Good Girls Lie(42)
“It’s not exactly the same, Dean. No offense, but I’d trade it all to get my mum back.”
“I’m sure you would. I certainly don’t blame you. I’m sure you’re missing your piano training. The structure you must have had at home. I’m interviewing a new teacher tomorrow. Perhaps you’d like to meet her, as well?”
“No. I am finished with piano. It was something my parents wanted, not me.”
“Talent isn’t something to squander, Ash.”
“I’m not squandering it. I’m just more interested in computers now.”
Ford senses the anger rising but Ash shocks her when she continues.
“I saw it happen, you know. Have you ever seen anyone die? Watched as the light disappears from their eyes?” Ash’s voice has taken on an eerie quality, and Ford feels goose bumps run across her flesh. “I couldn’t look away from that spark dimming, growing distant until it was gone entirely. I dream about it every night, my mother’s face as the life drained away, her eyes going blank.”
“We need to talk about getting you some counseling, Ash.” Ford’s voice is soft, comforting. She needs to take better care of her young charge. She should have known this would be too much. She’s been pushing her too hard.
But the tears stop abruptly. Ash sits up ramrod straight, wipes a hand over her face.
“No, we don’t.”
“You’ve suffered a trauma. It’s incumbent upon me to get you some help so you aren’t scarred by this forever. You can learn some coping mechanisms so you don’t relive the moment over and over. It sounds to me like you have PTSD—”
“I said no. I won’t do it. I’m fine. I was frustrated by Vanessa’s attack this morning, caught off guard, but I am fine. I can handle this.”
The note of steel in her voice is alarming, but more so the absence of all feelings. She’s turned off her emotions quicker than flipping a light switch.
They sit in silence while Ford assesses her young student. She can’t force her. But she can keep a closer eye on her.
“All right. No counseling.”
“Thank you.”
“That said, as difficult a moment as this is for you, Ash, I can’t have you disrupting the school. Cutting will not be tolerated. You’ve got five points now. Instead of Saturday school, I want you here, in my office, every day at 4:00 p.m. for after-school detention. Do you understand?”
“I understand, Dean Westhaven.” The soft voice is back.
“And hand over the cigarettes. And don’t even think of lying to me, Ash, I can smell them on you.”
“I don’t have any more, Dean. That was my last one.”
She meets Ford’s eyes again, this time defiant. Ford doesn’t know what to make of these personality swings, from soft, pliant girl child to steely, cold woman. She did not pick up on this young woman’s darkness when she interviewed her. She knows now this was a mistake. Ash Carlisle bears watching.
“Four tomorrow, Ash. Bring your homework.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ignoring Ford’s wince, Ash lopes from the room.
33
THE HACKER
Since I’ve been disciplined, the girls of Goode accept me back to the school with grace, almost as if the spat in the dining room this morning never happened. I walk the halls expecting the whispers and stares, but it’s as if the whole school came to an agreement that they’re going to leave me alone, and after my meltdown with the dean, I’m relieved to move through the rest of the day unmolested.
I didn’t enjoy the disappointment in Dr. Medea’s eyes at my late arrival this morning. He didn’t scold or hand out JPs, as I expected, but that look was enough to make me vow never to be late for him again. And my programming sucks.
I want to get him back to that smooth, smiling, generous soul he was the first few weeks of school. I have to keep him on my good side.
In English, I receive a B on my Mary Shelley essay, with extensive notes on how to revise. I skip lunch, grab a smoothie from the Rat—no way I am going to face the wolves so soon—but talk myself into going to dinner, head up, eyes focused ahead.
When I sit at the sophomores’ table, Vanessa stands and moves. Piper, after an apologetic glance, follows. Oddly, Camille stays, nattering on about her upcoming meeting in the attics, a cardinal seen flying into the open chapel doors, and a letter from home written by her stepbrother.
Battle lines drawn. I ignore Vanessa, roll my eyes at Piper, indulge Camille’s soliloquy, eat my Cobb salad, then, back on the hall, purposefully sit in Vanessa’s usual spot in the sewing circle for an hour, chatting with a couple of girls from my English class, bitching about my two weeks of detention. They are enamored. Better, though, is the look on Vanessa’s face when she realizes I’ve captured her spot. She takes one look at me in the middle of the circle and her eyes burn with hatred. She huffs and disappears down the hall. Utterly priceless.
I mustn’t allow myself to be cowed. If I show any more weakness like I did this morning, I’ll be fighting them off the rest of term. No, staying calm and in their faces is the best way to handle things.
After study hours, I retreat to my room to draft the outline for an essay on the theories of Plato’s Cave seen in Ayn Rand’s Anthem. Satisfied with the bones, I settle in to indulge my inner naughty by writing some astounding code for Dr. Medea. I park myself at my desk with my usual setup—earbuds for some slamming music, a Diet Coke from the kitchen. A notebook in case the structure of what I’m developing doesn’t show itself—all of my code have shapes in my mind. It’s why I’m good at this, Medea told me. Some coders see in numbers or colors; my talent is shapes. Double helixes, braids, hearts, lately. A lot of hearts. The shape of the code helps me find the nuance of what I’m hacking. He says this is rare. It makes me feel special.