Good Girls Lie(28)

“I have,” I say lightly. “Perhaps we can make it through the next three years sans scandal or tragedy, yes?”

“God, I hope so. I don’t like ghosts.”

* * *

I’m almost asleep when I hear Camille crying quietly. Should I acknowledge this? It feels private, but with her fever... Maybe she’s more ill than she’s letting on.

“Are you well, Camille? Should I call someone?”

A big sniff. “I’m okay. Thanks for checking on me, Ash. Just missing home.”

“Is your fever down?”

“I’m okay,” she repeats. “Go to sleep.”

Soon after, the bed shifts and Camille slides off the top quiet as a stalking cat. She is out the door a heartbeat later.

I let her go. Don’t get attached. You’ll only get hurt.

But when she hasn’t returned thirty minutes later, I am compelled to seek her out. My feet are chilled as I walk the abandoned, darkened hall toward the bathrooms. Privacy isn’t important here; though there is a handicap toilet on each hall, each wing has its own bathroom, complete with showers and toilet stalls. Like a prison. Everything on display. Do you know how hard that is for teenagers? Torture, first degree.

I hit pay dirt. Camille is inside—I can smell her Philosophy perfume that reminds me of the marshmallow cream I had as a child. She is sobbing so quietly I can barely hear her.

I speak low so as not to startle her. “Camille?”

But it is Vanessa who steps from the stall. “She’s fine. Go back to bed.”

“She’s sick. I think you should take her to the nurse.”

“Mind your own business, Brit. I’ve got this under control.” A low moan escapes the stall. “Go. Now.”

Against my better judgment, I do.

Camille doesn’t return to the room that night.



21

THE AFFAIR

Ford’s inability to fall asleep has always been an issue. Though she dutifully climbs into bed at 10:00 p.m. every night, sleep mask on to help her melatonin levels rise, she often lies there, listening to her own breath, until she finally gives up and goes to her desk.

Tonight’s nagging worry, the conversation she had with Muriel Grassley about Ash Carlisle before her untimely demise.

“She hasn’t been playing, certainly. Said her parents’ death has traumatized her. You should have told us, Ford. She shouldn’t be held to such a standard, trying to hide the fact that her parents are so recently deceased.”

“I will take your opinion under advisement, Muriel. She’s planning to quit entirely?”

“Yes. Says her heart isn’t in it. Honestly, Ford, I can’t say I disagree. She certainly isn’t the same player we heard on the tapes. Such a shame to let such an astounding, God-given talent go to waste, but we can’t force art. She’s just a child. A hurting child.”

“Oh, my. That is distressing news. We certainly don’t want to force her. She seems to have shown an aptitude for computers, of all things.”

“Really? Well, if she’s giving up the piano, it isn’t a bad substitution. Still a creative field, in many ways. I do hate to see her lose this much practice time, though. You know how hard it is to get yourself back to tip-top shape.”

“Yes. Why don’t we revisit the subject in a few weeks? Give her a chance to settle in. Thank you for letting me know, Muriel.”

Ash is a concert-level player. Could be, that is. If she isn’t interested in playing anymore, Ford isn’t going to force her. And now that they’ve lost Muriel—what a shame. What a damn shame. The two would have made magic together.

She’s left the window open to help circulate some air; even the night is warm still. The cottages have air-conditioning, but she prefers to leave it off, instead listening to the night sounds from the forest—the wail of a solitary mockingbird, the chirps of crickets, the rustling of nocturnal creatures coming out for their dinner.

If she can’t sleep, she might as well try to write.

She rolls a piece of paper into the typewriter, runs through a few lines, stares up at the school. Lights flicker in the Commons, and she smiles. What are her girls up to tonight? Earlier, there was noise coming from the grounds. One of the secret societies, no doubt, titillated by roaming the grounds after dark.

The secret societies at Goode are a centuries-old tradition. Ford knows of at least ten, though some are secret enough they’ve stayed off even her radar. The school has been pressured to disband them over the years, and there have been quiet lawsuits now and again due to hazing gone wrong.

Ford is realistic enough to know Goode can ban the societies and they’ll continue on regardless. Cliques form in large groups, this is simply a fact of life. Belonging is good for teenagers. Finding like-minded individuals, girls with whom they can feel at home, will strengthen them, ready them for the world. She has always resisted the idea that all the girls are equal. This is why Goode is so successful. All girls are not created equal. All girls do not fit a preconceived notion, a standardized cutout. Some are good at math, some are good at English. Some can ride, some can run. Her job is to nurture their strengths and help them find ways to mediate their weaknesses. To make them strong, not delicate creatures easily crushed by the world.

She knows this method works. Not only did she graduate with honors, she’d been in a couple of the societies when she was a student, too. Whenever a parent freaks out, Ford has the right words: “Trust me when I say it’s all in good fun. No one is getting hurt. They are doing nothing wrong outside of breaking curfew now and again. And it’s good for them to find their allies in this world.”