Good Girls Lie(13)
“It is vital for you to understand how important a female-only education is to your future. You will be tried—it is our lot in life—and when faced with any sort of animosity or barrier because of your gender, you will have every tool imaginable at your behest. That is what Goode does for you. Yes, you will go to college. But it is more important to recognize the power you are being given. The power of the sisterhood.
“Look to your left. Look to your right. These young women are your future. The investment you make in yourself is an investment in them, as well. Together, we all rise. Together, we are strong. Always remember your sisters.”
With a benevolent smile, the dean raises her hands and clasps them in front of her, palm to palm.
“Together,” she says.
“Together,” the room echoes as one, teachers and students linked together.
“Now, if you please, we will recite the Honor Code.”
Two hundred girls draw a quick breath and speak as one, their voices filling the chapel to the rafters, repeating the words I said in the dean’s office. This is our official claim, our pledge, our sacred word and bond. It is not unlike reciting a confession. The power of it rings through me. This is what it means to belong to something bigger than yourself.
“...On my honor.”
Dean Westhaven touches one hand to her heart, then exits the pulpit, and the chapel resumes its role as school beehive, the girls buzzing with excitement. Convocation is over. Term has officially begun.
10
THE QUITTER
As instructed, I find my way from the chapel to Muriel Grassley’s lair in the Adams Theater.
Grassley looks like she should be the subject of a modernist painting. Her face is square, her eyes almond, her lips overly lush—almost certainly the work of a needle, not God. Her brown hair is liberally dosed with gray as if she’s walked through a cobweb. She wears flowing robes of turquoise and purple, silver rings stacked on her slim fingers. She is loud and brash, and I immediately like her.
Which is going to make the next hour of my life very hard.
The music lab is in the back of the Adams Theater, facing the mountains. Like many of Goode’s buildings, glass is the predominant feature. The vista coupled with the sea of blue-green trees is striking. Happily, the piano faces into the room, instead of out. I’ll never be able to focus if I face the windows.
“Ash? I’m Muriel. Come here, let me see you.”
I dutifully cross the room to the woman in blue. I dig in my bag and extract a small gold box with a silver ribbon, which I set on top of the piano.
Those bee-stung lips part into a gigantic smile. “Welcome to Goode! I’m so excited to meet you. You brought me a gift?”
“I read that you love caramels but are allergic to tree nuts. There’s a little shop in Oxford that is allergen-sensitive, none allowed on the premises. These are totally safe.”
“What a darling you are! I will enjoy them tremendously, I’m sure.” She links her arm through mine. “So, Ash. I’ve heard your tapes, you have quite an ear, such a way with the keys. Why have you never performed onstage before? From what I’ve heard, you’re a shoo-in for Carnegie Hall!”
I smile—charming, dimples, with a touch of rueful thrown in for good measure. “My family frowned upon it. I’ve not played in a public venue, only privately.”
“Do you wish to? I’m sure the dean told you about my connections. I could have you at the Kennedy Center in a few weeks.” She slaps her hands together, back and forth, and the sound makes me jump. She is so vibrant, this woman, so loud.
“Oh, no, ma’am. I’d prefer not to.”
“You don’t want to perform?” This is said with such confusion I almost laugh. But I force my face into a downcast expression.
“Honestly, I’ve been considering giving up.”
“Oh, no. A natural talent such as yours can’t be squandered. The joy you’ll bring to your listeners... It would be such a shame, Ash. I was so moved listening to your audition tapes. You’re quite extraordinary.”
Truth, then. “I haven’t been feeling the music lately.”
“Well, we’ll fix that. Why don’t we warm up with some chromatic scales, cadences, and arpeggios at all octaves, and then try a little Bach. I always find Bach so comforting.”
Oh, yes. Bach makes me want to skip through a forest with mice following my trail. Makes one wonder why I have no desire to play.
I sit on the bench and stretch, first my neck, then my back, then my wrists. Muriel sets the metronome at sixty and I go through a quick and easy series of scales, just to get the feel for the keys. I grow serious. This is important.
I run through the second part of the traditional Hanon exercises, do some chord work. My fingers are sluggish on the keys. The strike is too soft for my liking, so I’m depressing the keys harder than normal, banging out the notes.
After ten minutes of noise, I nod at Muriel, who places a Bach fugue on the stand. I’m familiar with it, but I don’t know it by heart. I’ll have to read the music and play.
I launch in, and almost immediately Muriel holds up a hand to stop me.
“Slow down, Ash. You’re pulling the notes. Make me feel it.”
I continue to pound away. The next ten minutes are a study in extreme frustration.
“Now you’re pushing. And your texture is off.”