Good Girls Lie(34)

When I walk the corridors, it’s so easy to imagine the way the school used to look—the wood floors battered and gouged, the dark corners of the rooms cobwebby, the drapes worn thin and shiny with the passage of time. As if there is a veil to be lifted. Maybe it’s because I come from a city with exceptionally old buildings, but everything about Goode’s shiny surface belies its true nature. There are echoes here, of the past. The heart of the school, written into the remodeled walls.

And the grounds are glorious. Especially now, in the fall, the combination of deciduous and evergreens gives the ground a multicolored show. The heat has broken, so whenever I have a free moment, I am outdoors, wandering. There are plenty of hiding places scattered throughout the campus.

The Selden Arboretum is a personal favorite. Despite Piper’s dire warnings, I find it a quiet, restful space. There is a spot I favor above all, a small clearing, a tiny fairy meadow, where I like to read and smoke the occasional cigarette from the pack I have stashed in my closet. Such a move is risky, but I’m not afraid. Goode respects my need for privacy, for some reason. That could be Becca’s doing, but I try not to think about it. Becca is fine. She’s been very nice, very solicitous.

There have been a few more stomps, and the entire school is getting ready to celebrate Odds and Evens weekend, a tradition that dates back to the origins of the school. Some of the sillier girls like to tell stories of the ghosts and legends, but for the most part, I have tuned them out. My world at home was full of these tales, they don’t frighten or titillate me at all. But I’m excited to do my part for the celebration—the sophomores are the sister class to the seniors and are expected to decorate the campus. Becca told me that last year, they made hundreds of water balloons and put them everywhere, and the seniors got soaked every time they opened a door or stepped through an archway. The idea of Becca being drenched makes me laugh; I wonder what sort of prank the sophomores will cook up.

Camille: there is still silent weeping in the night, but I leave it alone. If and when Camille wants to talk, she will. Lord knows she talks about everything else. We have set rules in the room—study hours and talking hours. And when it’s talking time, Camille rarely ceases, waxing on about nothing, leaving me to find quiet elsewhere. I half think she does it so I’ll vacate our room.

Piper: when she can be separated from her pack, she has proven to be an enjoyable companion. Camille and Vanessa are thick as thieves, and while Piper is their third, there are times when she steps out of their coterie and hangs out with me. She is quiet and wily, smart as a whip, and disinclined toward meaningless gossip, preferring to wait until she has something truly earth-shattering to talk about. She likes to share clothes and shoes, and I often find her draped over our couch, waiting for me to come back from class so we can go to the shops in town.

Vanessa: we will never be friends. There is something in the way she looks at me, head cocked to the side, assessing with those dark, intense eyes. Always assessing. At meals, or when I’m in the library studying, taking walks along the paths that meander through campus, at our yoga sessions and study halls, every time I look up, Vanessa is watching. It’s creepy, the attention she pays to my every move, yes. But I ignore her. Which seems to piss her off even more.

There have been no more strange scents or cracked-open doors. Those things, I believe, were in my head.

It’s been a successful few weeks. All is nominal. I’m fitting in well enough, I’ve kept the lying to a minimum. We’ve had a lovely memorial service for Muriel Grassley in the chapel, and the matter of her untimely demise has been put to rest. I’ve managed to put my complicity in her death aside. Muriel should have read the label. She shouldn’t have relied on my word alone. Don’t get me wrong, I do feel bad, but I don’t see myself as responsible.

A bullet dodged.

So why, eating my perfectly scrambled eggs with the seniors, as I’ve been doing every morning since the first summons, listening to their nonsense, staring out at the mist-blurred trees, do I have the worst sense it’s all about to come off the rails?



26

THE OUTING

The babble of two hundred teenage girls is normally a proper distraction, but breakfast today is a muted affair. There was a stomp last night, waking everyone at midnight. Because of the rain, fog wisps around the boxwoods and everyone is stuck inside. Three days of gray skies now, and the girls of Goode miss the sun, which makes them grouchy. The entire room feels off. Tense. Watchful.

I have been banished back to my table for Odds and Evens preparations. It’s strange, I don’t feel as if I belong here anymore. With the sophomores, I mean. I am Becca’s mascot, the puppy at her heels. I’m no dummy, I know how this game is played. Her protection is power personified, and I have been taking full advantage.

But today, she’s sent me down.

Camille and the others don’t have the gumption to deny me a seat at their table, not while Becca watches.

I settle in. No one speaks.

We are finishing our orange juice when a thwack sounds by my left elbow. Our waitron’s back is already turned as she moves away, the delivery made.

I glance down to see the same creamy envelope and steady, artistic hand I was presented with the day of my summons. My heart does a backflip. I reach for it, but quickly realize this time, the envelope bears Camille’s name.

Camille’s.

“It’s for you.”