Good Girls Lie(21)

I already feel behind and this is only the first day of classes. I’ve taken so many notes my fingers are raw and bruised, wrists sore from balancing on the sharp edge of my laptop.

My classmates are smart. Seriously smart.

And the teachers expect nothing less than intelligent discourse. Lectures are informal conclaves where topics are discussed, rhetorized, not taught. With the small classes, the teacher-to-student ratio less than ten per class, there is no opinion, no idea, left unturned. The teachers don’t lecture, they posit a theory and open the floor to discussion. I am expected to be informed and have opinions. I am expected to participate. I feel nauseated at the mere thought of three days of this level of inquisition, much less three years. It will get worse as term goes on.

I am in trouble. Over my head. Already.

It is 2:00 p.m. and time for my computer science class. It is the second to last unit for the day. The lab, deep in the bowels of the science building, is quiet, illuminated by canned lights, the walls cherry and glass, arranged so the screens won’t get a glare.

And the screens—four to a table, three rows—are all run off professional-grade Dells, black towers humming quietly to themselves, busy bees at work crunching data. Complete overkill for a high school class. But that’s Goode. Overkill is their middle name.

The Silicon Valley professor, Dr. Dominic Medea, is as good-looking up close as he is from far away. More so. Dashing is the first word that comes to mind. A tall, dark, handsome Heathcliff, I can easily picture him striding across the moors, bellowing Catherine’s name. I read his CV over lunch. He’s worked at all of the major FANG companies, has developed more software than they can conceptualize. I’m lucky to be studying under him.

When I take a seat at the first table, he looks at me with an interested gaze, and like an idiot, I blush under the attention. I’m relieved when his eyes trail over my shoulder to the door. His face breaks into a wide, welcoming smile, and I glance, too. My heart sinks as Becca Curtis strides in.

The bully, stealing all the air from the room.

Dr. Medea claps his hands. “Wonderful, wonderful, now we’re all present. Becca, you can take the terminal right here.” He points at the seat next to me.

Oh, sweet Jesus. Not only am I sharing a class with my nemesis, I have to sit next to her, too? Why hadn’t I just kept my fat gob shut? Then she wouldn’t give a crap about me, and I could write my code in peace.

I fiddle with the strap of my backpack, determined to stay out of eye contact. Becca takes her seat, whispers, “Stupid Brit,” under her breath.

So much for that. I clench my teeth and ignore her. The only chance I had with the girl is long gone. I’ve been in these schoolyard battles before. I thought, naively, obviously, I wouldn’t face the same in America. That somehow, the girls of Goode would be different.

But human nature is what it is, and someone will always be there to prey on the weak.

The girl behind me whispers loud enough for me to hear, “What is she doing here? Isn’t this an upper-class seminar?”

“All levels now, apparently,” her tablemate says. “She’ll never be able to keep up. I give her a week.”

I turn and look over my shoulder. The girl’s thick brunette ponytail skims the green stole around her shoulders and she smirks.

Ignore them. Ignore them.

Dr. Medea stands in the front of the room, smiling cluelessly at the vicious discourse happening among his ranks. “Welcome, welcome. I’m Dr. Medea, and today, we’re going to do some kernel hacking. Sounds like fun, yes?”

And we’re off. He assigns a basic Python sniffer script, a baby script, and by the muttering and groaning and lack of typing around me, I realize I am finally going to excel at something and my heart lifts. I am well ahead of the rest of the students, these advanced young ladies who are supposed to be moving on to MIT and Caltech, so much so that when Dr. Medea comes to check my code, he whistles softly through his teeth.

“You should have told me this was remedial work for you, Miss Carlisle. I daresay you could have taught today’s class.”

I am aware of every eye on me, including Becca Curtis, whose right eyebrow has shot to her hairline.

“Meet me in my office after class, if you would.”

I nod meekly.

The bells toll at three and we’re dismissed. Becca saunters past. “Maybe you’re not so stupid, after all.”

I can’t read her tone so I ignore her and Dr. Medea waves me into his office. It is a simple room, brick walls, the desk clean of everything but a freestanding iMac, a small Moleskine notebook, and a black desk pad. His brown leather messenger bag, worn and frayed around the edges, sits at his feet like a loyal old dog.

“You have experience with computers,” he says, and I nod. “Just how experienced are you?”

For once, I don’t lie. “I can hold my own. It’s easy for me. The rest of this...” I wave a hand, then freeze. God, what a stupid mistake. Way to go, Ash, admitting to a teacher you’re finding Goode anything less than a breeze.

But Dr. Medea bestows a gloriously kind, benevolent smile that warms me to my toes. “Goode is a challenging curriculum, a challenging environment. You’re going to do fine. New school, new country, it’s bound to be a bit jarring. Cut yourself some slack. Now, tell me about that line of code you just wrote. What does it do?”