Good Girls Lie(16)

“Oh?”

“It’s only... I hate it. I hate the piano. Yes, I know it’s part of my scholarship but I want to give up. Every key stroke reminds me of my mother. I need more time.”

Well, that part is true, at least.

The dean’s face crumples in compassion. “Oh, my poor duck. I understand completely. Why don’t we revisit this in a few days? See how you’re feeling then.”

I’ve bought myself some time. Excellent.

“Yes, Dean. I appreciate your understanding.”

Her smile is genuine and warm. “Why don’t you take yourself to bed now? You must be exhausted. I’ll tell Muriel you’ve asked after her. And you can talk to her tomorrow. All right?”

I’d prefer never to speak to her again, but what choice do I have?

“Yes, Dean.”

And I toddle off to bed like a good little girl.

That was much too close.

Walking up the Odd stairs, I run through the situation. I probably should have mentioned the candy, but if Muriel didn’t sell me out, then perhaps I can slide through this one without some massive mea culpa.

God, I hope.



12

THE STOMP

Back upstairs, I am attacked by ravenous wolves desperate for gossip. I dutifully report my findings, brief and succinct, then scurry into our room. The sick bitches whisper disappointment in my wake; they would have been much more satisfied if Grassley had died instead of temporarily incapacitated.

I don’t tell them my role. I’m hoping it never gets out, but I’m not too sure. Goode has no secrets. This will be an excellent test.

While Camille showers in preparation for bed, I rifle through her drawers. There is nothing exciting, nothing of consequence outside of a half-empty pint of vodka. The usual detritus of a teenage girl. Disappointing, but not surprising. I have no idea what I’m looking for, anyway. Clues, maybe, a guidebook for living in this new world.

By the time Camille returns, I’ve crawled into bed, stretched out on my side facing the wall, and am faking sleep, wondering if I’ve made a mistake coming here. I’m not ready to make friends. I’m not ready to answer questions. The energy it is going to take to keep people at a distance is massive. And what if I can’t hack it? Not to mention the school aspect of all this? What if the classes are too hard?

I finally fall into a fretful sleep at midnight, restless and rumpled, and wake to the strange sense that something is amiss.

Singing. I can hear singing. Am I dreaming?

I sit up, rub my eyes. Stretch. No. Not dreaming.

But where is it coming from? Not my earbuds, though I’ve fallen asleep with them in. I pull them from my neck and toss them onto the night table. My laptop slips off the side of the bed, and I make a grab for it before it hits the floor.

Outside. The singing is coming from outside.

I go to the window. The night is black as pitch, deep as velvet. A glance at my watch shows it’s 1:30 a.m. The singing is growing louder, coming closer. The hair rises on the back of my neck. This isn’t a gentle, melodic song. This is coarse, meaningless; words shouted to a Sousa march beat.

Oh. This must be what the girls called a stomp.

Vanessa, when she could wedge a word in edgewise, explained the details over dinner. The secret societies are something like sororities at many Southern colleges, though you can’t pledge or ask to join one. The sisters have to come to you, a process known as being tapped.

I already knew the secret societies at Goode are a very big deal; I’d read about them when I was investigating the school but hadn’t paid much attention. I’m not much of a joiner, and seriously doubt I am the kind of person a secret society would want anyway. At dinner, Vanessa made them out to be almost mythical, as important to a Goode girl’s résumé as a 4.0 GPA and an admission letter to Harvard. “The societies carry over into college, you know. It’s the ultimate networking tool. Anyone can pledge a sorority. To be chosen, that’s the true test.”

The societies are secret for a reason. The members have been known to wreak havoc on the school from time to time. I’m not sure I understand how that works with the Honor Code, but I’m not worried. I’ll never find out. I am not secret society material.

When I turn from the window, I realize my roommate isn’t in her bed.

At the thought of Camille, I fall back into my bunk with a groan. The girl is just so...shallow. She’s probably book-smart—how else would she have gotten into Goode?—but has already shown she has the common sense of a gnat.

I lie on the bed, stare at the slab of wood above me, rubbing my temples for comfort. Tomorrow is the first day of classes, I’ve almost killed a teacher, my roommate is a jerk, and I’m wicked tired. I took some melatonin to help me sleep—I read it was good for jet lag—but all it’s done is give me a splitting headache.

The singing and stomping grow louder. Should I go to the door and look out to see what’s happening? Tempting. But no. Again, stay off the radar, Ash.

They are on the hall now, which means everyone is being disturbed. Earlier, I wondered aloud about the split floors and why they aren’t inverted, with freshman having to hike the three stories and seniors only one, but Camille made it very clear the attic rooms are incredible, with sloped ceilings and big windows with clear views of the Blue Ridge Mountains all around the campus. They are the most special. Sought after.