Good Girls Lie(15)

In case you’re interested, I wasn’t... Mummy remarried in the spring. Camille wants to play field hockey, almost ended up at Madeira, has a wicked crush on the son of the man her mother married, “but that’s, like, incest, so it’s a no go,” and loves her chocolate Lab, Lucy. Full stop. Everything and anything of relevance to Camille Shannon laid bare on the white linen.

Will someone please come shoot me, relieve me of this boredom?

Jesus, she’s still talking. I’ve tuned it out now. Chatter chatter chatter. She speaks so much neither Vanessa nor Piper are able to share much about their lives. Neither am I, but that is all good with me.

I try (and fail) to stay entirely focused. The dining hall is a pleasant surprise. Situated with floor-to-ceiling windows that look north into the mountains, each round table of eight is covered in fine linen. The cutlery is silver, the plates china. Waitresses—nicknamed waitrons—come to the table for our orders, as if we are in a fine restaurant. Several meal options take into account the various food allergies and preferences of the students. Hungry but nervous, I end up with a Cobb salad laced with cubed grilled chicken, like I’m eating at a country club.

“Well?”

I come back from my woolgathering to see all three faces staring at me curiously.

“I’m sorry. Zoned out for a moment. Jet lag. What were you saying?”

Camille tosses her head. “I said, which Ivy are you shooting for?”

“Oh. Harvard.”

“Naturally,” she drawls in a most annoyed voice, “but what’s your second choice? Not everyone gets into Harvard, you know.”

“I like my chances,” I say lightly. My chances can be helped along at any time by a few clicks on a keyboard, but there’s no reason to brag. Camille has that corner covered. But this is dangerous territory. Back to you, roomie. “Tell me about DC. I wasn’t able to spend any time there.”

Off she goes.

I have to admit, I didn’t know what I was in for, agreeing to go to dinner with these three intimate strangers, but by the time the dessert plates are cleared, I know one thing for sure—I really need to watch myself. These are friends to be kept at a distance, especially the way Camille gossips. But the buffer they provide is vital, as is their intelligence on the strange world of Goode. If I’m totally friendless, a loner, I’ll stand out even more.

Our plates have just been cleared when whispering starts on the other side of the dining hall, growing quickly, a tidal wave moving through the room.

I catch the name Grassley. The piano teacher.

“What is it?” I ask. “What’s happened?”

A waitron stops by the table. “They’ve had to take Dr. Grassley to the hospital. Some sort of allergic reaction.”

Oh, bloody fucking hell.

I dive into my bag and paw through, digging until I find the gold box with the silver bow. I flip it over and look at the ingredients label: Manufactured in a facility that is allergen-free.

Oh, my God. What a horrible, careless mistake. I gave her the wrong chocolates.

Jet lag, fear, whatever excuse I can come up with, I grabbed the wrong box from the depths of my bag.

I excuse myself and take off at a run, though I really don’t know where to go outside of the dean.

Halfway to her office, I slow.

What is this going to look like? I gave the woman a dose of chocolates that made her sick. And I’m trying to get out of piano. Will they think...?

Stop. None of this matters. You have to own up to this. The box will have both your fingerprints and the shop’s address. Broad Street, Oxford, England. You can hardly play dumb. You’re such a fucking idiot. Way to go, Ash. That’s how to fly under the radar, for sure.

I start running again, skid to a stop in front of the dean’s office. Her assistant, Melanie, is there, and I don’t even have to fake the tears that start when I ask to see the dean.

“What’s wrong, dear?”

“I just heard about Dr. Grassley. Will she be all right?”

Dean Westhaven emerges from her inner sanctum, looking appropriately alarmed.

“Ash? What’s wrong?”

“I heard about Dr. Grassley. Is she... Is she?” I collapse into sobs. God, this is too hard. I want to go home.

For the second time today, I am enfolded in a hug. It’s the most mothering I’ve had in years. The dean strokes my hair, murmuring until I calm down.

“There, there. You’re okay. Muriel will be fine. She had her EpiPen, she went to the hospital just in case. I’m sure she’ll be back quite soon. It happens, Ash. Accidents happen.”

EpiPen. She has an EpiPen. Maybe she’s going to be okay after all.

“Did she say anything about our meeting today?” Don’t be so freaking suspicious, jerk. I sniff, hard. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to fall apart like this. It’s only I told her I didn’t want to play piano anymore, and then she got sick—”

“Ash, this is not your responsibility. She’s had an allergic reaction, but they caught it in time. She’s going to be just fine. This happens at least once a term with Muriel, it’s a hard allergy to manage. Now, what’s this about the piano? It’s part of your scholarship.”

Careful now, careful.

“I haven’t been honest with you, Dean Westhaven.”