Good Girls

Good Girls

Laura Ruby

For all my girls…and for everyone else’s

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

Beg Me

The Photograph

The Gauntlet

A Beautiful Thing

Once More, with Feeling

I Am Hamlet

We Interrupt This Programme for a Special Report

Bad

The Other Audrey

Pay Up

Duck-Gilled Salad Servers

The Slut City World Tour

The Third Time (and Fourth and Fifth and...)

A Long, Cold Winter

Spring, Sprang, Sprung

Sinner, Repent

Love Hammer

Born Again

Here Comes the Bride(s)

Stars

Acknowledgments

Praise

Copyright

About the Publisher

Beg Me

Ash says she’s the Dark Queen of the Damned. I say I’m the Empress of the Undead. My dad, passing by the bathroom where we’re getting ready, takes one look and declares us Two Weird Girls from Jersey.

“That’ll work,” Ash says.

Tonight, we’re Goth. We’ve got the layers of black mesh shirts, the cargo pants rolled up to the knees, the ripped fishnets, the combat boots, the white face make-up and the smudgy rings of eyeliner. Ash brought a can of black hair spray, but she’s already used most of it on her curly brown hair. “Not sure if there’s enough left for you, Rapunzel.”

“Shut up and start spraying,” I say. My hair is blonde, and long enough to tuck into the back of my cargoes. Ash blackens the strands around my face and puts skunky streaks all around the back. The noise scares Cat Stevens—aka Stevie, The Furminator and Mr Honey Head—who is watching us from his perch on the toilet tank. He jumps down and dashes out of the bathroom.

“What did you do to Stevie?” my mom calls. I hear her murmuring, “Poor baby kitty. Little marmalade man.”

After Ash finishes, we crowd the mirror. “We are so hot,” she says. And we are. Dark and freaky and brooding, the way vampires might look. I should like it more than I do. My black bra doesn’t fit right, and the straps dig into my shoulders. The fishnets itch. It’s a stupidly warm night and I’m already sweating. Plus, I’ve got on so much mascara that when I blink, my lashes spike my skin.

It’s different for Ash. She’s sort of Goth-y anyway, with her pierced eyebrow and sharp cheekbones and the German swearwords courtesy of her Deutsch grandma. I lean closer to the mirror. “I should have bought contacts. In the store, I saw these green lenses with slanted pupils, kind of like a lizard.”

Ash frowns. “You have the coolest eyes on the planet. Amber.”

“Right,” I say. “Like that stuff insects get caught in.”

“Plus,” she says, ignoring me, “you don’t get contacts for one Halloween party.” Ash blinks her own dark eyes, lush as melted chocolate. “And you can stop being so cranky, please.”

“Sorry.” I bite my lip. “Can you believe this is our last Halloween together?”

Ash’s hands fly up. “Enough with the ‘Can you believe this is our last whatever?’ stuff. It’s October. We’ve got like eight whole months of school left.”

“More like seven.”

“Seven, then.”

“Six if you count vacations,” I say.

“Audrey, the key word is ‘months’. Besides,” she says, digging her elbow into my side, “there are more important things to worry about right now.”

“Like what?”

“Like a certain person by the name of Luke DeSalvio, who I’m sure will be at Joelle’s tonight. You remember him.”

“Oh,” I say. “Right.”

“Listen to her!” says Ash. “Oh, right. Like you aren’t about to explode all over this bathroom.”

“Yeah, well. Like you’re always reminding me, it’s not serious. We’re just friends,” I say.

“With benefits,” says Ash, her voice low so my parents can’t hear it. “Anyone for tongue sushi?”

I smile but don’t answer. This is Ash, the girl whose name is always mentioned in the same breath as mine: AshandAudrey, AudreyandAsh. But there’s so much I haven’t told her and now I don’t even know where to start. What I do know: me and Luke aren’t friends, me and Luke aren’t anything. I had decided I would tell him this tonight, if the subject ever came up. But we never did do much talking.

“There will be lots of guys at the party,” I say. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll branch out a little.”

“Really?” Ash says. “Well, well. I guess someone’s got a brain in her head after all.”

Her phone bleats like a sheep and she grabs for it, looks at the screen. “Picture mail,” she says. She presses a few buttons and the image pops up. “My baby brother in his Spider-Man costume.”

I look over her shoulder. “Cute.”

