Dead Girls Society

by Michelle Krys

  “What?” he asks.

  I think about telling him a few sad stories of my own. Instead I shake my head and mumble, “Nothing.”

  I can smell his cologne and suddenly realize how close he’s standing. When he says, “Okay,” his breath tickles my ear and makes the little hairs on my neck stand on end. I don’t know what to do about it, so I panic, slipping away to an antique dresser with gold inlaid in its single drawer, a key turned partway in the lock. It’s the only thing in his room that remotely resembles the opulence of the rest of the house.

  “What kind of fancy stuff do you keep locked in here?” I ask, trying to keep the shakiness from my voice. I fail miserably.

  “Oh, you know, the usual. Gold bars, et cetera.”

  So he knew why I was laughing at him earlier. Tucker St. Clair has a sense of humor.

  “Are we going to work on this project, or did you just come over to snoop around my bedroom and make fun of me?” He drops onto his bed. I laugh awkwardly and look for somewhere to sit. There isn’t anyplace but the bed where Tucker sprawls. I perch on the other end of his mattress, as far away from him as possible.

  This is so weird.

  “Any ideas who you want to do?” I ask.

  He grins, and I feel my lungs collapse.

  “For the project,” I amend.

  His laugh is as smooth as honey, and his dimples make his mouth even sweeter than it is. It’s not hard to see why he’s such a lady-killer at school.

  “All right, very funny,” I say, even though I’m smiling now too.

  “To answer your question, I do: Disney.”

  “Disney?” I raise my eyebrows, but he’s clearly not joking.

  “Walt Disney. I found an article in the Atlantic where they polled a bunch of historians and they all agreed he’s the twenty-sixth most influential person in American history.”

  “The twenty-sixth?” I burst out with a laugh.

  “Think about it—there’ll be at least two projects on each of the top ten. Ours would be different. Interesting. If you were Mr. Crawford, would you want to read twenty reports on the same guy?”

  I kind of hate to admit it, but it’s a great idea. Everyone else is sure to pick Abraham Lincoln or Martin Luther King Jr. Our project would really stand out. “That’s pretty ingenious,” I say.

  “You sound so surprised.”

  I decide there’s no reason not to let him know exactly what I think of him. He may be a lady-killer, but I’m half-dead already. “To be honest, I kind of always assumed you bought your grades.”

  His mouth drops open, and my lips curl into a smile. I feel devious and brave, and the smile he returns tells me he likes it. Is this flirting?

  “You know, I don’t have it nearly as good as you think I do,” he says, though the grin never leaves his face.

  “Is that right?” I realize I’m biting my lip and stop.

  “I know you think I’m this entitled snob or whatever, but I have a dark past.”

  I laugh at that.

  “I do!”

  “I’m sure. I bet you’re a straight-up thug.”

  “I have a criminal record, if you must know.”

  I press my lips together in a halfhearted attempt to keep from laughing again.

  “It’s true!” he protests.

  “Okay, for what? Failure to return a library book? Or, wait, I know—drinking underage. Or drunk and disorderly conduct. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “It’s for assault.”

  “Oh.”

  That was…unexpected. I don’t know what to say.

  “Why are you telling me this?” I finally ask.

  He studies me for a minute, as though even he doesn’t know why, then he says, “I don’t know. I guess it just seems like…you get that not everything is a game. Sometimes shit is serious.”

  I nearly jump at the word game. But there’s no hint of mischief on his playboy face. “Yeah,” I say. “I get it.”

  He twists his mouth, then seems to make a decision and sits up straighter. “Okay, well, at least let me explain so you don’t think I’m crazy.”

  I shrug, so he continues.

  “So I was at a party last summer, and me and this girl were looking for a, uh, quieter place to hang out. We went onto the roof, and I found my cousin up there with a guy on top of her. I got kind of freaked out and turned around to leave, but then I saw her squirming and saying no and I realized what was happening. I didn’t think—I just pounced on this guy and started hitting.”

  “Oh my God,” I mumble.

