Such a Good Girl Read online

  I fake-gag. “You’re so gross.”

  “Don’t be mad at me because I’m honest.” She snuggles in deeper against my shoulder. “I’m just gonna sleep here, mkay? These gross buses are the best for sleeping.”

  She’s right. There’s something about the rhythm of a bus that’s relaxing . . . maybe the lack of shocks as it bumbles over the road . . . or maybe it’s, like, carbon monoxide leaking in and slowly poisoning us. It’s possible.

  I yawn, but I resist sleep. We’re on the way to our mock trial meet. I’m playing a witness today: a psychiatrist who has to attest to the sanity of the plaintiff. I run over my notes for the meet, then I glance over at Neta, whose eyes are closed. She’s breathing softly through her mouth. I lean over very slowly and feel around in my bag for something . . . one specific book, used, with a cloth binding. With one hand, I slide it up my leg and into my lap.

  It’s the book that Mr. Belrose chose for me in the store. It’s the one he pressed into my hands and told me to read. It’s called L’Amant.

  The Lover.

  And it means something.

  The whole book is in French, of course, so I’m working my way through it, slowly, carefully, looking up words on my phone and rereading passages and pages, but there is a message for me in it, I am sure.

  There has to be.

  L’Amant is the story of a young girl who meets a twenty-seven-year-old businessman. The girl is even younger than me. The man is just a year older than Mr. Belrose. I work through the pages painstakingly.

  “What’s that?”

  Neta’s awake.

  I feel my face color. “Um, nothing.” I let my hair swing down in front of my cheek, which is becoming a defense mechanism.

  “Doesn’t look like nothing.” She rubs her eyes and sits up. “Where did you get it?”

  “School.” The lie comes easily, like I’ve had it lying in wait this whole time. “Just schoolwork.” I say a silent prayer of thanks that neither Neta or Kolbie take French . . . and hopefully don’t understand any of it, either. Both of them would have signed up for it had they not already been in advanced Spanish classes.

  “Oh. Boring. I thought it would be, like, a sexy book, but you’re reading homework?” She sighs. “Leave it to you to get all hot and bothered about an assignment. Give it a break, Ri. We practically have the day off.”

  “You could be prepping for your part,” I remind her.

  She pulls her hood up and yanks the strings on her jacket to bring it tighter around her face. “You are missing out on quality school bus sleep time,” she points out. “You really need to put away your books and chill out for one second. What happened to rule-breaking Riley from the weekend who was, like, ‘yay alcohol, let’s take off all our clothes and get arrested’?”

  I cock my head and rest my chin on my wrist, pretending to think. “You’re so right. Thanks for providing that direct quote. Except you left out all the stuff about the drugs that I think I yelled from a plane before I jumped out of it with a homemade parachute.”

  “I edited out the swear words.” Neta giggles. She puts on a pair of black sunglasses and tilts her head back onto the top of the seat. “Now stop waking me up with your smart-people stuff.”

  I sigh and slip the book back into my backpack between my Shakespeare homework and a copy of The Sun Also Rises. I don’t want anyone in my French class to catch me reading it either. They might actually translate the title correctly . . . and then I’d have to lie even better.

  Everyone knows the best lies are the least complicated.

  Besides, there’s a part of me that wants to read the book alone, maybe when I’m about to go to sleep. There’s something about it that feels . . . personal. Like maybe someone is whispering in my ear, telling me a secret that’s meant to be heard only when no one else is around and I’m tucked in bed, under my covers, listening to the house breathing while everyone else is asleep.

  Still, why wouldn’t I tell Neta that Mr. Belrose gave me the book? She’d love knowing that I ran into him and his beautiful wife in the bookstore. There isn’t really anything to hide with my French teacher. Everyone else has a crush on him, after all. Is it so odd that his star pupil does too? Neta and Kolbie would be terribly jealous and I’d get tell them everything he said to me. And it would be sort of nice to tell them. Tell someone, at least. Would it really be so horrible to admit it? Besides, it’s not as if there’s something going on.