“Please. The boy’s a demon from hell. Last week, he actually peed in one of the houseplants.” Ash tosses the phone back on the sink and shakes her head in the mirror. “The spray looks great on you, but it makes my hair look like ramen noodles.”

That makes me laugh a little. “Squid-ink ramen noodles,” I say.

“You have to get your parents to take you to normal restaurants once in a while. Pizza, anyone?”

“We go out for pizza. Of course, it’s the kind with a cornmeal crust and gobs of goat cheese.”

“Goats!” says Ash.

My not-quite-normal parents are waiting for us in the living room with two glasses of wine and a digital camera—the wine for them, the camera for us. Usually, I hate all the pictures. I don’t need anyone documenting my awkward teenage years. Tonight my dad insists and for once I’m OK with it, maybe because I don’t look much like me any more. My dad has us pose on the antique church pew against the yellow wall. He backs up and almost falls over the coffee table. My mom laughs and takes a sip of wine, shining and velvet in the light. They love this part, the part when I’m getting ready to go out but I haven’t left yet. I wonder if it will be hard for them when I’m off at college. Besides Cat Stevens, I’m all they’ve got.

“OK, girls,” my dad says. “Look Gothic!”

“Goth, Dad,” I say. “Not Gothic.”

“Sorry,” he says. “Ready? Say, ‘Goat cheese!’”

Because it’s my dad, we both yell, “Goat cheese!” In the picture, we’ve got the black hair, the white skin and the bruise-coloured lips, but we’re both grinning like five-year-olds. Ash takes one look at the picture and says, “We’ve got to work on our attitudes, girl. We’ve got to think dark thoughts.”

“Oh?” says my mom, intrigued. “What kind of dark thoughts?” She writes mystery novels, but the cosy kind with sweet old ladies, little baby kitties and lots of homemade cookies. Oh, and a murder or two. Death by knitting needles. Dark thoughts in sunshiny places.

Ash is doing her best to look creepy. “Madness,” she says. “Mayhem. Malice.”

I try to think of a dark thought, but the best I can come up with is mixed-up, sad stuff—Luke stuff, our-last-Halloween-ever stuff. I don’t mention it, though. I’m already an Empress of the Undead. I don’t need to kill everything else off, too.

After the pictures, my mom makes me promise to take my cell phone, which she seems to think will protect me from car accidents and evil, drunken boys bent on stealing my virtue. Yes, I’ll take the cell. Yes, I’ll call if I need anything. We say goodbye and we’re out the door. Ash has to drive because I’m still too young. I skipped a grade in grammar school and now I’m the only senior without a licence. Doesn’t help that the driving age in New Jersey is seventeen, probably the oldest in the country. At least my parents let me stay out as late as everyone else. I might be sixteen and three quarters, but my mom says I’m an old soul. Lately, I’ve been feeling like one. As we get closer to Joelle’s, I start to get this nervous flutter in my stomach that gets more fluttery with each block. I cross my fingers and whisper a teeny little prayer in my head: Please, God, do not let me make an idiot of myself tonight. Let me have a little fun.

It takes a while to find a parking spot, because everyone goes to Joelle’s Halloween parties. She’s had them every year since the seventh grade. Only strangers or losers show up without costumes, because they’ll be forced to wear one of Joelle’s tutus from her dancing days. When Ash and I walk in the door, I see only one guy with a tutu, a big fluffy pink one. He looks totally stupid, but that’s the point.

Joelle runs up to us, almost tripping over her long white dress. “Look at you guys!” Joelle shrieks.

“You’re so scary!” Joelle is dressed up as a goddess or whatever, with the gauzy dress and the gold armbands, shimmer powder on her face and these long curls in front of her ears. Ash says that Joelle always wears something that will make her look pretty rather than freaky. Joelle would never dress up as a mummy or a monster, or even a Goth chick. Joelle likes to look like Joelle, only more sparkly.

“So who are you?” Ash says.

“What do you mean, who am I?” Joelle shrieks. She’s a shrieker, especially when there’s a crowd. “I’m that tragic Greek heroine, Antigone!”

“Anti what?” says Ash.

Joelle puts her hands on her hips and stamps her foot. “Antigone!”

“Antifreeze?” says Ash.

“Antacid,” I say. “Ant spray.”

“Get thee to a theatre,” Joelle says. Joelle wants to be an actress. Joelle is an actress. Her mother has already pulled her out of school a bunch of times to do commercials, an off-off-off Broadway play and a spot on Law & Order.