  “The cops came. Charlotte didn’t want to press charges, and she begged me not to tell anyone what happened—she was worried about her reputation. I told her that was stupid and no one would judge her, but she wouldn’t change her mind, so I didn’t say anything and just took the rap.” He shrugs, like that’s all there is to say, and silence descends between us.

  I imagine the scene from his point of view—if it were my little sister, I’d have done the same thing. I’d have died in the process, of course, but that wouldn’t have stopped me. “That’s so…heroic of you.”

  Unexpectedly, he blushes.

  “Why didn’t I know about any of this?” I ask. “I mean, usually that kind of stuff gets around….”

  “Well, my dad took care of that,” he answers, reluctant and maybe even ashamed.

  “Ah,” I say. That’s not how it would have gone for me.

  Tucker’s eyes float to the shelf containing his myriad shiny trophies. “He wants me to go to Stanford. Anything that might get in the way of that makes him pretty enraged. He shook a few hands, exchanged some money, and the charges were dropped. A few parents wanted to get me expelled, but I only missed a couple of games instead. Wasn’t much of a punishment, since I hate lacrosse.”

  That’s almost more shocking than the assault news.

  “So why do you play, then?” I ask.

  “My dad. He almost went pro with Stanford. Wants me to follow in his footsteps. Remember last year, how I had that big accident on the field?”

  I didn’t go to the game—a whopping case of bronchiolitis that season—but I heard. Everyone did. “You were knocked down by that big dude from Prep.”

  “I tore my ACL. Doc said I should stay off the knee for the rest of the year, but my dad wasn’t having any of that. I missed three games for surgery recovery, and then I had to go and warm the bench for the rest of the season, just so I could say I was still on the team. That was a year ago, and my knee never really recovered, but I’m still there. Fulfilling my father’s wishes.” He scowls at his comforter.

  If anyone had told me I’d feel bad for Tucker St. Clair, I would have told them to put down the pipe. But in this moment I feel a strange empathy with him—we both suffer from too much parental attention.

  “My dad has some issues too.” Once I say it, I immediately wish I hadn’t. Five minutes ago I didn’t even particularly like the guy. But then Tucker is leaning forward, looking vulnerable and interested, and I feel like I can’t just not elaborate after I offered that information.

  “He’s got an addictive personality,” I say. “Before he used to drink a lot, but he got clean and now he gambles. It’s like he has to be addicted to something. But he doesn’t see it that way. He thinks he’s doing us a favor by investing our money in this stuff. One time he decided he’d mine for gold. Like, bought all this fancy equipment and made us go and sift through rocks.” I give an embarrassed laugh. “And we moved here from Albuquerque after Katrina so he could flip houses, even though he has no handyman skills whatsoever, so that went well. He left after things got hard, but he’ll be back.” I stop abruptly, embarrassed by how much I’ve revealed about my family to a stranger. Heat settles over my cheeks, and I let out a brittle laugh as I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Sorry, that was weird that I told you all that.”

  “Not at all. I’m happy you told me.”

  I meet Tucker’s eyes. He doesn’t look away, barely blink
s, and suddenly the air between us feels different. Charged. I clear my throat and grab my notebook out of my bag.

  “So, history project!” I say.

  Tucker chuckles softly, but I can tell he hasn’t looked away. He takes the book out of my hands, and I let him. My heart thumps hard, a buzz of warmth going into my stomach. Jackie’s words in the caf pop into my head. He’s hot! She’s not wrong. He looks like an Abercrombie ad come to life. A million girls would kill to be in this exact same position with Tucker St. Clair.

  “You’re not like the other girls I know,” he says.

  I hate when guys say that, like it’s some sort of compliment to say girls in general suck. But I don’t say so. I can tell he’s trying to say something nice.

  “You’re interesting,” he continues. “I like that you have things to say and you don’t take shit from anyone, but at the same time you have a soft side. Like when you were talking about your dad, I can tell how much you love him even though he’s made things hard for your family.”

