Good Girls Lie(43)

Technically, I shouldn’t be writing hacks, but Medea seems to enjoy my white hat work so much, and I like showing off for him. It’s like he understands me in a way most of the other teachers don’t. After my screwup today, I want him firmly back in my foxhole.

I’m halfway through a complicated keystroke analysis when I realize there is movement behind me. I ignore it, turn up the music, but it persists.

Camille, clearly nervous, is walking in circles like a caged lion, waiting until her appointed time to go upstairs. She is making silly little humming noises and scraping her hand on the top of the sofa. I don’t know how I can sense this through July Talk’s intense lyrics, but I can.

I pull out my earbuds. “Will you stop?”

Camille shakes her head. “What if...?”

“What if what?”

“I don’t know. Ignore me.”

“Impossible. You’re doing laps around the couch. It’s a bit distracting.”

“I’m just so nervous.” She goes to her dresser and I see the flash of clear glass, hear the clink as the little bottle of vodka she keeps stashed in her top drawer disappears back into her socks. Camille plops down with an alcohol-tinged sigh. “That’s better. Are you okay? You cut classes, you’re going to be in trouble.”

Oh, lovely. We’re going to bond.

“Already am. Detention with the dean for two weeks to work off my JPs. I thought you’d heard?”

“I’ve been distracted today. Where did you go?”

“Town. The coffee shop. Do you know Rumi?”

She blanches. “Oh, my God, Ash. You can’t talk to him. He’s...he’s dangerous.”

“I heard. He told me about his father.”

Camille’s pale face goes even whiter. “He just told you? What did he say?”

“The truth, I reckon. He said it was hard on him. And if he was dangerous, the dean wouldn’t have him on staff here. He seems a decent bloke, for all I could tell.”

“There are rumors about him. He likes to watch us, the girls, I mean. He stands on the path to the arboretum and watches the teams practice. He’s some sort of pedophile. You really should stay away. He’s not your type.”

“There are rumors about everyone. Me included. And I seriously doubt he’s a pedophile. He’s just lonely. And how do you know what my type is?”

A small chime and Camille leaps to her feet, her face splitting into an incandescent grin, the specter of Rumi already forgotten.

“Finally, finally, it’s time. Wish me luck.”

I say, “Cheers,” and mean it sincerely. I have no idea what the seniors want with Camille, can only assume it’s about me. They want information and think my roommate is the best source. Why they don’t have the balls to ask me directly or go to Becca, who knows. Sometimes the logic here is beyond me.

When the door slams and I’m finally alone, I sag against the chair. Why did Camille warn me off Rumi? He seems totally fine. Nice, even.

Okay, I’ll admit, I’ve been thinking about my chat with him all day. How difficult it must be for him, to be the object of derision and scorn from the town where he grew up, to be looked down upon because of the choices of his parent. I understand more than he knows.

With all this chaos raging in my mind, I find it almost impossible to concentrate on my elegant little code. I’ll work on it tomorrow. I might as well get ready for bed, snuggle under the covers and read. Dr. Asolo assigned Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own this afternoon and I’m actually looking forward to reading it. I understand the desire to have something private, a place where you can be yourself without guile. I don’t know where that will ever be for me, not anymore.

I brush my teeth and get into my pajamas. Glance at the clock. It’s nearly eleven. Time for lights out. Camille has been gone for a while, longer than I was.

I read, get lost in the words, the rhythm. My eyes are starting to droop when the pounding begins, fists slamming against my door with such force the small painting above Camille’s desk crashes to the floor.



34

THE TAP

The door flies open. Screaming, shouting, hands all over me. I am screaming now, too, completely freaking out. My mind is blank except for a single thought—Get away! Get away!

I struggle mightily, but there are too many of them. They get me by the arms and legs and push a rag into my mouth, then throw a bag of some sort over my head. It smells like pine cones and it muffles my screams. My ears feel like they’re going to burst with the pressure of these internal yells.

They wrestle me out of the bed and out the door. I don’t know how many adversaries there are, just feel so many hands yanking and pulling. Someone giggles and this infuriates me. They drop me twice, my back smacking into the stair tread, but as quickly as they lose their grip they have me again, wrapping arms around my waist, and they haul me up, up, up.

I am crying now, but my whimpers are drowned out by the rag, the hood, the shouts. A door swings open and I feel a cool breeze, then I’m tossed handily into the air and land with a thud on the floor. The door slams closed, and the screaming stops.

My hip hurts.

I am alone.

It is so quiet.

The bag is gone from my head. I had my eyes squeezed shut so tightly I didn’t realize they’d removed it. I spit out the rag, heave in deep breaths.