Ash raises eyebrows that we’d darkened with pencil. “You guys spend enough time at the theatre, OK? Besides, you don’t look like a tragic Greek heroine as much as you look like an extra from Lord of the Rings.”

“You suck,” says Joelle, punching her in the arm.

“Who sucks?” Luke says. He walks over to where we’re standing in the hallway. He’s wearing black pants and a black shirt with a white paper collar. I suddenly feel like there’s not enough oxygen to go around.

“What’s up, Father?” I say.

He puts a hand on the top of my head. “My child, you are a sinner.”

Ash snorts. “You should know.”

“Hey,” says Luke. “I’m not a priest, I’m a pastor. Pastors are allowed.”

“Allowed what?” I say. Luke grins and my face goes hot. I’m glad that it’s dark and that I’m wearing the white make-up. But Luke can tell anyway. He grins even wider before he drifts off into the crowd again. My head feels warm where his hand was, like he’s excited my hair follicles. This is how I am around him. My brains dribble right out of my ear and I’m left with nothing but a body I can barely control. I’m actually a little surprised when my legs don’t scuttle after him and fling me at his feet. It’s happened before.

“He’s so cute,” says Joelle. “You guys are still, like, hanging out, right?”

“Depends,” I say. I watch as Luke starts talking to Pam Markovitz, who is dressed up like some kind of junkyard cat, chewed-looking ears and whiskers and everything. Luke reaches out and yanks her bedraggled tail. Again my dumb, brainless body reacts: hands contract to fists, stomach clenches as if around bad chicken.

Joelle sees where I’m looking. “Slut.”

“I heard that Pam gave Jay Epstein head at the movies the other night,” Ash says.

“Really?” I say. “Who said that?”

“Jay Epstein.”

“There’s a reputable source,” I say.

“Still,” says Joelle. “Everyone knows she’s been with, like, the entire planet.”

“What an unpleasant visual,” says Ash. “Gotta love how the leotard rides up her butt.”

“Luke doesn’t seem to mind,” says Joelle. She catches my face. “I mean, he’s really really hot, but it’s a good thing you guys aren’t boyfriend/girlfriend and all that.”

“Oh, please. Who needs a boyfriend?” says Ash. “It’s not like we’re gonna get married anytime soon. Anyway, like Audrey keeps saying, college is right around the corner.”

It’s not supposed to bug me that Luke’s such a player; everything’s supposed to be casual. But in our friends-with-benefits arrangement, it seems like he’s the one who gets all the benefits. “Any other hot guys here?” I ask.

“I hope so,” Ash says. “I haven’t hooked up in weeks.”

Joelle runs off to get us some “soda”, which means that there’s beer that we’ll have to hide from Joelle’s dad, who probably won’t come out of his office over the garage long enough to see anything anyway. Me and Ash follow Joelle into the den. All the usuals are there: tramps, witches, devils, football players dressed like cheerleaders, cheerleaders dressed like football players. “So original,” says Ash. There is a guy wearing a plaid jacket with a fish tank on his head. When we ask, he says, “I’m swimming with the fishies”. Red plastic fish are glued to the walls of the tank. His teeth make a white piano in his blue-painted face.

Almost immediately, Ash starts dragging me over to every reasonably cute guy who doesn’t already know us from school. Joelle runs around taking bad pictures with her digital camera. Luke goes from girl to girl, stealing witch hats and pretending to poke people with a pitchfork he’s stolen from one of the devils. As if it’s my fault that everyone thinks she’s a slut, Pam Markovitz huddles with Cindy Terlizzi on the couch, Cindy shooting dirty looks and Pam smirking at me. I ignore them, talking to this person and that person, trying to relax and have a good time, but I feel like I’m far away and watching everything on a TV screen. Ash is getting sick of me being so gloomy, so she flirts big-time with Fish Tank, looking to hook up. At random intervals, cell phones ring and jingle and sing, and people go all yellular, shouting over the music, “What? WHAT?”

I down the rest of my beer and go over to the cooler for another one. I don’t even like beer.

“Awwww. Why so sad? Where’s Mr Popularity?”

I turn and see Chilly. He’s wearing baggy jeans, high-tops and a T-shirt that says “Insert Lame Costume Here”. Apparently it was good enough for Joelle, because he’s not wearing a tutu.

“Who?” I say.

“You know who,” he says.

