Good Girls

by Henry, Max

  Not when the pack will forever sacrifice the weakest. And when it comes to wealth? New money will always be perceived as inferior to old.

  ^*^

  Sunday passes too quick for my liking, no doubt, thanks to the fact I stayed in bed until close to midday. I emerge from my room dressed in my satin pyjamas to find Mum lounged in her favourite armchair, reading in the sun. Well, browsing. I don’t think the latest edition of Luxury Living can be classed as reading. Not when the magazine has more pictures than actual words.

  “You’re finally up,” she taunts, setting the glossy pages aside. “How’s the head?”

  Colt. “Fine.”

  “Word of advice, darling. If you want to underage drink, take it easy on yourself. Red wine isn’t kind on the body the next day.”

  I have no idea what to say to that. I expected to be reprimanded for breaking the law.

  “I heard from Lucy Shepcott this morning.”

  Instead, she chooses to bring up a conversation with Richard’s mother. Priorities. “And?”

  Her brow twitches at my flippant response. “What on earth went through your head?” She rises from the chair, disdain clear in her pinched gaze. “Throwing a drink over Richard?”

  Dad enters the room, stick of salami in hand. He glances between the two of us. “What did I interrupt?”

  Huh. So she hasn’t told him, then.

  “Your daughter,” Mum spits, “tossed a glass of wine over Lucy’s boy, Richard, last night.”

  I’m not sure if Dad tries to frown, or not laugh. “Really?”

  “What did you expect me to do, Mum?” I snort. “He called me a dumb bitch for showing up to my friend’s party. Was I supposed to stand there and take his abuse?”

  Things were so much simpler when the Chosen boys treated me like China.

  “You were supposed to shut your mouth and remember your etiquette,” Mum states. “Honestly, Lacey. What got into you?”

  “I guess I had enough of being treated as though I don’t have thoughts or feelings of my own.”

  “Lace,” Dad warns. Although I get the feeling, he more tells me to tone it down for the sake of my wellbeing rather than Mum’s.

  “You’re grounded.”

  My jaw drops at my mother. “What?”

  “You will stay here in Arcadia. No visiting your friends in Riverbourne until I can trust you not to sully the family name. Do you have any idea,” she growls, “how embarrassed I was when Lucy phoned to tell me my daughter behaved like common trash last night?”

  I can’t see straight. I stick up for myself, and I’m the villain.

  “Fine,” I snap like the petulant child I am. “I don’t want to see their fake faces anyway.”

  Hands to my side, I turn and storm from the room. Colt waits on the foot of my bed for me.

  “What was that all about?”

  With a roll of my eyes, I slide back under the covers. “Richard went crying to his mummy last night, and she thought it best to tell Mum what kind of delinquent she’s raising.”

  “You didn’t think you’d get away with it, did you?”

  “No.” I huff, sinking lower. “But I didn’t think he’d drag his parents into it.”

  “Red wine stains on a white shirt are hard to hide, sis.”

  He has a point. I groan.

  Colt taps my leg and then rises to his feet. “You want some lunch? I was about to make, so I can bring you something.”

  “That would be great,” I cede. “I’m sorry that Mum banned us from seeing them.” I look toward my brother with an apologetic gaze. I didn’t mean to get him in trouble too.

  He frowns, one hand on the door frame. “I’m not banned. She didn’t tell me anything.”

  You have to be kidding. “Really?” I squeak. “That’s so not fair.” My hands hit the covers with a whoomph.

  “Hey,” Colt laughs. “I’m not the one tossing fermented grapes in people’s faces.”

  I fling a pillow at his back as he leaves, yet it misses.

  Damn it.

  Farm Management. My least favourite class.

  The usual array of footwear greets me as I climb the steps to the classroom. In typical New Zealand style, the weather has decided to gift us with a day that can’t quite decide what season it wants to be. What started as a cloudy day bloomed into a beautiful sunny respite from the late autumn chill. An hour after lunch, and I’m now battling spats between torrential rain and an unrelenting wind that seems set to chill me to the bone, despite my blazer and a thick scarf.

