One Week, Part 1

This is for Sezje’s birthday. She asked me (like, months ago) to write ‘something set in a boarding school’, so this is it.

It’s in only 3 parts, about 5,000 words each, and there will still be a chapter of Let’s Get Married added this weekend as well.

Rated: U.

* * * * *

Friday

Ashley Davies lay on her bed, hands linked behind her head. Seven more days and she would be free of her prison forever. Just seven days. She could do seven days standing on her head. Technically, it was seven days, eight nights because school finished with the graduation ceremony on the following Saturday, but Ashley didn’t count that as she wasn’t planning to attend anyway.

Her introspection was disturbed by a knock at the door.

“What?”

“Davies, you’re meant to be in Hall. Sister Ruby T sent me to get you. She’s way pissed at you.” It was one of the sophomores whose name she couldn’t remember and she sounded agitated.

Ashley eased herself up without any hurrying and opened her bedroom door, glancing down at the kid. “Why am I supposed to be there, exactly?” She tried not to snap — shooting the messenger was hardly fair — but she couldn’t keep the irritation from her voice.

“It’s the rehearsal!”

Ashley sighed. She had forgotten all about the rehearsal for the traditional end-of-year school show. She did, however, remember Sister Geraldine, the headmistress, plainly stating that her graduation was conditional on active participation.

“Hold on.”

She retrieved her acoustic guitar from the far side of the room and checked herself out in the wall mirror. She supposed she was fairly presentable, considering the ridiculous uniform that they made all students wear. She had a school tie on. A tie! It was tightly knotted and about half-way down her chest and her top three shirt buttons were open, but it was still a tie. She shook her head and ran a hand through her hair. The sooner she could leave the school, the happier she would be.

Yanking the door closed, she growled, “Come on, then,” and headed off down the hallway. The kid trailed after her, bombarding her with what felt like a hundred different questions, jiggling about like she needed to go to the can or something. Ashley ignored her and concentrated on her own misery. Her Friday evening plans hadn’t included singing with a bunch of nuns like some third-rate Sister Act.

The annoying kid was still yelping on about something as they reached the school’s main hall, but went immediately silent when she saw their headmistress on the stage. The girls all called Sister Geraldine ‘the Penguin’, not only for her black-and-white attire and short stature, but also her Batman villain genius for casual evil.

“Miss Davies, how kind of you to grace us with your presence. I was beginning to think that I had somehow been unclear in my instruction when we spoke the other day about this.” Her clipped tones were full of scorn.

Ashley folded her arms across her chest. “I’m sorry, Sister Geraldine. I was studying so hard that I didn’t even notice the time.” A few of the seniors behind the Penguin snickered at the obvious lie. Ashley Davies had never studied in her life.

As the headmistress glowered, Sister Ruby Theresa, their music teacher, was trying to hide a grin. Ruby T was one of the good ones. Despite her age (rumoured to be anything between her early sixties and about a hundred), she had a real affinity for the girls, particularly the really young ones who were away from home for the first time. And she had always had a particular soft spot for Ashley.

“Well, as you enjoy the pursuit of academic excellence so much, Miss Davies, you can meet me tomorrow morning in the library at 8am and I shall assign you a topic on which you can write two thousand words.”

“That would be my absolute pleasure, Sister.” It wouldn’t take long to cut-and-paste whatever it was from Wikipedia.

“Hand. Written.” It was so casually said, but the tight smile which accompanied the comment was pure malevolence.

Ashley nodded, determined not to show any emotion. “Even better.”

“I shall leave you to your duties, Sister Ruby Theresa. And I shall expect all of you young ladies to be fully prepared in time for the show next week. Your parents and the governors will want to see only the best of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour.” She marched off, but stopped just before she reached the hallway. “And, Miss Davies? Perhaps tomorrow you’ll see fit to be dressed properly and not looking as if you were dragged backwards through a hedgerow.”