  Is there?

  I shiver suddenly and look out the window, at the passing trees and fields. There isn’t. It’s just a book that happens to be published in French, and I happened to be at the used bookstore at the exact same time as Belrose and his wife. I rest my forehead against the glass, and Neta snores softly beside me. I feel my phone buzz in my pocket and pull it out to check my e-mails. There’s a few new ones . . . something from the shoe store at the mall, a 20 percent off coupon to Abercrombie this weekend, and . . . another e-mail.

  Something unopened from an address I’ve not received a message from before. At least, not that I can remember.

  And I would remember.

  Because it’s an address I can identify.

  An e-mail that contains the names Alex and Belrose.

  The e-mail itself contains one word:

  Enjoying?

  My veins flood with something like ice and then with a liquid burst of heat and then ice again. I know who it is without asking. I know immediately.

  Suddenly, and oddly, I almost want to put my phone down. I want to delete the message and drop the phone and pretend the message never came to me at all, and that a teacher is not reaching out to his student about a rather naughty French book he gave her at her favorite bookstore and everything is normal, just very normal and fine, quite fine, thank you.

  But I can’t do that.

  Very much so. Thanks for the recommendation. My finger hovers over the send button for almost thirty seconds, but then I touch it and the e-mail is gone.

  And almost as quickly, one comes back.

  It’s a favorite of mine.

  My heart pounds. I glance at Neta and angle myself away from her, drawing my knees up on the seat to put a barrier between us, so I have a small private space to send messages.

  Any particular reason why? I ask.

  Read it, and I think you’ll know.

  I am.

  Good girl.

  The last e-mail startles me. Good girl? The verbiage is highly condescending and too personal all at once, and I’m not sure how to respond. Because he’s right. I am just a good girl.

  I stare at my phone, but he doesn’t send any more e-mails. I can’t think of anything else to say, and I feel like there is a cement mixer in my stomach tossing around feelings like sick and happy and excited and horrible. I lean my head against the window and watch the blur of the asphalt through the glass.

  Things to Know About Riley Stone:

  • When Riley was ten, she started a fund-raiser to collect warm socks for the homeless. She engaged twelve schools and collected more than 1,500 pairs of socks for local shelters.

  • Riley kept one super-cute purple pair for herself because hey, no one said ten-year-olds were perfect.

  • At age twelve, Riley won the opportunity to make a speech at the local chapter of a veterans’ organization. She spoke about what their service meant to her and her great-grandfather, who served in Vietnam. Riley received a standing ovation, and to date, the video has received 130,000 YouTube hits, which unfortunately is not quite viral by Riley standards.

  • When Riley was in middle school, she set national records for most Girl Scout cookies sold by selling her wares outside of frat houses notorious for partying.

  • At age seven, Riley, ever the type A, began to enter behavioral therapy because her parents worried about her taking on too much. Her therapists and psychiatrists agreed it was a good choice for a girl with her tendencies, but Mr. and Mrs. Stone were nervous about any social ramifications the t
herapy could have if Riley was ever found out, so she was never allowed to attend more than a few weeks of continual therapy at a time.

  TEN

  Secret

  Good girl.

  He’s right.

  He is.

  That sums me up. Certainly, I was late to class. I skipped class. I drank beer and played games and went to a real party and did all the things that high school students are supposed to do for one stupid weekend, but that doesn’t mean anything at all. It’s not like it changed me in any real way.

  I’m in the good-girl category. I live there. I am listed there firmly, my name printed, and a solid black checkmark next to it. My brother is still a bit lost, even though he’s found Esther and he thinks he’s in love, and we’re all just stuck unless we do something drastic and wild that changes our hearts and tears up our souls a little bit.

  Good girl.

  I don’t know why it bothers me so much, but it follows me. It tails me back to school. It follows me back into French class and sits curled on my shoulder and slides up my neck to whisper in my ear.