  I dip my head to my chest. “Well…thanks.”

  He leans closer, close enough that I can smell peppermint on his breath. “Can I kiss you, Hope?”

  Everything in me tightens. I force myself to think of the invite, of the possibility Tucker could be a part of the Society, but I can’t make myself care right now. Ethan flashes into my head. I imagine Savannah leading him into a bedroom and find myself giving Tucker a tiny nod.

  Our lips touch. I expect it to be soft and sweet, and it is at first.

  Most of the time I think I’m okay with knowing I won’t live as long as everyone else. Most of the time I’m good at pretending it’s okay if I never see France or have my first kiss, but now that it’s actually happening, I know how deeply I’ve been lying to myself.

  I’m kissing—and it’s not bad.

  Tucker’s hand curls around the side of my neck, and he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. His tongue finds mine, and my belly ignites into flames, and then it’s not just not bad, it’s incredible.

  If I’d known I was missing this, I’d have worked a lot harder to make it happen.

  A door closes downstairs, and I leap back.

  “It’s probably my mom,” he says. “She won’t come up.”

  But the distraction pulls me right back to reality. I was just kissing Tucker St. Clair. I don’t even know him. It’s almost crazier than leaping off a coaster. I grab my bag and start stuffing my notebook inside.

  “I have to get going.”

  “But we haven’t done any work,” he protests.

  “Yeah, sorry. I forgot about this thing I have to do.”

  “Okay…Well, I’ll drive you, then,” he offers.

  I start to say no—that my mom wants to come get me—but stop. It sounds so lame. Besides, if I call her, she’ll have to drive here, and I’ll have to wait with Tucker until she arrives, and I just can’t.

  “If you don’t mind,” I say.

  “Of course not.” He hesitates a moment, and I think we might kiss again, or worse, he might ask why I’m being so weird, a question I don’t have an answer to. But then he climbs off the bed.

  I follow him downstairs. Martina looks up from where she’s dusting a buffet table in the hall.

  “Driving Hope home,” Tucker says. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

  “So soon? Well, it was nice to meet you,” Martina says.

  I smile awkwardly and trail behind Tucker through a pristine kitchen full of stainless-steel appliances and marble countertops, where a woman in an impeccable black skirt suit yells into her cell, and then out a side entrance into a huge garage. There are two sports cars parked inside, along with the type of old-timey muscle car that people only buy to wash and buff and take for pleasure cruises down Canal Street.

  Tucker deactivates a car alarm. The taillights of a white Audi R8 flash as he rounds to the passenger side and pulls the door open for me. I climb in, taking in the all-leather interior and flashy dash. It’s spotless, and a tasteful air freshener perched on one of the air vents makes the whole thing smell like cinnamon. When he starts the car, the purr of the engine is nothing like the choking growl of the Rio. I’ve never been in a car half as nice, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed. I have to remind myself that it’s just money. It doesn’t make him better than me.

  My phone buzzes in my purse. The whole home screen is full of texts and missed calls from Mom. I hide it before Tucker sees.

  She’s going to murder me dead for ignoring her. But how did she expect me to (theoretically) get any work done if she was just going to text me the whole time? I’ll deal with her when I get home.

  “Where do you live?” Tucker asks as the garage door trundles up and he pulls out into fading daylight.

  “Um. Around Iberville?” I say, like it’s a question. My cheeks heat up, and I feel a pinch in my lungs.

  But Tucker doesn’t react to my skeezy neighborhood, and soon we’re merging onto the freeway.

  “So, Ethan seemed kind of pissed at me today.” Tucker looks in the rearview mirror and changes lanes.

  “He’s fine,” I say.

  “Are you guys a thing? I thought he was with Savannah, but if you two are together, I don’t want to…”

  “What? No.” I focus on the white arch of the Superdome appearing before us. “No, we’re not a thing.”

  “Okay.” After a beat, he adds, “Are you just not into me, then?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. I mean, you’re fine.” I cringe at the poor choice of words. “Sorry, this is all new to me.” I glance over. His eyes leave the road momentarily, and he smiles. That dimple is back.