Most of the girls maintained their silence until they could no longer hear the echo of the Penguin’s shoes on the polished tile floor, although a few on stage started whispering to each other.

“Why do you go out of your way to annoy her like that?” Sister Ruby Theresa finally asked, shaking her head.

“It’s a special talent,” Ashley shrugged.

“If it is, it’s your only one,” someone else commented.

Only one person would dare to talk about her like that and a brief look in the direction of the voice confirmed it. Spencer Carlin, captain of the debate team, the softball team, the lacrosse team and probably every other team and club in the school, was sneering down at her.

If Ashley had a reputation as the school rebel, then Spencer was its shining star. She was by far the most popular girl, the one that all the younger girls looked up to and the teachers fawned over. She had been accepted to Wellesley on a full academic scholarship. She was dating Guy Middleton, the most popular boy at Marshall Academy, the boys’ military school with which Our Lady was twinned. She was even a practising Catholic. Ashley wouldn’t have been surprised if the blonde recited catechism in Latin while self-flagellating.

In short, Spencer was the closest thing Our Lady had to a saint. And, after the Penguin, she was Ashley’s chief nemesis.

“Why don’t you just fu—”

“Ashley!” Ruby Theresa interrupted, causing Spencer to smirk in triumph. “Behave yourself.”

“Sorry, Sister,” Ashley mumbled.

The nun turned around. “And I expect more of you as well, Spencer. That was uncalled for.” It was Ashley’s turn to smile sarcastically at the blonde, who just shrugged but didn’t apologise in any way. “Now, ladies, we have a lot to get through and only a week to perfect it, so we’ll need to work through supper this evening.” Everyone in the hall groaned. “Let’s review what you’re all doing.”

While Ruby T started to talk to the school choir about the pieces that she’d been working on with them for several months already, the others found somewhere to sit while they waited. Most squatted on the stage, but Ashley wasn’t in the mood to join them. She headed for a pile of gym mats piled against a side wall and flopped down, her guitar propped on her knee. She plucked randomly at the strings, mentally composing snatches of melodies, as she so often did when she was alone. She let her attention be drawn to Spencer Carlin, something she also did often, more often than she’d care to admit.

Since she had arrived at the school during her junior year (Christine had decided to get married again, and hadn’t wanted Ashley around to cramp her style), she had almost immediately been intrigued by Spencer. It wasn’t that the blonde was so sickeningly perfect, but that Ashley sensed that it was all fake. It meant that Spencer Carlin was hiding something behind her carefully erected façade, and that made her about three-hundred percent more interesting than anyone else in the school.

So, Ashley had sought her out. She had approached Spencer in private, indicated that she thought that Spencer might need a real friend, not like the flunkies she surrounded herself with, and that she was happy to fill the gap.

Spencer had spurned her. She said that Ashley was a freak and a slut — they weren’t exactly the words she used, but the inference had been there — and she flatly denied that her perfect life was anything other than it appeared to be on the surface. Then, at the first available opportunity, she had turned Ashley in for breaking curfew. Sister Geraldine had never said who it had been, and Spencer had never admitted it, but Ashley had known. From that day, they had been very public enemies. And since then, Spencer had taken great delight in placing Ashley at the centre of almost all trouble at the school.

The thing was, Spencer’s behaviour had only confirmed Ashley’s suspicions. No-one who was truly innocent behaved with such vociferous, indignant guilt. It was obvious that Ashley had touched some sort of raw nerve. Spencer’s egregious duplicity made Ashley’s shame and anger burn all the more.

Spencer Carlin was beautiful, smart, funny, unattainable, contradictory and mysterious.

And Ashley wanted her. She didn’t want to want her. She just did.

That burned, too.

She checked her watch. In twenty minutes, her best friend, George, was due to pick her up a half-mile down the road. George’s dad was a fisherman, so his truck always smelled rank, but it was worth the unpleasantness. He was a great wingman who had introduced her to some amazing women and girls. He was one of the few things she would miss about her stint at Our Lady of Perverted Sucking, as she — and probably countless generations before her — referred to the school.

