Good Girls Lie(45)

What is going on?

I look at my feet, dirty from the stroll through the tunnel. They pulse at me, friendly and kind. I like my feet. They have a good shape, high arched, toes long and elegant. But vulnerable, too. They get banged up so easily. I remember breaking my little toe last year, stumbling into a table. It hurt like hell. Took forever to heal. I couldn’t wear boots for months.

“Sorry, toe,” I whisper.

“Line up, you stupid twat. And stop talking to yourself like a madwoman.” The screamer pushes me into the row of girls. I lose my balance, knock the one standing next to me with an elbow, and the whole line topples like dominoes. Hushed laughter fills the room, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing, too. If there are other people here, I’m not going to die.

I want to look and see who else is lined up, but I’m wrenched back to my feet.

“Stay,” Becca says, and I plant myself. I am a tree. I have roots. That’s why my feet are covered in dirt, I need to root down. Root to the earth, daughter. Feel its energy flow through your body.

I can hear these ghostly words but they don’t make sense, not entirely.

“I think you gave them too much. None of them can keep their heads up.”

“I didn’t. They’re just sleepy. It took me forever to get the last Swallow to cooperate.”

“Are you sure, Becca?”

“Yes. Let’s get started. Swallows!”

I look up. I know my name. I am the vessel for the dead. I bring death and destruction in my wake. The souls of my people are inside of me.

“When I say ‘Swallows’, you say ‘yes, Mistress.’ Swallows!”

“Yes, Mistress,” comes the cry in unison.

“See?” Becca says to the screamer. “They’re fine. Listen to me, little darlings. You are about to embark on the most difficult week of your life. Not all of you will make it. And if you don’t make it, you will never amount to anything. You will be a laughingstock. You will be shunned. You will be cast out. Do you understand?”

Voices, stronger now, shout, “Yes, Mistress!”

“Yes,” I add, a beat too late.

“Look at your sisters. Look to your flock. You will carry each other when you are tired. You will work together. You will grow together. Who you were before no longer matters. Who your parents are no longer matters. We are your family now. Do you understand?”

She bellows, and we scream back at her, “Yes, Mistress!”

“Good. Strip.” The Swallows look around vaguely, then slowly, clothes start coming off. It’s hard to imagine things could be colder, but they are. Naked now, I am covered in gooseflesh. I cross an arm over my breasts. The other is meant to shield me, but I can’t get it into the shape of a fig leaf, so it dangles near my pelvis. Another giggle, this one from deep inside. Naked, in front of a group of strangers. This is the worst anxiety dream ever.

Becca says to the girl standing next to her, the one I’m having trouble focusing on—wait, it’s one of the twins—“Do you have it?”

“It’s in the bag.”

“Swallow!” Becca is screaming in my face now. She shoves me toward a trash bag sitting in the corner. We’re in a cabin, my feeble mind grasps at last. We’re out of the school. We’re naked in a cabin. What the hell?

“Pass it out. Down the line. Each Swallow needs a handful.”

“Yes, Mistress.” I pick up the bag. It smells of earth. I shuffle along, ignoring the variety in the body parts on display, trying to memorize the faces I see instead, as hands dip into the bag and draw out some sort of fall leaves. I recognize Jordan Swanson, the brunette junior in my computer class. Jordan is grinning, happy. All the faces in the line are happy in a sense, though some look scared, too.

It hits me, and I stagger a little under the knowledge of what’s happening.

This isn’t a joke. This isn’t a revenge play.

This is a tap.

I am being tapped for a secret society.

And Becca is the Mistress. That can only mean...

“Rub yourselves, Swallows. That’s right, rub the pretty leaves all over your sweet little bodies. Keep it away from your face, you fool, just arms, legs, and stomachs.”

I comply. The scent of the leaves is slightly spicy, and I like the feeling of it on my skin. Soft, fingertips caressing, the veins in the orange leaves so pretty, so pretty...

“Now put the leaves back in the bag.”

We do.

“Wash your hands.”

I smell bleach, feel the rough clammy washcloth against my skin. This is like a game I played as a child—Simon Says. Simon says hold your nose. Simon says touch your toes. Touch your nose—nope, Simon didn’t say it, you’re out.

I was always good at this game.

“Drop them in this.”

Another bag makes its way down the line. I divest myself of the stinky washcloth.

“Good little Swallows. Now, drink this.”

The bottle makes its way down the line. When it gets to me, I take a mouthful. More vodka. I am so thirsty. I want water, or tea, not vodka. My head is swimming, and my stomach feels funny. I am drunk now, but more. Drunk and high on something. The room throbs with energy; my eyes can’t focus. I stare at Becca, my Mistress, with one eye closed, then the other. It’s better with one eye. Easier to focus.