  I’m not sure if my mood matches the weather, or if the weather has shifted to reflect my mood. Either way, I feel decidedly stormy as I step inside the classroom to find a rectangle of velvety red fabric laid out on the floor.

  Seriously?

  “Hey, Hollywood.”

  I glower Johnson’s way, and then swiftly scuff my muddy boots the length of his perfect carpet.

  His responding smirk boils my blood further. I feign indifference when our teacher arrives, frowning quizzically at the new mat before shrugging and heading to the front of the class. Books set out before me at the high table, I ignore the jackasses fidgeting in my periphery and lock onto the topic of the day.

  “Feed budgeting,” Mr Fowler announces, gesturing to the hastily scrawled words on the whiteboard. “Today you will be pairing up and completing one of these.” He lifts a sheet of paper into the air. “Your pairs will be staggered on rotation so that I don’t have too many of you trouble-makers in the same paddock at any one time.”

  The usual suspects lean toward one another: notably Johnson and the unfairly handsome Tuck.

  I glance to my right and note the forced ignorance of the girl beside me. She practically leaps off her stool with relief when the girl in front of her turns and gestures they should pair up.

  “For a little added fun,” Mr Fowler calls, “I will pick your buddy today.”

  A collective grumble surges through the room.

  He nods, seemingly pleased with himself. “Some of you have experience doing this at home, so I will ensure that you are paired with a less experienced student to mentor them.”

  Oh, no. No, no, no. I flick my gaze around the room, wondering who he thinks would be suitable to pair with me. I don’t know enough about the students to have a good knowledge of their home lives.

  “Gabby and Martin,” Mr Fowler calls. “Tash and Tyler.” He goes through most of the class; I mentally tick people off as they react to their names being called.

  Damn. “Lacey and Tuck.” No way.

  Not happening.

  The jerk turns on his stool, one elbow braced on the table, and grins.

  I die.

  After the weekend I had, I’m not in the mood for faking my confidence. I was quite content with sliding through to Friday under everyone’s radar while I took some time out for self-care.

  “Grab your sheets and head outdoors. A little rain never hurt anyone.”

  I don’t move. Perhaps if I refuse to go, I’ll get reassigned?

  “Ready, Hollywood?” Tuck grabs the vacant stool at the table in front and drags it to sit opposite me. “You and me, baby.”

  “I am not your baby,” I grit through a clenched jaw.

  He seems amused by the idea. “I’ll let you fill out the sheet since you love your tidy answers and all.” He flicks the paper and clipboard toward me and then stands. “See you outside.”

  I glance toward Mr Fowler, yet he’s head-down in a stack of papers. Ugh. Forty minutes at most. That’s all we have before we need to cut for the next class. I can do this.

  I walk outside to find Johnson and Tuck mimicking some poor girl behind her back while she finishes tugging her boots on.

  Damn, I hate boys.

  “Here she is.” Tuck strides my way, Johnson skulking off with the girl he tormented mere seconds before. “Know where we’re going?”

  He seems so friendly, so genuine. How can he be, Lacey? I thought I knew honest a
nd respectful boys before and look where that got me. “I’ve been here a week,” I respond flatly. “So, no, I don’t.”

  To my horror, he sets a hand on the shoulder farthest from him. “I got you, babe.”

  Why did I like the sound of that so much? I shake my head clear and swallow. “Which one do we start with.” I stare down at the check sheet with twelve boxes. “Mr Fowler said we’re staggered.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t feel like doubling back on myself if I don’t have to.” He steers us toward a wooden gate slightly to our left. “So, we’ll do it logically.”

  I stand aside while he flicks the clasp with one smooth motion of his wrist. Tuck swings the gate two feet and stands, hand on the top, to gesture me through.

  “Thank you,” I mutter.

  The ground is slippery underfoot thanks to the sporadic rain, the top layer of soil a slick muddy mess. I take tentative steps; thankful I wore boots with a short heel today for a little stability.

  “What we need to do,” Tuck says with a frown, straight to business, “is rate the pasture for each animal group.”

