a strong, powerful woman. I don’t need anyone!” I make a muscle like Rosie the Riveter.

  Kolbie sighs and puts her chin on her fist. “I didn’t ever say you needed a man, Riles. I just said you needed some fun.”

  “I’m way fun,” I insist. “Buckets of it.”

  “Oh yeah?” Neta counters. “When’s the last time you broke a rule?”

  “Stick with me. I’m totally going to chew gum in class later.” I wink.

  Neta throws up her hands, reminding me of my mother when she’s annoyed. “You’re hopeless, Ri. But I’m not giving up on you. You’ll go on at least one date this year.”

  For about two seconds, I play with the normal teenage girl hope that rises up in my chest. Maybe dating someone wouldn’t be so bad.

  Then I pinch it out like a candle.

  I am more than all of that.

  THREE

  Lessons

  “Bonjour, la classe,” Mr. Belrose says from the front of the classroom. He is holding a stack of papers loosely in one arm, and smiles at his students as they file in.

  There’s something about his voice.

  Something different from everyone else.

  Something about him.

  The something gives me shivers just under my skin.

  I give my head a little shake.

  Thea Arnold, a senior with a penchant for wearing entirely too much jewelry, pauses at the front of the classroom. “Bonjour, Monsieur Belrose,” she drawls, her words drawn out and slow and deliberately flirty. Her friends giggle beside her and all choose seats in the front row, nearest to his desk, where they cross and uncross their legs and make pouty faces and apply shiny lip gloss.

  “Bonjour, Thea.” He nods at her and she slides into her customary seat right in front of his desk.

  Mr. Belrose is cool like that. He lets everyone choose their seats every day. He isn’t like one of those teachers who has assigned seating. Of course, most of the girls choose seats in the front row. Except me. I think it’s a little desperate. I do get it. They all know that they’re never going to actually be with a beautiful married teacher, so they’re just in it for the best view possible, but even so—I’m perfectly happy with the third row. Close enough that I can still see what’s going on, but not so far back that I look like a total slacker.

  As soon as most of the class is seated, Mr. Belrose begins handing out papers.

  “What is this?” Thea asks immediately, her voice slightly accusatory. She might like Mr. Belrose, but she’s not the most academic girl around. I’ve heard rumors, though, that her grades are strictly on account of laziness and she’s been tested and is secretly a Mensa-level genius, which is how she made it into honors senior French.

  “En français,” Mr. Belrose says. His voice is—interesting. He’s demanding it, and we all know it, but it’s sort of . . . well, soft. And inviting. And . . .

  I am not into Mr. Belrose. I am not. I am into studies. And responsibility. And maybe a couple of celebs. Not teachers. Not educators. Not men who wear smart button-ups and have rich, clever voices and—

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” Thea says, very slowly.

  Mr. Belrose grins. “Une interrogation surprise!”

  I perk up. I own at surprise quizzes. In fact, I’ve aced every single pop quiz that Belrose has ever thrown my way.

  Garrett, a star baseball player behind me, pretends to choke.

  His buddy Cay hits him in the arm. “Dude! Come on! En français! ”

  The whole class bursts out laughing. “Un crédit supplementaire pour Monsieur Burke!” Mr. Belrose grins and makes a flourish at Cay Burke.

  That’s just another reason why everyone loves Mr. Belrose. He’s got a great sense of humor. Every other teacher probably would have been annoyed at Cay’s joke, but Mr. Belrose actually gave him extra credit. Sure, it’ll probably be only one point, but how cool is that?

  A piece of paper lands on my desk and I glance over it. It looks pretty easy . . . just a review of verbs. Old ones too. Sometimes Belrose does this. He throws weeks-old stuff at us, just so we remember it. He doesn’t want us to recall the language long enough for a test and then clear it out as soon as new material comes along. He wants us to retain French. He wants us to learn it as he has learned it, so we can stroll along the streets of Paris and order macarons and ride bicycles around with baguettes perched jauntily on our shoulders. Typical French activities.

  I fill in the verbs quickly as Belrose walks up and down the aisles of desks and tsks at some papers and whispers, “Très bien!” over people’s shoulders. He’s rather distracting, all in all, during test taking. I finish with mine first and walk my paper up to his desk. He catches my eye as he leans over Teri Von Millhouse’s desk and winks at me.

  Pursing my lips, I turn my back to him and saunter back to my seat, keeping my shoulders square and tall. My eyes stray to the photos of the Seine he has on the walls; copies of the paintings hung in the Louvre; lovely aerial photos of the French Riviera, and one tiny, cliché photo of the Eiffel Tower, which is a requirement in any respectable French classroom. I do not look back at Mr. Belrose.

  I do not care about my French teacher.

  I don’t. Not like that. It takes more than a pretty face and an infallible French accent to sway me. It does not matter that he winks at me and pays more attention to me than to other students.

  I do, of course, care about my grade. And I care about Les Mis.

  Speaking of which.

  I sit back down at my desk and pull my copy of Les Misérables out of my backpack. I try to read, but my eyes stray back to Mr. Belrose as he returns to his desk to grade the quizzes. He doesn’t get to mine right away, because it was the first one turned in, and therefore on the bottom of the pile, so he makes a lot of strikes with his red pen before he reaches my paper, where he makes one mark: an A.

  It’s not like I can see it from here. But I recognize the three sharp strokes, like the Eiffel Tower.

  I smile tightly to myself and bite on the cap of my pen.

  A few minutes later, Mr. Belrose rises from his desk and passes copies of the tests back to the class.

  “Classe, I’m going to switch to English for a few minutes while we review the quiz together, and you’re going to tell me the verbs in French. Let’s start with, ah, Thea.”

  Thea glows.

  “ ‘To make.’ ”

  “Faire,” Thea recites. Her acce
nt is far from on point, but she does tend to have her French down.

  I wonder why.

  “Correct.” Mr. Belrose rewards her with a smile, and she lights up like fireworks. He moves to the second word. “Uh, let’s go with . . . Riley. Riley, how do you say ‘to kiss’?”

  Suddenly, I feel redness in my cheeks. Of course the word “kiss” is incredibly close to the word “embarrass,” which he is currently doing. To me. “Embrasser.”

  “No one’s surprised that Riley’s correct!” He smiles even bigger at me than he did at Thea and then moves on to someone else, and my cheeks heat up even brighter. I duck my head, letting my hair fall in front of my face, praying that no one is looking at me.

  I do not care about Mr. Belrose. I do not.

  “You okay under there, Stone?” Garrett asks, poking me in the soft space just below my shoulder with the eraser end of his pencil.

  I ignore him. I ignore everyone, even after the crimson in my cheeks has gone away and the bell rings and I’ve ignored about fourteen questions I definitely could have answered better than anyone else in the class. I shove my books into my backpack quickly and start toward the door, using my blond hair as a nice, effective curtain in front of my face.

  “Mademoiselle Stone? S’il vous plaît, attendez.”

  He wants me to wait. Mr. Belrose wants me to wait.

  I think about the monks in Asia or somewhere who can control their bodies to a point where they can slow down their pulse simply by concentrating. I wish for that power now.

  I turn slowly toward Mr. Belrose. “Oui?”

  His faces softens from the normal teacher expression he wears—all the stern planes and angles smoothed out into something almost friendly. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. Do you have a moment?”