“I don’t,” I say. Chilly gives me the creeps. He has eyes like radioactive algae and a wormy mouth. We learned a word for wormy in biology. Anneloid.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” he says. “Don’t you have a few thousand tests to study for? Another foreign language to learn?”

“Croatian,” I say. “But I can do that tomorrow.”

“You are such a good, good girl. Doesn’t it kill you that you aren’t graduating number one?”

As of the end of last year, I was number four in our class and had to work my butt off to get that much. A lot of people think that I’m some kind of genius because I skipped a grade, but I don’t think I’m much smarter than anyone else. I’m just weirder.

“There’s eight months to graduation,” I say. “Anything can happen.”

“Nah,” he says. He takes a sip of his drink, not beer but ginger ale. “You’ll never catch up with Ron. He’s got everyone beat. And Kimberly would rather commit ritual suicide than let anyone take her number two. I forget who’s number three, but whoever it is, you won’t budge them.”

“You sleep through all your classes. What do you care?”

“I don’t care at all. My test scores will get me where I want to go.”

“Oh, I’m sure they will,” I say. I resist the urge to puke on his shoes. I cannot believe that I ever went out with him. I want to jam my finger into my ear and scratch the memory out of my brain.

He takes a step closer to me, his algae eyes scraping across my chest. “Wanna hook up?”

“No,” I say.

“Come on,” he says. “You’re free, I’m free.”

I think, You’re always free. I look around the room for Luke. A mistake, because Chilly snorts.

“Don’t worry about him. He’s already occupied.” Chilly touches my cheek with a sandpapery fingertip. “He won’t mind sharing.”

I slap his hand and walk away. I can hear Chilly laughing behind me and I wish I’d thrown my beer in his face or something dramatic like that. But the drama queen stuff is Joelle’s job, not mine, and Chilly knows it. It’s why he likes to bother me.

When I’m upstairs in the bathroom, I swig the beer and check my make-up in the harsh light. I look like the Empress of the Undead, if Empresses of the Undead are pouty and pathetic. What’s the use of planning a big break-up if the person you’re breaking up with is too busy yanking on tails and poking people with pitchforks? I suddenly do not want to be at this party at all. I wonder if I should call my mom and ask for a ride home.

I’m still trying to decide when I bump into Luke in the hallway. Before I know what’s up, he’s pulled me into one of the bedrooms and shut the door with his foot.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey yourself,” he says. He—or someone else—has taken off the white collar, so he’s all in black. He looks more devilish than the devils do. I think that if there is a real devil, he has golden hair and round blue angel eyes, just like Luke.

“What?” he says, because I’m staring.

“Nothing,” I say. “Look. I’ve got to go.”

“Come on! We haven’t even had a chance to hang out yet.”

“That’s because there are too many other kitties around here,” I say.

“You’re not jealous,” he says.

I roll my eyes, hard. He has one hand around my upper arm and he squeezes. He’s smiling, and I hate him for just a second. As usual, it passes.

“Let go,” I tell him.

“Is something wrong?”

I sigh. Everything is wrong. Maybe it’s the beer. Note to self: beer.

“Have I told you how amazing you look tonight?” he says.

I know when I’m being played, but the compliment cheers me anyway—that’s what kind of dork I am. “Thanks,” I tell him. He leans down to kiss me and I pull away. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Surprise. “Why not?”

“Just ’cause, OK?”

He doesn’t believe me. I don’t believe me. My body is practically squealing with happiness. I’m sure he can hear it.

He tries to kiss me again and I turn my face. “What’s the matter?” he says, concerned for real now. His hand falls away from my arm.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you.” I take a deep breath. “I don’t want to do this any more.”

“Do what?”

“What we’re doing.”

He doesn’t answer. He tips his head and seems genuinely perplexed. It pisses me off.

“I don’t want to do what we do. I don’t want to…” I look for the right words. “I don’t want to be involved with anyone right now.”

He frowns—blinking, quiet. “But I thought we were cool,” he says, finally. “I thought we were just hanging out.”

“Hanging out. Yeah, I love that,” I say. What I don’t say: I love that we’ve hooked up at every party every weekend for the last two and a half months but somehow we’re not involved. I love that we go to the same school but I don’t get much more than a “hey” in the hallways, no matter how many times your tongue has been down my throat.