Turning her back to the rest of the girls, she reached inside her bra where her prohibited cellphone was hidden. She sent George a text message with the bad news and waited for his reply to flash up on her screen. He didn’t disappoint.

Sucks. Send hot substitute, pref redhead.

Her fingers slid over the screen.

Ha! Like any woman would prefer you to me, loser boy.

“Ashley!”

She slipped the phone back into its hiding place and turned around. Ruby Theresa’s arms were folded over her chest and she had a familiar look of fond resignation.

“Sorry.”

“I need you over here.”

She pushed herself up and reached for her guitar. On stage, Spencer Carlin was standing behind Ruby T. Her arms were also folded, but her expression was not one of fondness. Her lip was curled and her face was dark with loathing.

Ashley knew all about loathing. It was but one of the many emotions she felt when Spencer was near.

“Now, I thought you two could do something more modern,” Ruby T began, as Ashley joined them on stage. “Nothing too risqué, of course. It’s for the parents, after all. How about Adele?”

Spencer articulated the surprise that Ashley felt. “You know Adele?”

“I have both a wireless and a television,” Ruby Theresa scoffed. “I was thinking Rolling in the Deep would suit both your voices. You have those lovely low tones, Ashley, to which Spencer could provide excellent counterpoint.”

“Rolling in the Deep?” Ashley echoed.

“Well, it needs to be something you could pull together in a week and I assume you both know it already, so it would just be a case of the arrangement. You’re so good at that sort of thing, Ashley.” She noted their skeptical looks. “You do both know it?”

“Yes.”

“Of course.”

“Good, then I can leave you to it, then?”

When Spencer merely scowled some more, her jaw tightening to the point where she looked like she might crack her teeth, Ashley answered for them. “I’m sure we can work it out, RT.”

As the nun moved on to another group of girls, Spencer parroted, “We can work it out, RT.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’d so love to, wouldn’t you?” Spencer taunted.

“Not in this lifetime.”

“In every lifetime.”

“I’m not going anywhere Guy Middleton’s cock has been.”

Spencer didn’t even flinch. “You would trade places with him in a second.”

“And we both know you’re thinking of me when you’re on your knees sucking him off.” Ashley stared Spencer up and down. “Dreaming that I’ll let you play out your dirty little fantasies.”

“You are scum.”

“You can keep denying it all you want, but it doesn’t make it not so.”

“That’s the argument of a pre-schooler.” Spencer’s hands were on her hips and she was leaning right into Ashley’s face. “Which is probably over-estimating your intelligence.”

Ashley didn’t respond in kind. Instead, she whispered in Spencer’s ear, “I’d still fuck you so good, you’d be ruined for anyone else.”

To Ashley’s delight, Spencer stomped away, her face a study in scarlet.

She shoots: she scores.

* * *

“You’re actually quite good at that.”

Ashley looked up in surprise at what sounded suspiciously like a compliment from Spencer Carlin. She was tooling about with her guitar, trying out some different arrangements for the latest punishment from God and the Penguin. She’d been working on her own since Spencer had stormed off to go hang out with her constant admirers.

“And?”

“And nothing. It sounds okay.”

“Glad I can do something right in your book, princess.”

“I’m just saying —”

Ashley held up her hand. “Look, neither of us wants to be doing this. And we certainly don’t want to be doing this together, so let’s not pretend that we’re BFFs or anything. I don’t wanna be in your fanclub and I don’t need any help from you to do this.”

“So, how do you want to play this?” Spencer sat down next to Ashley, her expression almost conciliatory.

“I’ll work this out and find you when I’m done.” She looked down at her blank notebook and doodled a spiral to prevent her from looking at Spencer. Having the blonde so close and trying to be nice was making her senses tingle, and not all in a bad way.

