Page 3 of The Good Girl

Getting to my feet, I grin. “We were just leaving anyway.”

“Fucking Legacies.” James chuckles, not understanding the full weight of that name as we follow Max back to his.

Chapter Three

Elena

Ihadn’t seen Tristan Radcliffe for almost three days, and that was like some kind of record currently, but that still hadn’t improved my week. Thank the stars it was Thursday and soon the weekend would be here. I’d officially turned down the Class President role, leaving Hunter Kington, another Society child, in charge, but he’d insisted on making me the vice president. I didn’t know how I was supposed to juggle those responsibilities alongside cheerleading, debate and dance, while studying. My father was already angry that I’d turned down the President role, but there wasn’t much he could say since it clashed with the others, meaning I’d have to lose three extra-curricular activities in favor of one role, which in his eyes made me look less accomplished. He didn’t seem to take into consideration the workload that came with the President position, or any of them really. To add to my frustrations, a sharp pain in my foot was making me irritable, and although I suspected I knew what the issue was, I was trying to avoid thinking about it since I had ballet later.

On top of all of that, the debate club president, Eden, was leaving in two months, as her mother had been offered a job overseas, and she was pressuring me to take over the club, but the point was still the same: I simply didn’t have enough hours in the day. I’m left drowning in my thoughts as the bell rings, trying to organize a list in order to tackle my tasks for the weekend when my English teacher, Mr. Matthews, beckons me over.

“Miss Montgomery, a word.” His soft voice is laced with concern, and it makes my palms sweat. I am an exemplary student, I know that but it still doesn’t stop the feeling of dread as it spreads through my limbs.

He crosses his arms and leans back against his desk, glasses resting halfway down his nose as he looks at me over the frames. He’s young, handsome in a nerdy kinda way with floppy brown hair and blazers that have the elbow patches. I liked him well enough, but I recognize a familiar gleam in his eyes as he looks me over…ambition. I see it daily on the faces of people who know my name. And everyone knows my name.

“Your paper was not up to your usual standard, I expected more from you.” His voice is low and smooth, the disappointment lingering there makes my skin crawl, as if he has any right to judge me. He is not my father.

I frown, before running my index and middle finger over the crease in my forehead. My mother was constantly warning me about wrinkles, despite my youth. “Mr. Matthews, I still had 87%.”

He sighs, and there’s that gleam again. “And if you were any other student, that would be sufficient.”

Any other student? His words tumble around in my head as they sink in. “My father…”

“Yes, Mayor Montgomery has requested that we work with you to ensure your grades never drop below 90%.” There we have it. The ambitious, driven, young English teacher trying to earn brownie points with Silvercrest’s mayor and the patriarch of one of the founding families. Didn’t he realize my mother was more impressive in terms of lineage if he wanted to explore that route?

My spine stiffens, dreading the thought of having to re-do the paper when I already had so many other obligations this week. “What does this mean for me?”

He runs a hand through his limp hair, as if it was a huge burden on him to have to report directly to my father. “It means I’ll have to call him and let him know about this. I understand you’re under a lot of pressure, but you’re a bright girl.”

“Pressure,” I scoff. Pressure. He didn’t understand pressure. I grip the strap of my backpack tighter, digging my fingers into the fabric to stop myself from screaming in frustration.

I’m barely holding it all together when his condescending words hit me. “Just…be a good girl and work harder next time.” He lays a hand over mine, resting on the strap, barely inches from my breast, and I see the way his gaze flickers there for a moment before back to my face. Was that his plan? Earn favors with my father, guide me through my education and then marry me? What was it about turning eighteen that suddenly meant I was a beddable prospect to all the men around me? What a fool. My future was mapped out for me before I was barely a kidney bean on a fuzzy screen. I roll my eyes when he looks away, why was I always surrounded by idiots? My father’s political advisors were the same, his backers and campaigners all watching me with hungry eyes like I might be the stepping stone they need to boost their careers. I tense, trying to stop my lip from curling in disgust.

“Thank you for your concern, I will try harder next time,” I say quietly, lowering my eyes before he dismisses me, and I almost run out into the corridor.

Lunchbreak has started and rather than head over to the library or text Serena, I need a few minutes to gather my thoughts. I knew my father was monitoring my grades, but I hadn’t thought he’d actually reach out to my teachers individually and ask them to spy for him.

My essay wasn’t as good as my usual standard, I’d had a cheer tournament and a debate meet with another school the same week, I was aware of that when I submitted. I was being pulled in a million directions, but I knew he would just see that as an excuse. And there were no excuses for poor grades in his book.

My throat feels tight, almost like it’s painful to swallow as I make my way over to the music building and race up a back staircase that’s usually only used during fire drills. My frustrations simmer below the surface of my skin, threatening to spill over unless I can re-focus myself. How could I be so stupid? How could I hand that paper in and think it would be okay? I’m annoyed at myself, exhausted and irritated, those feelings sit on my chest, making it hard to breathe as I think about the conversation I’m going to have at home later. The disappointment I’m going to see in his eyes as he sits at the dinner table, making disapproving noises at me and reminding me that this is why my future husband won’t want to send me to college.

I burst through the rooftop door, the sunlight beating down on my skin, wind whipping my hair around my face as I inhale painfully and then…I scream. I scream until my throat feels loose, and my chest feels lighter. I scream until the noise dies out and I’m left croaking. Then I inhale again, slower this time. As I keep my eyes closed and focus on the warmth, the feeling of the air dancing over my skin, the gritty concrete beneath my feet. I re-center myself, reigning in the inadequacies flying around my head and locking them away in a box. As I exhale, controlling the deflation of my lungs, I feel calmer.

“Did that help, Princess?” a voice calls over, and I groan, reluctant to open my eyes because I know what I’ll find. Tristan. Smoking, if the hints of tobacco and weed on the breeze are anything to go by.

I tilt my face up more to the sunlight, imagining that I’m soaking up energy and storing it for later. It helps a little. “Smoking is bad for you, Radcliffe. Stop being a waster.”

He chuckles, and I finally open my eyes to glare at him. Shrugging, he leans against the railing overlooking the courtyard below. “Why? So I can be an upstanding, yet repressed member of society instead?”

I raise my eyebrow at him, and give him a look that implies I think he’s an idiot— which he is. Although not academically, which is interesting. “Why? Because it smells disgusting is why. Not to mention it’s bad for your health, do you know how many carcinogens are in those? You could develop emphysema or chronic bronchitis. Don’t you care?”

I cross my arms and lean on one hip, my calm façade sliding into place as I act like I have my shit together. “Not to mention that cannabis has been linked to schizophrenia.”

His head falls back, mimicking my earlier posture as he grins. “God, keep spewing facts at me and sucking all the fun out of life’s pleasures. It really gets me hard.”

It infuriates me, the way my eyes are drawn to the line of his throat as he laughs and mocks me. The way his shoulders shake, ever so slightly. I hate him. I hate his carefree, devil-may-care attitude.

“Don’t be disgusting,” I snarl, pushing my hair out of my face and fastening it with a hair tie from my bag.

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