Of course, since I don’t actually finish the thought, since I haven’t said anything like it before, he has no clue what I’m talking about. I stand there, watching the expressions march across his face. I can imagine what he’s thinking: Did she just say something about LOVE? Does this mean we can’t hook up? Should I hook up with Pam Markovitz instead? What’s going on???

I almost feel bad for him. That’s what devils do: they make you feel bad.

I must be staring again, because Luke’s frown smoothes out. He’s got these perfect lips, full and pink. Pretty girl lips on a boy’s rough, stubbled face. I can’t help it, I think it’s hot. And he’s so close I can smell him. Warm and clean and sort of soapy-spicy. It’s a great smell. It’s a smell that can make you drunk. I wonder if I am. Can almost two beers make you drunk?

His frown is totally gone now, and mine must be gone, too, because he ignores what I said, reels me in and kisses me. I feel the press of his chest and the weight of his arm around my waist, all those heavy bones, and I think: OK, fine. But this is it. After this, no more dumb high school hook-ups with dumb high school boys, no matter how hot or soapy-smelling they are. I’m done with this. Done.

Maybe because he can sense it, or because he’s afraid I’ll change my mind, Luke takes his time, lips barely touching, barely brushing mine. The music thumping downstairs plays a heartbeat under my feet as the kiss goes from sweet to serious—slidey and sideways and deep. Like always, a thousand flowers bloom in my gut, my skin tingles everywhere and my brains sidle towards the door.

I don’t know how much time goes by before his fingers are crawling under my various shirts and he’s pushing me backwards towards the bed. Another not-so-good idea. On the bed, he could work me up, peel off all the layers till there’s nothing left to cover me and it’s too hard to say no.

I say, “No.”

He mumbles something against my collarbone, something beginning with “I—I want, I need, I-I-I.” It makes me so mad. Isn’t it enough that I turn into some sort of panting, slobbering wolf-girl when he’s around? I should let him see all of me? Have all of me? Just because he wants it?

I plant my feet and steer him around. I put my hands on his shoulders and sit him down on the edge of the mattress.

“What?” he says.

“Shut up.”

I drop down in front of him. I can’t make him listen or understand or care, and I don’t even want to. But I want to do something. Make him feel me. Make him beg me. Make him be the naked one.

And so, I do.

With Luke’s low groan in my ears and my eyes shutting out the world, I don’t hear the door open behind us, I don’t see the flash of light.

The Photograph

Ash is not a morning person. She is also not a neat person.

When I get in her car on Monday morning, there are old Styrofoam coffee cups strewn on the floor and one attached to her lips. Sheets of paper, crumpled napkins, and random changes of clothes—fresh and foul—litter the backseat.

Sticking to the dashboard is a quarter of a glazed doughnut, age indeterminate. Me and Ash have been friends since the sixth grade and she’s been driving me to school since the day she got her licence, so I’m used to her morning-fog face, her bloodshot eyes, her endless coffee and the disgusting mess that is her personal universe. It’s not even so disgusting any more. I grab a handful of napkins and bravely peel the doughnut off the dashboard and dump it in the ashtray, which is filled with butts from Ash’s on-again, off-again smoking habit.

I don’t say anything for a few minutes, waiting until Ash has more caffeine in her system. After a while, she grumbles, “What are you so happy about?” She pumps the gas pedal of her old Dodge to keep it from dying out at the stoplight.

“Who says I’m happy?” I ask her.

“Because you’re not complaining about the dumb party or the itchy costume or how long it took you to get the make-up off or the fourteen thousand college essays you had to write yesterday,” she says. “That means you’re happy about something.”

Ash is not happy. Fish Tank, she’d told me on the way home from the party, had some girlfriend who went to the Catholic high school, so didn’t want to hook up with Ash or anyone else. I didn’t tell her about ending it with Luke. For some reason, it had felt like a secret, something that was more special because I was the only one in the world who knew it, or at least the only one in the world who knew I was serious about it. Sunday morning, I sat in church while the pastor—the really boring one—babbled on about some dumb movie he saw and what Jesus might think of it, going on so much and so long that he seemed to be putting himself and the rest of us to sleep. So instead of listening to Pastor Narcolepsy, I told God what happened (yeah, yeah, as if she didn’t know already). Anyway, I said that it was over and that I was OK. I said I felt strong, like I’d broken a spell. I swore that I would concentrate on my work again, that I would be back to myself. I would no longer be operating in a Luke-induced lust haze. I would be myself again.