Good Girls Lie(47)

“You’ll understand in the morning. Ah, here it is.” She locks the door to the red staircase, pockets the key.

“Dean Westhaven knows about the cigarettes.”

“What?”

“She questioned me today. Smelled it on me. I told her they were mine.”

Becca’s eyes are huge in the darkness. “You covered for me?”

“Yes.”

“You lied for me?”

I feel the warmth of Becca’s voice, approving, caressing my body. “Yes.”

“Thank you. Now, off to bed with you, but wash up first. Do not touch your face, or your cooch, and make it a good, hot, soapy shower. Remember, don’t tell a soul.”

She pushes me out the door, down the stairs to the sophomore hall.

“Be waiting at the door to the seniors’ hall at 7:00 a.m. Don’t be late, Swallow. You won’t like the punishment for tardiness.”

And then the warm, sweet Becca is gone, back to her world in the attics, and I am alone, standing naked in the stairwell. My arms itch.

Ivy Bound.

The variegated leaves. Three to a stem. Itching.

Oh, bollocks!

I burst through the door and sprint to the hall’s handicap bath. I push the button with my elbow and dart inside. The sudden burst of light—the overhead is on a motion sensor—makes me wince, but not as badly as when I see myself in the mirror.

I am streaked in red.

They’ve made us rub ourselves with poison ivy.

“Those sadistic bitches.” I start the shower and jump in to wash. It’s not going to help, the leaves were crushed into my skin, the juice is already making blisters form.

Benadryl. To help counteract the itching.

Devious, and smart.

The hall is empty and quiet as I head back to the room. Out of habit, I look at the door across the hall. It is closed. But that means nothing. I try the knob, surprised to find it locked.

We don’t have locks on our doors. It’s part of the Honor Code.

I look closer at the knob. There are scratches in the fresh paint and a keyhole.

Someone must have reported that the door wouldn’t stay closed and one of the janitors changed the knob. The lock was certainly for safety’s sake—all that paint and raw wood, nails, all things that could hurt an unwitting student.

So why does it feel like someone is standing on the other side of the door, holding their breath?

Okay, now I really am wigging out. I move quickly toward my door. As I turn the knob, a voice bleeds into the night, and I can swear I hear my name being called. It is far away, though, and I shake my head and enter the room. I’m being paranoid. I’m still half-drunk and high, and have spooked myself. The drunken image of the dead girl in the stairwell, the red stairs, the murdered girl in the arboretum, the very heart of this school is its great ghost stories. But they’re stories. That’s all.

The room is still a mess, and Camille isn’t back. She must have decided to bunk with another girl, or maybe she’s been tapped for a secret society, too. No, probably not. They say sophomores never get tapped.

But I have been.

I’m special.

I open my wardrobe door and smile in the wavy mirror. I am Ivy Bound. Becca Curtis is my secret friend. There is a handsome boy in town who flirts with me, and the dean thinks I’m a weak little sobby snatch.

I have played this all perfectly.

On my mussed-up bed is a small brown lunch bag sitting atop a T-shirt with a picture of a small bird on the front. I put it on with a smile, then open the bag to find a whole kit—cortisone cream, calamine lotion, cotton wool, Benadryl, packets of Aveeno oatmeal tub soak. Nail clippers. And a note:

Go to the nurse, and you’re cut. Sweet dreams, Swallow.
They are serious about their torture, but at least they’ve given me the remedy. Despite years tromping through field and forest, I’ve never had a case of poison ivy. How bad can it possibly be?

I cut my nails almost to the quick, take some of the Benadryl, spread cortisone cream on my arms, stomach, and thighs, then climb into bed. Set my alarm for 6:00 a.m. I’m not going to get much sleep, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything.

I’ve been tapped.

I belong.

I am quite literally wearing the fruit of my labors on my body.

The spark of pride, of excitement, almost drowns out the incessant itching of my arm, and the creepy, crawly feeling of my name being called out, carried on the mountain breeze.

Almost.

I run the evening through my mind, over and over, the screaming, the instructions, who was there. Some girls I didn’t recognize, some I did. No matter, we’ll be marked tomorrow. All I need is to find the most miserable-looking faces and I’ll know my flock mates.

“I am a Swallow. I am Ivy Bound.” I whisper the words over and over until I fall asleep.



37

THE TRAGEDY

Rumi comes to Ford tonight without texting first, ravenous. He doesn’t say anything, just smiles that come-hither grin, slams the door behind him, and takes her in his arms, kissing her deeply.

“Good day?” she asks when they come up for air, but he whispers “No talking,” grabs her hand, and leads her to the bedroom, where he flips her on her stomach and takes her from behind.

While he makes sure she’s fully satisfied, tonight is clearly about him. When he finishes, shuddering against her back, he simply pulls up his jeans, gives her another long, soulful kiss, and starts for the door.