  It’s nothing, I’m nothing else.

  Mr. Belrose doesn’t look at me in any special way when he hands our tests back. He doesn’t give me a special wink, or a specific smile. He treats me like he treats Thea . . . like someone holding on to something a bit distasteful, arm extended, away from the body. Like what you’re holding is important enough that you can’t drop it, but God forbid you let it near enough to actually touch you.

  “Might I remind you all,” Mr. Belrose says, “that essays are due today.” He smiles at us like this is a special day, one we’ve all been waiting for.

  About a month ago, he assigned us a monster essay. A huge one. Eight pages. Which would suck in any class, honestly.

  Except that Belrose said it all had to be en français.

  Which meant it was a beast of a homework assignment, and even the girls who were nursing huge crushes on Mr. Belrose were sort of grumbling about it because it was definitely not one of those things you could dash off the evening before in a Red Bull–infused rush of chemical energy.

  Of course, I wrote mine on Julius Caesar conquering Gaul and had it done two weeks ago and made it ten pages long because French history is really rich and interesting, and eight pages was just not enough to accurately cover the whole Roman takeover and how it was all about debt, but that’s just me.

  I pull my essay out of my folder and walk it up to Mr. Belrose’s desk.

  He is wearing glasses again today. Ones with thick black frames. They accentuate the deep green of his eyes, but I try not to notice. Deep green eyes are not my business.

  He glances at me, and the corner of his mouth pulls up, just slightly. So slightly I hardly notice.

  “Merci, Mademoiselle Stone.”

  His left hand moves to his side.

  There is something gauzy and soft and lavender in his pocket.

  Something—

  Oh my God.

  My scarf.

  He watches as I notice. His deep green eyes—eyes that are suddenly my concern after all—fill with amusement.

  His smile grows wider.

  ELEVEN

  Meanings

  “How do you tell if a guy likes you?”

  Neta and I are over at Kolbie’s house, which is almost as nice as Carlos’s. Her parents are super-overprotective and huge on family time, but they’re usually cool about letting us hang out in the theater room in the basement.

  Yeah. Her parents have a theater room. Her dad is some COO of an IT company, which means it’s super-tricked-out, too, and there are speakers legitimately built into the floors.

  “What do you mean?” Neta says. “And can you please pass me the Tiffany blue?”

  I pass her the blue nail polish. We’re all doing pedis while Sixteen Candles plays on the big screen. We’re doing an old-school movie night. We try to do these at least once a month. Some are, like, super-old-school, à la Audrey Hepburn, and some are, like, 10 Things I Hate About You, which is about a five on the old-o-meter.

  “Did you not see Zayne at the party?” Kolbie asks. “Or the way he was drooling all over you and laughing at, like, every half syllable that fell out of your mouth?” She grabs a white polish and tosses it to me. I’m trying to give my toes French tips. “Trying” being the operative word.

  “I know like that.” I grab the tiny polish and spread out a newspaper under my feet. “But, like, what about when it’s more subtle?”

  “Subtle like how?” Neta asks. She started to paint her toes, but now she’s distracted and diving into popcorn. Her fingers are covered in butter.

  Like when he has your scarf in his pocket. And when he keeps looking at you and touching it.

  And when he’s your teacher.

  “Like, what if instead of trying to get you to sink balls into beer pong cups and tongue your neck, he’s trying to just be nice to you or something?”

  “RJ licked my neck on our first date,” Neta says defensively.

  “Look how great that turned out.” Kolbie holds her foot out. “Do I like this pink? I think I like this pink better than the blue.”

  Neta throws a handful of popcorn at her.

  “You’re cleaning that up later,” Kolbie warns. “My mom does not play.”

  “Stop dissing RJ, then.”

  “Stop defending someone who treated you like something he put down the garbage disposal.”

  Neta throws another handful of popcorn because she knows Kolbie is right, and Kolbie stands up. “Seriously?”

