Good Girls Lie(82)
I’m writing so furiously I barely notice when a note comes from the office. Dr. Asolo brings it to my desk.
“Ash, the dean needs to see you. You may finish your essay in your room this evening and turn it in tomorrow. You’re dismissed.”
I stop midword, staring at Asolo dumbly. Asolo nods in encouragement. “Go on, dear. Don’t look so stricken. I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”
That’s what you think.
This is not good. How many times am I going to end up chatting with the dean this week? What is it now? They discovered my lies and are throwing me out? Vanessa and Piper ratted me out? Becca reported me for some sort of violation because I didn’t lick the toe of her shoe? Is it the email?
Is it all over? The jig is up?
Breathe. This is most likely an Honor Code thing—I contradicted Vanessa and Piper about their knowledge of Camille’s affair. Though the dean brushed off what I said, she must have followed up, and they’re insisting I face them as their accuser. I did nothing wrong being honest. We’ll be able to clear this up quickly.
I cap my pen, stash the exam book in my bag, and hoist it to my shoulder. I’m going slow, dragging my feet. Asolo might not be worried, but I am.
The dean’s official office is as familiar to me now as my own dorm room. I’m surprised to see a man inside. Not the sheriff, either, but a stranger. He’s a ginger, wearing a double-breasted, blue, pin-striped suit that looks like it came straight from the back room at Gieves & Hawkes, his wingtips spit polished. His very being screams solicitor.
“Oh, Ash, there you are. Come and have a cuppa with Mr. Nickerson.”
Her attempt at British colloquialism makes me cringe, but I step forward.
“Hullo, Ashlyn.” Nickerson leaps out of his seat with a wide grin. He is young, probably in his early thirties, and as overly enthusiastic as a puppy. Tea sloshes out of the cup onto his pants leg, and he takes this good-naturedly, as if it is a daily occurrence, blotting it with his hand.
“Whoops. Quite a mess, so sorry, so sorry. Ashlyn, it’s wonderful to finally meet you. I was a friend of your dad’s. I’m so very sorry we lost him. He was a lovely man.”
Oh, such a lovely man. You clearly didn’t know him well. More important, why the hell are you here?
I take his proffered hand graciously. “I’m pleased to meet any friend of my father’s. I go by Ash now.”
“Yes, the dean here told me so. I’m sorry Charlie couldn’t come himself, he’s tied up, I’m afraid. Well, Ash. Let’s sit. I have some news.”
Charlie: Charles Worthington, my father’s solicitor. The one who explained to me how things would work after they passed. How the inquest would have to be settled before the estate could be bequeathed.
I can’t fathom what this might be, am working hard to modulate my breathing so it’s not too obvious I’m in a panic. I take the seat and accept a cup of tea. I would really prefer a cup of espresso, topped with a shot of vodka, spiked with a little “something-something” as Becca says, but I can hardly complain. At least the cup gives me something to do with my hands.
“You’ve come from Oxford?” I ask, after taking a dutiful sip.
“London, actually. We’ve had a rough go of it this autumn, I’m afraid. Snow, already.”
“Ah. London. Snow, this early. How unusual. What’s happening with the estate?”
Yes, what the ever-loving fuck happened with the estate? I thought it was being settled before I left.
“Well, of course, nothing has changed for you. Don’t you worry, you’re still completely taken care of. As you and your father agreed, you’ll come into your inheritance on your twenty-fifth birthday, assuming all the stipulations are met.”
“The stipulations? Whatever do you mean?”
“Oh, my. How embarrassing. I thought you knew. You have to have a college degree by your big twenty-fifth.”
There it is, the crux of the matter. It’s so shallow, so gauche, this desperate need for money. And the stipulations. I mean, it’s not exactly a hardship, going to school. At least it wasn’t until Grassley died. And I became a Swallow. And my roommate did a swan dive off the bell tower. And the dean started confiding in me.
“Right. That. Yes, I know about the degree stipulation. That’s why I’m here, after all. Getting myself lined up to go to college.” I shoot a glance at Westhaven, who is smiling at us absently. We pause, wait for her to chime in. This is a play, remember. Everything is timed to perfection; the way parts of the stage move in circles as the rest of the floor stays put. We maneuver around the truth, all of us do. Truth and lies, the moving circle and the sturdy planks, the very ground beneath our feet always unsteady.
It’s the dean’s turn for her soliloquy, and she delivers it masterfully. I couldn’t have scripted this better.
“Ash has a very bright academic future. I’m sure there won’t be any issue with her getting into the school of her choice. If I recall, you’re interested in Harvard, isn’t that right, dear? At Goode,” she explains to Nickerson with maternal pride, “our girls get early acceptance to their school of choice. It won’t be long before Ash gets to make her applications, and we’ll have her set up nicely in no time. We could even go for an extra-early acceptance so she’s in line next year instead of waiting until she’s a senior if that helps with the estate? I’d be happy to make a few calls.”