Good Girls Lie(4)
The massive black wrought iron gates to the school stand open in greeting for orientation day. Term starts tomorrow, Wednesday, so Monday and Tuesday are set aside for students to get settled in the dorms, buy their books, sign up for activities and sports teams, hand over their phones, and otherwise run amok on campus, reuniting with their friends and making new.
What must be freshmen stand in bewildered clumps under the oak trees bordering the wall. Parents stumble around with furniture and boxes in hand. It is a bright, sunny late-summer day, the sky so blue it is hard to look away.
When the town car slides to the curb in front of the huge redbrick building with Main Hall carved into the gray stone lintel above the door, all heads turn. Hiding in the back, I feel unaccountably shy, embarrassed to be the center of attention, even for a moment. But the driver pops out of the town car and comes round to the door, flinging it open as if I am the Queen herself. He practically bows.
“Here you are, miss. Your very own Sandringham, tucked into the Virginia mountains,” Ruly, or Rudy, or whatever his name is, says, and I shiver. He knows more than he lets on. The school does look quite a bit like Sandringham. How very eerie. I must be more careful going forward.
With him standing there, holding the door, the smile turning quizzical, I have no choice but to get out, unfolding my long body from the back seat. I have a cramp in my thigh, but I smile winningly.
“Thank you for the ride.”
When the students realize I’m just another one of them, they go back to their conversations. Ignored, I feel better. I’d truly like to stay anonymous, do my work, study hard, get into Harvard, and leave my wretched old life behind. Strangely, I’ve never felt so alone as I do at this moment, watching the joyful faces of my soon-to-be classmates as they run and shout and hug tearful parents goodbye.
My watch twitches with a reminder—I have a meeting with the dean of the school in fifteen minutes.
Ruly Rudy, who has wrestled my massive suitcase out of the car, is standing nearby with a hopeful grin on his face.
I hand him five precious dollars, heart in my throat at the thought of letting go any of my hoard. But it is expected. “Thank you again for the ride.”
I shoulder my backpack and drag my suitcase up the stairs, entering Main Hall.
It is cool and dark inside, a welcome respite to the late-summer heat. Oddly empty, too, and quiet to the point of austerity. White columns, marble floors. There is a great sense of space, two massive staircases curving into the second-story balcony like a theater. On either side, unmanned tables are set up with engraved metal signs: A-E, F-K, L-P, Q-Z.
Why am I the only one here? Have I already done something wrong?
A middle-aged woman with gray hair in a chic bob, black glasses, and bright red lipstick that makes her look like an aging Parisian model, steps out of the office and hurries over, beckoning, and I make my way to the first table.
“Here’s a new face! Welcome to Goode. I’m Dr. Asolo, English department. You’ve missed the masses, lucky girl—most have already registered. We were getting ready to break things down, just waiting on the stragglers.” She looks over my shoulder. “Where are your parents?”
The lie comes easily, smoothly, without thought. “They dropped me.”
Dr. Asolo’s lips purse in disapproval but she puts a hand on the metal sign, tapping it with her thick gold wedding band. “We usually like to meet the new students’ parents, but if they’re already gone...”
“They are. So sorry.”
“You didn’t know,” she says absently, waiting. Her hands are captivating, capable, nails short and buffed, with clear polish—another Goode regulation. No hair dyes. No colored polish. Au naturel. The ladies of Goode will not be fake.
Dr. Asolo clears her throat. “Name, dear?”
“Erm, Ash. Ash Carlisle. With a C.”
“I am a professor of English, dear. Your accent isn’t so heavy that I need subtitles.” She chortles at her joke, and I smile, a blinding, perfect smile that nearly makes my cheeks crack. I’ve almost forgotten. Charming Ash.
“Very good. Carlisle, Carlisle...” Dr. Asolo roots through the box on the table, then pulls out a packet like she’s retrieved Excalibur from the stone, triumphant. “Here we are! You’re in Main, Room 214. Freshmen and sophomores are on level two, juniors on level three, and seniors on four, in the attics. You’re class of 2023, so you’re an Odd—staircase on the right only. If you take the wrong staircase, you won’t graduate. And you’re not allowed on the seniors’ floor without an express invitation. Don’t let them catch you trying to sneak in, either.”
This is said with such alacrity I feel a stab of panic. “You mean, like, it’s a rule? You watch everyone to make sure?”
“Oh, no, dear. It’s tradition. You’ll find we have a few here. Now, your roommate is already upstairs getting settled. I’m sure she’s very anxious to meet you. You’re from England, isn’t that right? Well, Camille is from DC but she lived in England when she was younger, so you’ll have lots in common.”
A knot of girls enters the hall, creating a commotion. At their center is a tall, willowy blonde, ethereally pretty, with shrewd green eyes. The girls stop in front of the tables. I know I’m staring; I can’t look away. Epochs of instinct tell me this is an important moment, an important person I need to impress. I’m nervous to be singled out so soon, so quickly, though. My God, I haven’t been here ten minutes and I’m already drawing attention. I smile. Wide. Molars showing.