  “Rate it?” I curl my lip.

  “Yeah.” His eyes flicker with mirth. “Like, how long they can go in here before they’ve eaten the best parts of it.”

  “There’s a best part?” I query, toeing some grass with my boot.

  He huffs a laugh. “Have you ever been on a farm, Hollywood?”

  “Have I ever needed to?” I clutch the clipboard and sheet to my chest.

  Tuck folds his arms across his chest. I try my best not to be caught up in the swell of his muscle when he stands like that.

  “Let me guess,” he says with a hint of amusement rather than disdain. “You were one of those kids who didn’t know beef and pork are from animals until you were ten.”

  “How thick do you think I am because I grew up in the city?” I lift an eyebrow and give my hair a toss before I think it over.

  “Did you, like, go all Legally Blonde on me?”

  “Just tell me how to rate a damn paddock,” I snarl.

  He shakes his head, surveying me a moment before he turns to walk out into the field. Two other couples wander the far reaches of the same area. “You can’t teach somebody in one session. It’s something you have to get a feel for. For example, tell me what the first group on the sheet is.”

  “Cattle,” I read. “Herd size, five hundred.”

  People have five hundred in here at once? Wow.

  “Beef or dairy?”

  “Does it matter?” I sass. “They’re all cows.”

  “It matters.” He stands with his hands on his hips, jean-clad legs wide.

  I find my gaze dropping to his large belt buckle before I answer, “Dairy.”

  Tuck wanders through the grass, head down and crouching to graze the tops of the stalks with his fingers every so often. He looks around, appearing to take in the shorter areas as well as those that are lusher.

  “Thirty-six hours over three breaks.”

  “Do I write all that?” I trail behind him, pen hovering over the board.

  He turns at the waist and nods at me. “Thirty-six hours. Three breaks.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Experience.” He points to the long green grass underfoot. “This stuff they’ll munch away on longer, the shorter stuff over there they can’t eat. And that.” He points toward a corner where the grass has flower heads. “They’ll eat that quickly, which is good because they’ll naturally spread the seeds.”

  I swallow, strangely aroused by his knowledge on animal eating habits. What on earth is wrong with me?

  “And, um, sheep?” I ask. “Two hundred?”

  We make our way through the next eight paddocks with Tuck continuing to blow me away with his knowledge. He doesn’t appear to think too hard on the answers; they’re just second nature for him. I find myself trailing behind the bronze blond wondering what his home life is like.

  “You want to try this one?” Tuck reaches for the clipboard, tugging it free of my hold. “Let’s see how much you’ve been paying attention.”

  Crap. I suppose I should have listened with the intent to learn, not record. “Sure.”

  “Take a walk that way.” He gestures to our right with his chin, a strange smirk curling his lips.

  I frown but follow his directive, heading toward where a small group of cows munches the grass. Tuck hasn’t done anything but stay on task so far, so there’s no reason why I shouldn’t trust him.

  Two steps later I realise how foolishly naïve I am.

  “Oh, my God,” I groan, lifting my right foot.

  Tuck erupts into hoots of laughter behind me, startling the cows, the distinct sound of the clipboard slapping his leg colouring my vision red.

  “You jerk!”

  “You should watch where you walk, Hollywood.”

  The left side of my sole is coated in shit. Cow shit, I think. Damned if I’d know the difference between cow and horse poo. I’m going with cow since that’s what grazes in here.

  “Rub it… rub it off … on the grass,” he stumbles out between chuckles.

  Arms out at my sides to balance myself, I twist my leg left and right in a vain attempt to clean the faeces from my Gianvito Rossi ankle boots.

  “You want some advice?” Tuck asks.

  “Not really.” The damn things are ruined. Even if I get the stain out, they’ll forever smell.

  “You might want to get yourself some boots.”

  “These are boots,” I snap, giving the sole an extra hard scrub and merely coming away with mud mixed in the remaining poo.

