Good Girls Lie(60)

Who was she with?

It takes me a moment to realize Becca has led me upstairs and I’m walking freely down the seniors’ hall.

The attics. The coveted attics. And not shunted off into some strange, creepy room, this is the real deal.

Becca is moving quickly, but there are plenty of doors open—the whole school is awake and distraught. I see flashes from inside—colors, crying, insolent stares. A few exclamations of protest, but muffled. I’m with Becca Curtis. I’m protected. I’m golden.

Becca leads me to the end of the hall, a room by the stairs. “You may enter,” she says, like I’m a vampire she’s inviting in for dinner.

At first glance, Becca’s room feels shockingly plain. One desk. The sofa is wider, deeper, and covered in dark blue velvet. There are two damask armchairs. Dormers, both with a window seat and fluffy pillows. Lofted ceilings with timber beams. A huge mahogany wardrobe. Bookshelves. There is a second room, too, the bedroom itself, and she has a private bath.

It’s like a well-appointed Parisian garret, only not as small.

And it’s original to the school. It has not been renovated into obscurity like the bottom three floors.

This, this is what Goode should look like.

“Holy shit.”

“Yes, it’s nice, isn’t it? The former dean’s space. It’s always saved for head girl. I like it. My mother did the decorating. This style is one of the few things my mother and I agree upon. She has impeccable taste.”

“Yes.” What else am I going to say? My roommate just died but I think your mum has an excellent feel for drapery?

“Sit.”

I collapse into a chair. It is wide and soft and I want to curl into a ball and go to sleep, preferably for days.

Becca closes the door and folds herself into the far edge of the sofa. Her knees are dirty. Like she’s been kneeling in ashes.

“I have to say, you’re well shot of that roommate. She was only going to hold you back. But what a fucking mess. What did you tell them?”

“Nothing of note. That I was bodily taken from my room to someplace I can’t identify, yelled at, then brought back. I didn’t tell them anything else about the tap.”

“Did you give them the shirt?”

“I didn’t have a choice. Becca, what—”

“Did you tell them we were together the whole time?”

“Yes. Mostly.”

“What do you mean, mostly?”

“I had to tell them I took a shower. And you weren’t in it with me.”

Becca looks stricken for a second, then anger crosses her angelic face.

“I gave you an ironclad alibi, and you tossed it away? How stupid are you?”

“First off, I don’t need an alibi. I didn’t do anything. Second, I couldn’t lie. They knew I’d showered, my hair and towel were wet, and they took apart the room. They asked if you were with me. Would you rather me lie and say we were showering together after hours?”

“You could have said it was Camille’s towel.”

I start to stand up. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I understand how this game is played. Don’t lie unless you need to? I signed the pledge, just like you did. I can’t get kicked out for lying about something so inconsequential.”

“But you’d let me? My God, Ash, you contradicted what I told the dean. I said I was with you all night. All you had to do was say the same. Then we’d both be covered. Instead, now there’s a time gap, and it looks like I was trying to cover something up.”

“Were you?”

The words are out of my mouth before I can think. Becca’s anger turns to rage, billowing across her face, and I move so quickly I knock over the chair. I’ve only seen that look from one other person, and it scares me to the bone. I know what follows, and brace myself.

Becca, though, doesn’t move. The color slowly drains from her face. I’m backed against the wall, waiting for the punches to come, to land, but Becca is frozen on the couch.

A breath. Another.

Slowly, I detach myself, flexing my hands. My shortened, clipped but unfiled nails have bitten into the thin skin of my palms; blood wells. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. I was thoughtless.”

Becca speaks softly, a thin veneer of sadness over her words. “You thought I was going to hit you. That I could hurt you. After everything I’ve done, to help you adjust, to help you fit in, to cover for you, to pave your way, to be your friend, you thought I was going to attack you?”

How many ways will I screw this up?

“I’m sorry,” I say again, my voice small, meek. I never used to apologize like this. I never used to be so weak.

“You don’t know much about friendship, do you, Ash?”

“This is a strange kind of friendship, Becca. You’re mean to me, alternately ignore me, then are nice and kind, lie for me, interrogate me, scream at me. I don’t get you.”

I sag into the chair again, put my face in my hands. The springs on the sofa squeak, then I feel Becca’s arms go around me. I wait, unmoving, not leaning toward her, not accepting the hug.

After a moment, Becca peels my hands from my face, searching for the tears she’s sure are there. Though I’m not crying, I don’t meet her eyes. I am surprised when I feel her breath on my face.