  “Can we get back to the point?” I ask. I smudge a little bit of the white on the bottom of my toenail. Damn it.

  “It would help if we knew who you were talking about,” Neta points out. A piece of popcorn falls onto her chest, and she licks it up with her tongue.

  Kolbie raises her eyebrows. “You are so classy I can’t even deal.”

  Neta winks at her. “More where that came from.”

  I giggle. “Seriously, though. It’s not a particular guy. I’m just talking about mature, non-drunk dudes who are maybe a little bit past their beer pong stage of life. Like, what’s the protocol?”

  Kolbie points at me with a pastel-pink-painted brush, and a glob of paint falls off onto the newspaper. “As the only one here who has experienced an actual healthy relationship, I think I should speak to this. First of all, he will find an excuse to touch you. And not in a creepy, grind-on-you-in-the-club kind of way. In a sweet way. Like, he’ll touch your hand or something. Or pick an eyelash off your cheek. Or whatever.”

  “You’re telling me,” I say, “that Jamal picked an eyelash off your cheek? And that you didn’t steal that from The Notebook or, like, Insert Cheesy Date Movie Here?”

  “It was an actual occurrence. And he also started leaving stuff around so I’d have to return it. And I did the same. Like, I left an earring at his house once. And he left his iPod at mine.”

  I think of my scarf, and feel my face color slightly. Maybe it does mean something that he has it. And he’s holding on to it. It has to.

  I think of the way he looked at me when he touched it, and I feel something in my lower belly.

  “It might take longer,” Neta adds, “but he’ll let you know. And that’s when you know it’s a good one. Like Jamal, right, Kolbie?”

  Kolbie settles back into her recliner, satisfied with her toes. “Just like Jamal.”

  “You’re lucky,” Neta says. “I’m still on the neck-lickers.”

  “More serious topic,” Kolbie says, pointing at the screen. “Can we talk about how messed up this movie is? Like, could we have a side of humor with this load of racism, please?”

  “I was still stuck on the massive amount of date rape.” Neta reaches for the remote. “Because that is just exactly the kind of message any girl wants to hear.”

  “Can we veto this movie?” I ask. “I’m over it.”

  We binge dating reality shows instead, and while they aren
’t, like, completely free of sexism or anything, they’re at least a little better.

  • • •

  The next day in French class Mr. Belrose announces that the class will have a lot of homework coming up.

  “Why?” whines Thea, pulling on her hair. “I thought you liked us, Mr. Belrose. I thought we were, like, your favorite class. And didn’t we just finish the giant essay of doom?”

  “Well, I’ll have a lot of extra time in the next couple of weeks,” he says. His eyes shift to me. “My wife’s gone. She’s visiting her mother.”

  He holds my gaze.

  I hold his.

  He wants me.

  He does.

  My heart wants to beat its way out of my chest.

  Around me, the class oohs. “How will you occupy yourself while she is away, Monsieur Belrose?” Teri Von Millhouse asks. She leans forward on one hand and flutters her eyelashes.

  “Catch up on my Netflix. And give you more homework.” Belrose shakes his head, and I realize, suddenly, his hair is getting a little long. He reminds me of Alex. Not a teacher.

  Just Alex. The guy that I used to know.

  “I’ll comfort you if you’re lonely,” Thea says, raising her hand.

  “And that’s my cue to tell you to turn to page two seventy-six in your textbook, guys, before things get any more awkward. Questions about my personal life will now result in additional homework. With reasonable exceptions.” His eyes stray to me again, and I press my lips together to keep my feelings from showing on my face.

  And I wonder what it would be like to kiss him.

  I wonder if he would be tender.

  Or if he would be aggressive.

  The truth is I’ve never had a real kiss before. Well, at least not one that I count. I suppose there was Erick Canders in third grade during the school play. He slipped me tongue because he was coughing really hard.

  Which I don’t. Count it.

  And I don’t count the little ones I snuck on the playground when I was a little girl. The meaningless ones with boys behind trees, just to see what it was like.