Good Girls Lie(114)

True love.

And wasn’t there some incident with an impostor, sisters? All those girls, dead. What a shame. Amazing that they rebuilt. Of course, coed, but it’s such a good school. Such a good reputation.

But she’s already turned away, wedged in her earbuds, pulled up a movie. A delightful rom-com, a woman who needs a wedding date, by the looks of it.

Maybe we’ll talk later.

Said the spider to the fly.

I wait.

I wait.

Finally, finally, the flight attendants do their dessert pass, and she takes a refill. Such a creature of habit, our little wine connoisseur.

Excellent. It’s easier to obscure this powder in wine than water.

And here’s the second moment I’ve been waiting for.

She unfolds from the seat—I always forget how tall she is—and heads to the loo.

I dump the powder in my wine and stir it with my finger.

And then I lean over, my hand snaking out of my pod into hers, and with a quick glance to make sure no one is watching—these seats afford so much privacy—I switch the glasses.

Easy.

Done.

She comes back and settles in again. Goes through her whole flight-nap routine, dabbing on ChapStick, spreading the pashmina across her lean legs, pulling out the sleep mask, putting in the earbuds.

I play along, yawning and primping, as well, showing off a gold crown I had placed when I scraped together enough cash. That big open spot always bothered me.

The helpful flight attendant comes by one last time with her it’s sleepy time bottle raised high. We chat for a few moments. I’d love a chocolate, thank you, no, no more wine for me.

There is a small kerfuffle to my left—oh, God, is it happening already?—but I see she’s only dropped her ChapStick. The flight attendant retrieves it, offers the bottle.

To my unerring delight, she swallows half the glass, takes a top-off of wine, stretches and sighs heavily, kittenish, and speaks.

“Ah. So tired. Wake me when we’re landing, won’t you?”

She smiles. Looks me right in the eyes and slides on her sleep mask.

When she disappears behind the black faux fur, I take a celebratory gulp of my wine, then another.

“Cheers.”

Cheers, I say to her quiet figure.

Cheers, I say to my old life.

Cheers, I say to the future. It’s time for me to take back my life.

And something starts to claw at the back of my throat.

Spots. I’m seeing spots.

My breath slows, hitching in my chest.

Oh, God. Oh, God. What’s happen—



89

THE LAST

She looks so sweet, asleep like this, with her mouth slightly open, her head turned to the side. I remember when she used to look like this, innocent in repose.

With a last smile to the flight attendant, I slip on my red-soled heels, my black sunglasses, and don my coat. I gather my carry-on from the overhead, stuff my pashmina in my tote, and she doesn’t move. Still asleep. Precious princess.

Just another woman on a plane. Though forever asleep.

I leave the plane, walk up the Jetway, breath coming in tiny little sips. A hand moves to the small brand under my left breast, riding high on my rib cage, and I remember a girl with forest-green eyes and soft, silky lips. This was for you.

No one stops me. No calls. No screams.

I exit the terminal, hand my carry-on to the driver, slide into the back of my town car, and am off to the May Fair Hotel.

I don’t look back.

Yes, I knew it was her. Yes, I suspected what she had planned. She’s been stalking me for months. Listening. Watching.

Yes, I saw what she did when I went to the loo.

Yes, I swapped the wineglasses back when they were looking for my ChapStick.

She ruined my entire life. I refuse to let her take it, too. I had to protect myself.

And really, she did this to herself.

What? You disapprove? Do you actually blame me?

No, you don’t. You’d do the same if you had to.

Happy birthday to me. I am finally, finally free.

* * * * *



AUTHOR’S NOTE

The Goode School, and the town of Marchburg, are complete figments of my imagination, an amalgamation of several private colleges and high schools in central Virginia.

That said... I have always wanted to write a boarding school mystery, and I come to the story honestly. I had the great privilege of attending Randolph-Macon Woman’s College in Lynchburg, Virginia (class of ’91), and I have woven pieces of the school’s legends and tragedies into this story, all put through my own creative lens. Alumni will easily recognize Main Hall, the Skeller (I still dream of those tuna melts), Odds and Evens, Chilhowies, the trolleys, the sewing circle, and other unique-to-Macon details like Goode’s version of the Honor Code. The rest are fabricated for this story.

A few ghost stories have also been molded to fit this particular tale, the red staircase chief among them. The Commons is named after a real attic room in Main Hall, colloquially called the Bean Bag Room, one that I lived below the spring semester of my sophomore year. Many a night, my roommate and I were kept awake by footsteps, furniture dragging, and other unexplainable sounds overhead. The problem was, after several of these events, we would creep up the stairs to see who was there—and find the room empty. It did have a stunning view of the Blue Ridge Mountains during the daytime, though.