  “It’s really okay,” he says. “We can take it slow.”

  I’m glad he’s driving and has to keep his eyes on the road so he doesn’t see how deeply I’m blushing.

  He wants to take it slow. He’s interested in…me. It’s weird, and I have to wonder, does he have epically low self-esteem, or does he just have a thing for sick girls with mommy issues? Worse: is he part of the Society? He definitely has the money for it and maybe even the connections to get dirt on the other girls, but he’s been nothing but sweet to me since I got to his house. Nothing like I expected. Of course, that’s exactly how someone might behave to win my trust.

  I shake myself out. I’m overthinking it. He probably kisses all his history partners. I’m just the latest in a long string of gullible girls. Tucker St. Clair might be more complicated now, but he’s still the rich kid with his life laid out for him. This conversation is just a way to make it less awkward.

  He takes the exit for the Quarter, and soon the apartment complex comes into view. With Tucker next to me, I see it in a whole new light. The graffiti stained on the redbrick walls. The air-conditioner units hanging out of the windows that aren’t covered in bedsheets. The overflowing trash bin in the parking lot. I’m normally not so embarrassed about where I come from, but I normally don’t hang out with anyone half as rich either.

  Tucker turns in to the parking lot and picks a space near my apartment, then opens his door. Panic spikes in my system. “What are you doing?”

  “Walking you to the door.” He climbs out before I can stop him.

  And then disaster strikes. Just before I climb out of the car, I take a too-deep breath of the cinnamon air freshener. My lungs cinch against the perfume, but it’s too late. I fall into a coughing fit just as Mom steps onto the metal landing of our apartment.

  Shit.

  “You have to leave,” I tell him, trying desperately to suppress my cough.

  “Hope?” Mom calls down.

  This can’t be happening.

  “Seriously. You have to go.” I level Tucker with the most serious expression I can manage, but he loops his arm around my shoulder and gives Mom a jaunty wave as he tows me toward her.

  I forcibly exhale, willing my cough to relent. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Relax,” he says out of the side of his mo
uth. “Moms love me.”

  Mom waits for us at the top of the stairs. She takes in the whole scene—Tucker’s arm around me, his perfect posture and expensive watch, the sports car we came out of, my watering eyes—and her eyes narrow. For a moment I seriously consider making a run for it. I could hitchhike to South America, live in hostels, and get by on peddling homemade jewelry until my lungs finally kick it. It wouldn’t be so bad.

  “Hello, Mrs. Callahan,” Tucker says.

  “What are you doing home so early? I was supposed to pick you up at seven-thirty,” Mom says to me.

  Strike one, Tucker.

  “I know. But we ended early and Tucker offered to drive me. I thought it’d be easier than bothering you.”

  Mom looks at Tucker. Tucker looks at Mom. I look at them both.

  Tucker lets go of my shoulder to extend a hand and a smile to my mom. She hesitates before taking the hand.

  “Tucker St. Clair,” he says.

  “Nice to meet you,” Mom answers without offering her name. “So are you two dating, then?”

  “Mom,” I warn, but Tucker’s in his element.

  “I’d love to date Hope,” he says. “I just need to get her on board with the idea first.”

  I feel a surge of heat so strong I’m sure the sun has collided with the earth. Did he really just say that?

  “Well, that’s…great, I suppose,” Mom says. “But you know, Hope is sick.”

  “Mom!” I cry.

  If there was a God, he’d strike me dead right now.

  “I kind of got that idea,” Tucker says. “She misses a lot of school.”

  “It’s only going to get worse,” Mom says, pulling zero punches, and I realize she wants him to know one thing: there’s no future here.

  “Mom!”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s the truth, Hope. If he’s going to be taking you around, he needs to know,” she says, but I don’t think she’s very sorry. “It’s just too dangerous otherwise. Does he know what to do if you cough like that and don’t stop?”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what exactly is wrong with Hope?” Tucker asks.