“You don’t need my help at all?”

“Your kind of help I can always do without.” She wasn’t planning on forgiving Spencer’s constant tattling any time soon.

“You know, not all of that’s my fault.”

“Sure it’s not.”

“I’m not the only one with a grudge against you.”

“Oh, but you admit you’re carrying a grudge?”

Spencer looked over her shoulder to check no-one could hear, then lowered her voice anyway. “Look, we have to do this together and I know we’ve got this whole,” she made a frustrated motion with her hands, “situation or whatever, but I am not guilty of everything you blame me for. Nothing this year has been down to me.”

“You would say that, wouldn’t you?”

The blonde cocked her head to the side. “Think about it. Why wouldn’t I want to take credit for your misery if I actually caused it?”

She shrugged. “Because you’re gutless and don’t want to admit to being nothing more than a common little sneak?”

“Aren’t you forgetting that I genuinely don’t give a flying fuck what you think about me?”

“Aren’t you forgetting that I know for a fact that that’s not true?” Spencer scowled, but didn’t respond. “Go, Spencer. Go be with your adoring crowd of sycophants and leave me to work in peace. I’ll get this finished tonight and we can start actually working together or whatever on Sunday.”

“Why Sunday? What about tomorrow?”

“I have things to do.”

“Sneaking out with that fisherman’s boy?” she accused.

“If you recall, I have to meet the Penguin in the library at 8am and that’s gonna take up most of my day. And don’t you have a hot date with Guy and his wonder cock?” Every Saturday, Guy Middleton strolled in the front door and waited for his date in the foyer. Like Spencer, the rules were ignored where he was concerned. They were ‘special’.

“I asked you first.”

“And you can keep asking, princess.” She strummed her guitar absently. “And you can still mind your own fucking business.” She gave Spencer a mocking smile.

“I don’t know why I ever thought that we could talk like two civil adults.” The blonde stood again, dusting off her blue plaid skirt.

“Beats the fuck out of me.”

* * *

Saturday

“What in the holy hell are you doing here?” Ashley hissed.

Spencer rolled her eyes and ignored the question as she sat down across from Ashley at the study table which was covered in text books and balled-up pieces of paper. The blonde picked up the nearest book and examined its spine.

“Veritatis Splendor and the Renewal of Moral Theology,” she intoned.

Ashley scowled and snatched the book from her. “What do you want?” Ashley rarely saw Spencer out of some version of school uniform, either regular or sports kit, but the blonde was wearing jeans and a tight little short-sleeved shirt which showed off more than a hint of cleavage. She tried not to look. She so wanted to look.

“I came to help.” Spencer shrugged as if it were obvious.

“You came to help? Seriously?”

“Yes. What’s your topic?”

“Did you miss the conversation we had yesterday when I said I don’t need your help? That wasn’t just for our stupid Glee club assignment. That was universal. There is nothing in this world that I will ever need your help with.” The irritation she felt at Spencer’s appearance in the library was nothing compared to the disappointment she felt in herself for actually being happy about it.

“What’s your topic?” Spencer repeated.

“Why moral relativism is the greatest threat of modern times to the Church.” She shook her head. “I assume she means the Catholic church and not the Church of Scientology or the Church of the Unholy Disciples of Satan.”

“Ah, JP2.”

“Like that means something to me.”

Spencer retrieved the book which had been taken from her. Turning it over in her hands, she explained, “Veritatis Splendor was Pope John Paul II’s response to the rise of moral relativism, arguing that moral laws are a universal truth and that the best way to learn how to live by those truths was through the Catholic church.” She chuckled. “Unholy Disciples of Satan, by the way?”

“Yeah, they might actually be a motorcycle gang and not a real church,” Ashley allowed.

“When’s it due?”

“The Penguin wants it by dinnertime.”

“And how much have you written so far?” It was nearly 11am and Ashley had been in the library for three hours.

