The Good Girl. Christy Barritt

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      I’d failed.

      I told her good-bye before snatching the phone from my shoulder and jamming it into my purse. No sooner had I opened the door than I heard a footfall behind me. I twirled around, having visions of the paparazzi standing there camera in hand, ruining my plans.

      Instead, a woman dressed in black—all the way from her fingernails and lipstick to her clothing—stood there. The only “accessory” not black was her hair, which was toilet bowl blue. A helmet rested in the crook of her arm, and a cool, aloof expression saturated her gaze.

      “You Tara?”

      I paused, hand on the doorknob and muscles tensed. Could I run inside and slam the door fast enough if this conversation went downhill? It might mean abandoning my luggage for a while—perhaps even having it stolen—but I could handle that.

      “Depends on who’s asking.” I heard the suspicion in my voice. I was a new girl in a new town. I had to use some caution here.

      “I’m Candy.”

      Candy? Black licorice maybe, but the woman definitely didn’t look sweet. Or did she? Beneath her edgy exterior, soft features and a petite build peeked through. Sure, her appearance screamed, “Look at me!” but her eyes hinted at something deeper. “I was supposed to pick you up from the airport.”

      I pointed to the motorcycle on the street. “On that? With luggage?” I shook my head, deciding to forgo pondering the woman’s sensibilities in favor of ending the conversation succinctly and sweetly. Besides, minding my manners was Good Girls Rule #21. “It’s okay. I called a cab. No harm done.”

      The woman didn’t move. Her gaze traveled up and down as she looked me over, making me feel like a lamb being sized up by a hungry villager. “So you’re Lana’s sister?”

      I nodded, drew in a deep breath, trying to gather some patience and recall what Lana said about Candy. I remembered Lana mentioning something about a Katy Perry wannabe with an aversion to animals and some crazy story about an unfortunate encounter with a chicken as a child. Why my sister had told me those random factoids and why I’d actually remembered was a mystery to me. “And you’re her new best friend? The one who’s allergic to dogs?”

      “That’s me. Hair stylist by day, Internet celebrity by night.”

      Lovely. My sister never failed to surprise me, although this shouldn’t come as any shock. Lana had been deemed “Party Girl” after a stint on reality TV. Most people said that Lana and I were polar opposites, and they were right. Lana was the rebel, I was the good girl.

      The thought of being the good girl caused nausea to roil in my stomach. I’d been guilty of being a people-pleaser my entire life. I’d disappointed people to such a great extent recently that I didn’t know who I was anymore. Not a good girl. Not an atheist necessarily, but not a Christian either. All I had to define me right now were the facts that I loved Golden Oreos, I had a mad addiction to Dancing with the Stars, and I was insanely disappointed in myself and approximately half of the people who used to be in my life.

      Candy scrutinized me. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Natalie Portman?”

      “No.” I crossed the squeaky wooden floor, soaking in the walls of windows coming at me from two sides, and deposited my suitcases by the cheerful yellow sofa. Gaga turned crazy circles at my feet, that high-pitched bark filling the room until I finally scooped her up into my arms.

      “Well, you do. You know, from some of her sweeter roles. Not the crazy Black Swan movie.” Her nose twitched, and I wondered if her nose ring was bothering her or maybe the dog.

      I soaked in Lana’s house. Magazines cluttered the corners, a coat stand overflowed with colorful garments, a CD organizer was stuffed with plastic cases, and various brown-leafed plants littered any free space. Despite the clutter, something about the space felt warm and way too normal for Lana. Maybe my sister had left me the wrong house key?

      Photos confirmed this was the right place. Pictures of my sister in a bikini, raising a beer bottle in a toast, kissing her latest boyfriend while the sun set behind them. Totally Lana, uninhibited and free.

      So different from me.

      Maybe we could trade lives for a while. After all, St. Paul, Minnesota was hundreds of miles from Miami. I already liked it here, most of all because no one knew me.

      No one knew that I was the girl who had perfect Sunday school attendance for sixteen years, the record only broken because at seventeen I had pneumonia and my mom forced me to stay home so I didn’t infect anyone else. No one knew that in high school the church council nominated me as the Teen of the Year for the entire state of Florida, and that I won. Mothers had wanted me to marry their sons. Teachers had said I was their favorite. My outspoken stance on purity had inspired my peers. Oh, and my pious legalism had also led me to create the Good Girl Chronicles, a blog where I daily—and naïvely—told teen girls all over the country how they should live. As if I’d had a clue.

      Nor did anyone here know how royally I screwed up. I had gained firsthand knowledge about the domino effect of bad decisions. One wrong move could make everything around you tumble downward.

      Being in St. Paul was my new beginning. I’d had twenty-six years to grapple with my inadequacies, but despite my best attempts to accept all my flaws, I still failed and longed for that perfection.

      The sound of a digital camera clicking distracted me from the strange smell mixture of stale pizza and apple-scented jarred candles. Candy’s cell phone was aimed at my feet.

      I hid one foot behind my leg and balanced precariously on the other. “What are you doing?” Anxiety bubbled up in me. Who was this woman, and what was she up to?

      “Taking a picture of your shoes. They’re so cute.”

      I glanced down at my loafers and then back up at Candy. Her fingers moved across the phone’s screen with precision as she spoke in sync with her keyboarding. “My new pal Tara’s rad shoes. Must get a pair.”

      I stepped closer, trying to peer at her touch screen. “What are you doing?”

      “Putting it on Facebook.”

      “That’s just...perfect.” I forced a smile, trying to conjure up ideas on how to get her out of the house, so I could get on with my total and complete introverted seclusion, pity party, and quite possibly the remaking of Tara Lancaster. I’d only decided on two of the three options for sure, but all were appealing. “Look, I appreciate you stopping by, but I’m okay. I’ll adjust to being here just fine.”

      Candy put the phone down, and a grin stretched across her face. “I know you will, because I’m going to help you.”

      I shook my head. “No, no. You don’t understand. I’m like...I’m like...” What was I like? With my fingers, I drew an imaginary circle around myself. “I’m like an island.” I smiled, pleased with my explanation.

      Candy looked at me a moment and then snorted. “An island? Really? Lana said I needed to look out for you, show you around town. That’s what I’m going to do.” She punched my arm. “You little island, you.”

      I didn’t come here to see the town—or to be made fun of, for that СКАЧАТЬ