Good Girls Lie(80)

Finally, on day four, just as I’m about to break, quit, tell Becca she can take her industrial-size Pine-Sol bottle and shove it up her perfect little ass, I am rescued by the dean herself, who asks to see me in her attic room where we were taken the night of Camille’s death.

Becca has no choice but to let me go, though it’s done with a hiss and a promise to make things even worse for me when I return from my “pussy break.”

* * *

Why I didn’t walk away during Hell Week is something I will always wonder. Why I allowed her to treat me so poorly, so abominably, reflects on my upbringing. I allowed myself to become her victim, just like I allowed myself to become my father’s victim, my mother’s victim.

But why did I go along with them that night? Why did I not raise the red flag? Would it have made a difference? Would it all have happened differently?

Would they still be alive?



59

THE HORROR

The dean is waiting for me in her attic garret. She looks terrible. I’ve been so caught up in my own drama with the tap and Becca’s advances and the aftermath of Camille’s death that I haven’t stopped to think about the adults. How they might be suffering. Camille’s mother, who is threatening to sue the school—oh, yes, we’ve all heard about the threats—seems to be more litigious than heartbroken.

But what do I know of these things? If my child died suddenly without a decent explanation, perhaps I, too, would want to burn down the houses of all who knew her.

Though her eyes have dark circles beneath them and her skin is pale, Westhaven’s hair is in a perfect chignon, and she’s wearing pearls and a cashmere twinset the color of sunset. I’ve never seen her polished facade looking quite so mature before. She’s always been elegant, but there’s a fragility around her now that’s becoming. It suits her, pain.

She greets me with a limpid smile. “Hello, Ash.” Then a much more concerned, “Are you well?”

“I’m fine, Dean.”

She doesn’t believe me, but whatever. I’m too tired to care about keeping up appearances. I slump in the chair across from her little desk. “What’s this room for?”

She glances around as if it’s the first time she’s ever been inside. A small, private smile crosses her face. “It’s my thinking space. I practice speeches—I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t particularly care for public speaking.”

Her confession surprises me. She looks so young at this moment. Young and tired and overwhelmed by the past few days of scrutiny on her and the school. It’s very like a child to ignore the needs and desires of their parents—I’ve never stopped to consider what it must be like to be riding roughshod over two hundred unruly girls. One hundred ninety-nine now. I’ve been much too busy existing in my own strange bubble.

“I didn’t. You always seem so self-assured.”

“Ah, that’s the practice. If you’re ever afraid of something, Ash, you must face that fear head-on. Experience it, live it, breathe it, lean in to it. If you do, you’ll conquer it. Let it run your life and you will always be its slave.”

And if that fear is embodied in a sixteen-stone hulking mass who likes to hit? Not feeling the “lean in” to that, Dean.

“I also write here, sometimes.”

This intrigues me. I’ve heard the dean is a frustrated writer. Giving up dreams to do the right thing; now, this is something I understand. I play it coy. “Letters?”

“I’m working on a novel, actually,” she continues. “I thought I’d be living in New York, the toast of the literary circles by now. Instead—”

“You’re stuck here, headmistress to a lot of ungrateful young women.”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that. You’re not ungrateful.”

Oh, lady, if you only knew. “No, I’m very grateful. But you know what I mean.”

“I do.” She moves to the desk, rests three fingers on its battered surface. “Don’t get me wrong, Ash. I love my job. I love this school. The students. All of you. But sometimes, it’s very hard. I escape up here for a little quiet, someplace comfortable, and I work or think. Every woman should have her own place to escape to.”

“‘A room of one’s own.’ We’ve been studying Woolf with Dr. Asolo. I agree completely.”

She smiles. “You must be wondering why I’ve asked you here.”

“I assume it’s something to do with Camille’s death.”

“Yes and no.”

“Did the autopsy find something?”

“Not exactly. Well, yes. I can trust you, can’t I, Ash?”

“Yes, of course.” What the hell is this? Why is she trying to give me agency, now of all times?

“Camille was still pregnant. They’re doing DNA to find out who the father is.”

This strikes me as so sad. What a waste. “I’m sorry. Dean, Vanessa and Piper, did they come to you? Tell you?”

“What would they have to tell me?”

“I think they know who Camille was seeing.”

The dean’s demeanor changes. Her face shutters, that pained, scared look reappears in her eyes. “Oh. Oh. Thank you for telling me, Ash. I did speak with them, and they assured me they don’t know.”