“The title and the bibliography.” She sighed. “It’s not exactly a subject I can write more than, oh, zero words off of the top of my head about. I can’t even use the internet for research. There’s no signal in here for my phone and I know she’ll be monitoring my school account for any internet activity. I’ve had to read books.” She spat the word out as if it were a disease.

Spencer started to laugh. “That must be torture.”

As much as she wanted to maintain her hostility, she found herself grinning and joining in with the laughter. “Hey, it’s not funny.”

“Bullshit. It’s pretty damn funny.”

She pushed the books away from in front of her and put her pen down. Folding her arms over her chest, she looked at her companion. “You swear a lot more than I thought you would.”

“I bet there are lots of things about me that you don’t know.” Spencer leaned forward and whispered, “Like the fact that I got given the exact same punishment assignment last semester and I could write this paper in my sleep.”

“You were given a punishment? What for? Not sucking up enough?”

“I am trying to do a nice thing here and you are making it way difficult. Stop fighting me, Ash.”

Ash? She liked that. She also liked the mental image of the two of them wrestling half-naked in a summer meadow that the whole ‘Stop fighting me’ comment had inspired. She rubbed her face with her hands, trying to wake herself from the illusion that she and Spencer could ever be anything other than adversaries. A summer meadow, for God’s sake! That was like some x-rated version of Little House on the Prairie, the ‘special’ episode where one of the kids found out why her friend Ashley didn’t have a young gentleman.

“Earth to Ashley?”

“What?”

Spencer shook her head. “Pick up your pen and start writing, Davies. The sooner we write this, the sooner we can get the heck out of here and practise our song.”

“Um, two things. One, ‘heck’, Little Laura Ingalls?” If her mind was intent on going all Little House on the Prairie, she was going there with it. “And, two, why do you want to practise?”

“One, sometimes I swear, sometimes I don’t. And, two, I want to be good. My parents will be at the show and I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of them and everyone else. I’ve never actually sung in public before.”

“Weren’t you in the school show last year?” Marshall Academy and Our Lady put on a joint musical theatre production around Easter each year and she was pretty certain that Spencer had been in Grease.

“I was Patty Simcox. No singing. Now, quit stalling and let’s get this thing finished.”

They worked surprisingly well together, Ashley had to admit. Spencer’s voice had a lyrical cadence that probably came from being on the debate team. She understood the importance of inflection and of a well-timed pause. Ashley thought that it would probably stand her in good stead for singing in public, but she didn’t want to interrupt to point that out.

The content of Spencer’s dictation highlighted that she was probably the most intelligent person Ashley had met. Of course, that wasn’t a crowded field, as most of her friends pre-Catholic school had thought that being smart made you somehow unattractive. If they had known Spencer Carlin, she thought, they would have seen that the very opposite was true. George was probably the next smartest person she knew, but his knowledge was very specific to repairing boats and other engines, and he was also people-smart. She was self-aware enough to accept that she lacked all of these things: she was — when she could be bothered to apply herself — a fairly average student; she had no single area of expertise; and other people remained a mystery to her. Oh, she understood how to manipulate them on certain levels, a skill she had learned from her mother, but she didn’t really get them. Other people all seemed so unlike her.

They completed the assignment by a little after 2pm, by which time her stomach was grumbling and her hand was sore from writing. When Spencer suggested, somewhat surprising her, that they should walk into town to get lunch, enjoy the open air and clear their heads, she readily agreed.

“So, where’d you want to go?” Ashley asked, as they passed through the gates of the school. Only seniors could leave the school grounds at weekends, and she winked at the security camera as they left, hoping that the Penguin would see it later.

“The Beachcomber?” It was a diner down by the harbour which featured wooden benches outside and great seafood inside.

“My favourite place,” she agreed. The mid-afternoon sun was unyielding and she could already feel sweat forming on the small of her back. “God, I wish we’d called a cab.”

