Good Girls Lie(14)

“Stop chasing the note, Ash. Let it come to you.”

“Feel the keys. Allow each to build on the last.”

“Your placement, Ash, your wrists.”

And finally, “Goodness, we are having an off day, aren’t we?”

Yes, we are.

I slam down both hands, the discordant notes ringing through the room. The acoustics are perfection, the sound lingers in the air until I lift my fingers from the keys and my foot off the pedal.

Muriel’s face is a mask of concern. Her star pupil hasn’t made an appearance.

“What’s wrong, Ash?”

“I said I didn’t want to play. I...can’t. It’s too soon.”

“Now, now, don’t give up so easily. You’re sitting much too stiffly and your fingers aren’t flowing. If I were a betting woman, I’d say you sound out of practice. Very out of practice. When did you play last?”

I don’t have to lie on this one. “It’s been a while.”

“Why?”

“I told you. I’ve been considering giving up. It’s not fun anymore.”

“Is it not fun because it’s gotten too hard? Or because you don’t have anything to work toward? If your parents aren’t allowing you to showcase your talent, I know I can speak to them, make them see how beneficial it would be—”

“My parents are dead.”

“Excuse me?”

I stand too quickly and the bench scoots back with an echoey screech. My hand goes to my mouth and I squeeze my eyes shut. Finally, I catch my breath and open my eyes. Muriel is staring at this performance in shock.

“I’m sorry. This is too hard, yes, because every note reminds me of them. Every time my hands touch the keys, I see my mother. I don’t want to play piano anymore.”

“Does the dean know this? When? How? Oh, my dear, I am so very sorry.”

I allow myself to be enclosed in a bosomy hug. Muriel is crying. I hang stiffly in her arms, a trickle of tears rolling down my neck. This isn’t sanitary. Nor should I be comforting her. I begin to count. At thirty, I gently disengage. Muriel snatches a tissue from the depths of her dress and honks into it.

“Yes, the dean knows. I apologize for blurting it out, and for wasting your time today. I wanted to try, at least once, and see if it would work, but as you can tell, I’m too out of practice, and I simply don’t enjoy playing anymore. I’m so sorry. I hate to be such a disappointment.”

Muriel’s eyes are still shining, her nose is red from weeping. It is a touching show of support. “My dear. Yes, of course, I understand. Though you will find me unconvinced of your true intentions. Some time off perhaps, a few weeks to get your bearings here at Goode, and you’ll be itching to play again. A talent like yours isn’t diminished overnight.”

So you’d think. “But you’ll allow me to speak to the dean about dropping the class? It’s not you, I’ve been very excited to work with you, Dr. Grassley. It’s me.”

“Lord above, call me Muriel. Dr. Grassley makes me feel ancient. I will speak to the dean on your behalf. She is a stickler, you know. Doesn’t like change. You leave it to me, I’ll make sure she understands you need some time. And you will always have a place to practice with me, Ash. I know you’ve been through a horrible experience, but when a natural talent like yours comes along, I don’t like to see it go to waste. Will you agree to meet with me again in a few weeks? Try again?”

I bestow my best benevolent smile. “You are too kind. Thank you for your grace.”

Muriel pats my hand. “Off with you, now. You can come talk to me anytime, Ash.”

I give the piano one last long glance as I leave the conservatory.

One less thing to worry about.



11

THE DINNER

According to the letter the school sent, perky Camille Shannon, from Falls Church, Virginia, is a Goode School legacy. Her father, currently the American ambassador to Turkey, has been in the foreign service his whole career; her mother is a lawyer. Her sister, who graduated Goode last year, along with Vanessa’s older sister, was “former head girl and everything,” which is why the two of them know more than the rest of the students about the secret societies and “won’t breathe a word of it, no way, so don’t bother asking details.”

I think if they knew anything, they would spill because both girls are desperately trying to look important, but I don’t care enough to be concerned. I’m comfortable never knowing what happens behind closed doors. This I’ve learned the hard way.

Camille relentlessly fills in the rest of her CV over dinner. Her ADHD and her Ritalin and her older sister’s debutante ball and the beautiful drive down from northern Virginia and when do you think the first mixer with Woodberry Forest—that’s the closest all-boys school, Ash—might be?

All of her conversation is rich with gossip and silliness. She inquires only once about my background and quickly takes the hint when I change the subject. For that alone, I am grateful, though it means we get to hear more about her, her, her.

“My parents divorced when I was eight and Emily was eleven, and our father won custody, so we traveled with him all over the world. I have some language skills and an impressive travel résumé, so I’m planning to study international relations at Brown. I have my eye on Georgetown Law so I can go into practice with my mother. I moved back home to DC to be nearer to her. She’s so lovely, we’ve grown so close these past few months.”