  “Real boots.” He waves a hand at my feet. “Not those things.” With a shake of his head, Tuck tosses me the clipboard and then turns to walk the paddock. “Eighteen hours in one break.”

  Another eighteen hours of this, and I’ll definitely break.

  I should swear off boys altogether.

  Seems the most straightforward answer to all my problems.

  It turns out the bristled brush looking thing beside the door to the classroom is there to clean your boots on. It also appears that Tuck took great pride in telling Mr Fowler that I may need instructions on how to use it.

  At least, in my favour, I had plenty of time to memorise what the brand names of the boots the other girls wear are while laughter continued to echo from inside the class.

  I couldn’t get myself to Home Economics fast enough.

  “Who shat in your Weet-bix?” Maggie leans casually on the counter while I roll out my pastry dough.

  “You’re so unladylike. You know that?”

  She smiles, nodding. “Sure do. Also, don’t care. Seriously though.” She leans forward, inhibiting my space. “This is the first time I’ve legitimately seen you mad. What went down?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be making your own quiche?” I press a little too hard on the roller and tear a hole in the dough. “Damn.”

  “Eh. All tastes the same even if it’s ugly.” She moves aside to let me see her carnage in a cake tin. Pastry lumps are pressed haphazardly around the metal circle.

  I sigh down at my thin mess. At the rate I’m going, mine won’t look much better. “I suppose it does.” I lift the layer of dough, pulling it out of shape as I do, and dump it in my tin.

  “You’re supposed to grease that first.” Maggie gestures toward my creation with her chin.

  “Ugh.” Resigned to my fate as a miserable old spinster, I flop back onto my stool, flour-covered hands in my apron-clad lap. “Why is this so hard?”

  The girl to my left makes perfect scallops around the edge. The girl in front of her creates some fancy pastry decoration to place on top. Isn’t this stuff supposed to be in my DNA?

  “I take it you never had to cook for yourself before, huh?”

  “Does ordering Uber Eats count?”

  Maggie laughs and then turns back to her counter. “No.”

  I watch from my position, happy sulking for now,
while she cracks several eggs and mixes the contents of the quiche. Our teacher assists a girl at the front of the room with her oven, oblivious to my state of distress.

  What am I going to do, though? Switch to Metalwork with the boys? Besides, if I want things to improve at home, at least one of us need to know how to cook.

  Mum sure doesn’t.

  “Give me a minute, and I’ll help you fix it up.” Maggie dumps the egg mix into her lumpy pastry and then fires the tin into our shared oven with such ferocity it sloshes over the side.

  The most unpleasant aroma of burning egg attracts our teacher down to our station while, with Maggie’s help, I create what I hope passes for a quiche. I’m seriously tempted to make more thin and torn pastry to cover the top and hide its shortcomings.

  “Having trouble, Lacey?” Mrs Fox stands at the end of my counter, hands clasped before her.

  “I think we’ve managed to fix it. Thank you.”

  She eyes Maggie’s messy table. “Have you finished?”

  “It’s baking.” My helper nods towards the oven.

  Mrs Fox circles behind me toward the wall and leans down to look inside. “My. That’s rather creative, isn’t it?”

  “It’s abstract art.”

  I suppress a snort, covering my nose with the back of my hand.

  “You’ve got flour on your face,” Maggie whispers before snatching up my tin and forcing Mrs Fox out of the way so she can add it into the oven.

  I lift the edge of my apron and wipe the dust away, mortified when some of my makeup comes off with it. Now I’ll have to squeeze a bathroom stop in between classes. Ugh.

  “Good work, girls,” Mrs Fox praises as she turns away.

  Given the look Maggie exchanges with me behind her back, she’s as unconvinced as I am.

  Our work is in no way good, but hey, we might have something interesting to eat later.

  “Thank you for helping.” I start the frustrating task of tidying my station. Why they don’t have cleaners for this kind of thing, I don’t know.

  But then I suppose it’s teaching us another life skill, isn’t it? Not for the life I chose.

  “Any time.” Maggie opts to sit on her stool, facing me, the mess behind her neglected. “Going to tell me why you were so mad yet?”