“Your boyfriend not free to pick you up?” There wasn’t any malice in the statement, more a gentle teasing.

“He works weekends. Yours doesn’t. Let’s call him.”

Spencer slipped her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and Ashley tried not to imagine what it must be like to feel that particularly fine ass. She failed. “He’s not really my boyfriend, you know.”

“I don’t believe that for a second. What about date night?” All of the little girls swooned over handsome Guy Middleton when he showed up, but he told all of them that he was waiting for his ‘best girl’, like it was 1953 and he and Spencer were heading out to a clam bake. The expression always made Ashley a little bit sick in her mouth; she conceded that her reaction might be to his general over-smoothness.

“Can you keep a secret?” Spencer asked.

She snorted. No-one kept secrets better than she did. “Depends what it’s worth.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“No, look, come on. I was only joking.” She was intrigued.

“Honestly, it’s not important. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Ashley increased her pace to get a few steps ahead of Spencer and then turned around so she could walk backwards and actually see the blonde’s face. “It’s definitely something. You’re doing that lip thing.”

“What lip thing?”

“You bite your bottom lip with your teeth when you’re holding something back. Never play poker. It’s a horrible tell.”

Spencer furrowed her brow. “Do I? I hadn’t noticed.” Her arm shot out, pulling Ashley towards her, just as an ageing pick-up truck rounded a corner, not six feet from them. “Face the road, Ash, before you get one of us killed.”

“I like that,” she admitted, falling back in step by Spencer’s side. “You calling me Ash.”

“Well, I didn’t know I did that either.”

They walked on, enjoying the sunshine and saying little. The smell of brine and the level of background noise grew as they reached the edge of the small town. They chatted about some of the places they passed. They were both aware that it was their final week and they might never see any of them again. It gave an air of melancholy to their conversation.

When they reached The Beachcomber, they picked a bench right on the harbour’s edge and ordered lobster rolls and soft drinks. It was the sort of afternoon that cried out for a beer or possibly even a cocktail over ice, but the diner didn’t have a liquor licence and two girls from Our Lady would have a hard time getting served alcohol openly anyway.

Spencer was staring out over the boats in contemplation when Ashley finally asked, “Are you going to tell me what your thing was?”

The other girl clasped her hands together and stared down at them. “Guy and me have never had sex,” she stated frankly. “I think he’s gay.”

Ashley was shocked. That was definitely nowhere near the top of her list of things she expected to hear from Spencer. “Okay, so not what I thought you were going to say.”

“Yeah? What did you think I was going to say?” Spencer looked straight at her. Her earnestness was disconcerting.

Ashley held her counsel while the waitress arrived with their drinks and food. When she was out of earshot, she said, “But he’s so…” She had no idea what the right word was.

“Gentlemanly?”

“Your word, not mine. I was trying not to say skeevy.”

Spencer spluttered with laughter. “He is a little too smooth sometimes.”

Ashley grinned. “I always wondered if he was the love-child of George Hamilton. He seems like a boy who would wear a cravat if he thought he could get away with it.”

“You know, I think he probably would.” She picked at her sandwich. “He’s just so implausibly nice all the time. He does all the right things. He’s almost old-fashioned in his way. He buys me flowers and takes me to really nice restaurants. And we kiss and hold hands at movies. But we don’t make out like teenagers. And he has no interest in going further.”

She shook her head and wondered if Spencer realised that she could also be describing herself: not the lack of interest in sex part — Ashley had no knowledge of that — but the bits about being so close to perfect but somehow still a little off. “And, based on this, you think he’s gay?”

“Well, I can’t think of any other explanation.”

“He could be a serial killer.”

“Okay, that’s a bit out of left field.”

“You don’t watch Dexter?”

Spencer grimaced. “I’ve heard of it, but I’ve been at Catholic boarding school since I was, like, twelve. At what point do you think I got to see HBO or Showtime?”

