Good Girl Bad
S.A. McEwen
1
Monday
The house is silent.
Eerily so.
Rebecca Giovanni stands at the top of the small stairway to the kitchen. Below her, her sixteen-year-old daughter Tabitha’s miniature poodle, Charlie, lies on his side. He could nearly be sleeping, except he never sleeps in the kitchen, on the cold tiles. Rebecca can see that something is wrong, the position of his legs not quite right, his little head stretched back at an unusual angle, a rigidity about him sufficient information such that Rebecca does not go any closer; does not check.
Beyond him, the front door is wide open. A cold wind blows in from the street, through the leaves of the wisteria hanging lushly around the veranda, caressing Rebecca’s forearms, swirling beyond her into the silent house.
The faint scent—her favorite flower—drifts past her toward the very back of the house, where her youngest daughter Genevieve is still sleeping. At fourteen, she is well and truly a teen when it comes to sleeping in. The house could fall apart around her and she would not so much as mumble a complaint. Rather, she’d roll over, tugging the doona around her ears, eyes resolutely shut against the intrusion.
It’s spring—November—but still cold, and Rebecca shivers.
Leroy was not in their bed, and Tabitha was not in hers, either.
Rebecca’s eyes roam around the kitchen.
She is not worried yet.
She notices Leroy’s phone and wallet next to the fruit bowl; he has not gone far.
Tabby’s phone, usually glued to her hand, is hanging precariously over the edge of the dining table. It looks like it should be falling, not balancing there.
But other than that, the house looks much the same as it always does when Rebecca gets up.
Rebecca is still not worried, despite the open front door, and despite the dead dog in her kitchen.
She’s not worried yet.
But she will be.
2
Six Months Earlier
Rebecca smooths her Armani skirt across her thighs, a tiny, self-contained movement that she uses as a break in conversation. It makes her look calm and certain; it soothes her when she needs to take a moment to think of what it is she wants to say.
It also reminds her of who she is: successful. Capable. In charge. The mother who wears Armani to parent-teacher interviews, her makeup flawless, all poise and perfection.
Rebecca doesn’t speak rashly. She weighs her words, her cool blue eyes resting on the recipient appraisingly. In this case, the recipient is Tabitha’s home room teacher, Ms. Paisley.
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at?” she says eventually, her gaze unflinching.
Ms. Paisley is young. Much younger than Rebecca, with kind brown eyes, which are right now blinking too frequently.
Nerves? Rebecca wonders.
She is used to people being nervous around her. Being wowed by her, in fact.
“Well, it’s my first year teaching Tabby, of course,” Ms. Paisley responds, her words tumbling over each other in her haste to get them out. It’s probably your first year teaching, period, Rebecca thinks to herself, patronizing, but she keeps herself in check. “So I’ve only known her for a few months, obviously. It’s just, she’s always been one of our top students, and certainly her work earlier in the year was of a consistently high quality. It’s just the last month or so that things have started to slip a little. Work not handed in, or not much effort applied, that kind of thing.” She nearly looks apologetic, but seems to be trying her best not to. Even as Rebecca watches, she pulls her shoulders back and sits up a little higher in her chair.
“I’ll have a word with her. But she’s been her usual self at home. I haven’t noticed any changes.” Here Rebecca stops. Typical, she thinks. Just as she was taking ownership—“I” haven’t noticed any changes—she spots Nate fighting his way around chairs and parents to reach them. Rebecca watches him silently. It’s characteristic of her ex-husband to be late, and to look the opposite of calm and poised. Rebecca wonders if people think less of her because she was once married to him; if she’s tainted by association.
“Sorry I’m late,” he puffs as he comes to a halt beside them, casting about for a spare chair he can pull up. Spying one halfway across the room, he disappears again. Rebecca turns back to Ms. Paisley, who looks as though she’s very happy to wait for Nate to return.
Does no one have a sense of time and urgency except me? Rebecca thinks. If the roles were reversed, she would plough ahead without the late ex-husband. She would say what needed to be said to whomever was present, and conclude the meeting decisively, precisely on time. Too bad, so sad if you were late and missed half of it.
She runs her hand over her skirt again, the soft black fabric feeling expensive and luxurious under her touch. It clings to her thighs elegantly, ever so slightly suggestively, the muscle underneath nicely defined by regular weight classes and running. She raises her eyes to Nate again, her expression patient to anyone who didn’t know her well.
To Nate, the patience is feigned, or mocking.
Here we are, waiting for you, again.
He seems unfazed though. He plonks the chair down next to Rebecca, and beams at Ms. Paisley.
“How’s my girl doing?” he says, and Rebecca has to stop herself from rolling her eyes.