Good Girls Lie(33)
I have zero intention of following this course but I need all the information I can get.
“And when is this blessed occurrence taking place?”
“You leave in August. Term begins earlier there.”
August. It is June now. I’ll have to work fast. There’s only one way for me to truly be free.
I have two months to plan how they die.
Quote
“Time passes, and little by little everything that we have spoken in falsehood becomes true.”
—Marcel Proust
OCTOBER
Marchburg, Virginia
25
THE RISE
It doesn’t take long to realize Becca’s attention has given me the greatest gift—the cachet of approval from a senior. Why have I, a lowly transfer sophomore, of no real provenance, been singled out?
It is an instant anointment.
I employ the one tool in my arsenal—silence. It only adds to the mystique.
Who knew? I thought lies had power until I saw what silence could do.
Within days, Britishisms are popping up on our hall. Girls are nipping to the loo, sitting down for a cuppa, buggering off. Loosely styled fluffy ponytails appear. Boxes arrive in the mail room, and soon half the girls are wearing Dr. Martens boots with their chapel dresses. The infirmary runs out of Band-Aids for tender ankles, and the dean threatens to tighten the dress code; though shoes have never been on the list of required conformity like our white button-down shirts and green plaid skirts, seeing her school transform so quickly is disconcerting.
Despite my efforts to fly under the radar, and the reticence of my suitemates—no, let’s call it what it is, I’ve been openly cast aside—I am becoming a popular student. I regularly field invitations to join in—meals, game nights, gossip sessions in the sewing circle, walks on the grounds. The girls of Goode want to get to know me, but I am enjoying being unknowable. I hang out in the library, night after night, busting my tail to keep up. It’s safer that way.
The rumors abound, I hear them whispered as I walk by—I’m the daughter of rock stars on tour, or a Scandinavian princess, or the child of a famous actor, or even, maybe, the illegitimate child of the president. (This last is met with laughter, but still, who knows?) I could be anyone, from anywhere, and without the proven tracking system recording every move of the rest of my peers, duck face smiles and puppy dog nose shots taken from yachts and beaches and ski slopes, anything could be true.
They are children—sophisticated children, yes, but children nonetheless. The magic of possibility is still their favorite pastime, and since many regularly brush up against fame and fortune, live these privileged lives themselves when not stuck under the nursery rules of Dean Westhaven, anything goes.
That I look at my feet and shake my head whenever the subject of my family arises only feeds the flames. Let’s be honest. I have no idea how to handle all of this attention. Ironically, my natural aloofness makes me seem unattainable, which means the girls want me more.
The days spin on. It is October now. Rain covers the campus, cold and drizzly, and when I’m not dodging rumors and false offers of friendship, I almost feel comfortable, like I’m home.
It’s hard to believe I’ve been here a matter of weeks. I’m feeling less like a cornered animal and more like a student. Even though some of the girls still whisper behind their hands when I walk by, thanks to Camille and her minions, it’s more often the freshmen, now, who are agog by anyone in the upper classes.
I haven’t yet been left behind in my schoolwork, and naturally, I’m excelling in my computer tutorials. I’m working harder than I’ve ever worked before to keep up with the rest.
Goode’s teachers are strict and professional, and they seem to approve of me with an enthusiasm I have rarely, if ever, seen from authority figures. They encourage and push, enlighten and calmly correct. The dean, too, has been unfailingly kind, always stopping to ask after me or to bestow a compliment. “I hear the paper you wrote for Dr. Asolo was wonderful” or “Dr. Medea tells me you’re coming along quite nicely in your tutorials. Keep up the good work.” Every once in a while, “Have you thought more about your piano lessons?” At that, I always shake my head.
I see Westhaven sometimes, in the windows of the attics, staring out at the quad with something akin to longing. She seems to spend more time up there than in her office, which is strange, but everything about this place is strange. Strange, and oddly wonderful. The dean is so young to be in control of this school. Only thirty-five. Thirty-five and in charge for ten years. No wonder the school feels so current, so innovative. She is a startling figure to watch, with her elegance and shyness.
She reminds me of someone. Myself, perhaps.
Though the curriculum and mores are forward-thinking, Goode itself is mired in the past. Like home, I can feel the history emanating from the walls, but since almost every building has been renovated, at first glance, it’s all crisp and clean. The basic architecture hampers adding windows or opening walls, but everything that can be is painted in the simple dove gray of our dorm room. The white wainscotings and moldings are kept polished, the parquet and marble floors are buffed daily until they shine. Everything reflects light, from above, from below. The school is elegantly outfitted, no expense spared. Expensive and old, and for some reason, the two don’t go together.