“Well, he’s a serial killer who works for the police department as a blood spatter expert.” She took a long drink of her raspberry lemonade. It was the most refreshing non-alcoholic drink she’d ever tried. “Anyway, in the first season, he decides not to have sex with his girlfriend because he thinks that, if they do, she’ll see that there’s no, like, depth to him or something. He’s convinced that his lack of response during sex will show her that he’s a violent sociopath incapable of normal human emotions.”

Spencer’s eyes were wide with incredulity. “So, you think Guy is incapable of normal human emotions? That it’s more likely that he’s a serial killer than gay?”

She shook her head. “No, obviously it’s much more likely that he’s gay. I’m pretty certain that there are a lot more gays than serial killers, even at military school. I’m just saying it’s not the only possible option.” She held up her pinky and waggled it suggestively. “Or, you know, maybe little Guy is, like, a tiny stump and he’s terrified of letting you near it.” As Spencer laughed at her suggestions, she refrained from adding her own preferred theory: it was Spencer who was gay and Guy could sense it. Maybe they were both gay. Maybe they were each other’s unintentional beard. “So, why do you go out with him?”

“Do you want the truth?” Spencer plucked at her bread roll and threw some crumbs in the direction of some gulls who who were brazenly waddling between the tables. “Because it’s nice to have someone who’s nice to you. Because it’s nice to have something to look forward to every week. Because he’s actually a really good friend. He listens well. Which, if you think of it, is probably just another clue that he’s gay.”

“What? Because teenage boys only talk about themselves all the time? George is an awesome best friend and a great listener. And he has no problems scoring with chicks.”

“And you don’t mind?”

Ashley was confused. “Why the hell would I mind?”

“Hold on, are you saying that he’s not your boyfriend?” Spencer clearly didn’t believe that.

“Spence, no matter what you’ve heard, I’m gay. All the way gay.” She knew that there were plenty of rumours at school that she was banging George Kochanski and had already had most of his friends and about half of the married men in town. Some people even thought she was bisexual and also having an illicit affair with Mademoiselle Ardant, the attractive young French teacher (which was really unlikely because she was actually sleeping with one of the married men in town). “I’m, like, Ellen gay. I’m as gay as a female tennis player.”

The other girl’s face palled. “Oh God, I am so sorry.”

“What for?”

“All those times, those things I’ve said to you about wanting to, you know.” She flushed red. “About wanting me. I wouldn’t have said it if I’d have known —”

“What? If you’d known that I actually might?” Her eyes narrowed. “So, you said it as an insult not to make me out to be a slut, but because being gay is the worst thing you could think to accuse someone of?”

Spencer looked mortified. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What else could you possibly have meant, Spencer? What other way can I take that?” She was used to random accusations and insults, but it had never actually occurred to her that Spencer didn’t know she was gay and had been trying to hurt her just by suggesting it. She stood up and tossed her napkin on the table. “Are you so fucking brainwashed by the need to fit in that you don’t see how wrong that is?”

Spencer also rose, knocking her glass over as she did. “I don’t think that at all! I don’t I think it’s wrong or perverted or anything. I was just responding in kind to the things you said to me.” She moved back as she realised her soda was dripping onto her leg. “If we’re throwing accusations about, then how come it’s okay for you to say those things to me? If one of Guy’s friends spoke to me like that, I’d slap him so hard.”

“Now, you’re just trying to justify yourself,” Ashley sneered. “I’m not the one in the fucking wrong.” Shaking her head at how stupid she had been for letting herself get sucked in to being nice to Spencer, she turned on her heel and walked away. She’d only got a few steps when she swing back around. Her voice was low and menacing. “All those things I said to you? It never once occurred to me that you weren’t gay, too.”

She didn’t bother to wait for a reaction. She broke into a run and didn’t stop until she reached the Kochanski boathouse and found George. With him, she had never once felt ashamed for being true to herself.

* * * * *

Next up: Part 2 [A]