Good Girls Lie(9)

Vomit dribbling from his mouth, eyes staring, blank and empty... The screams...

“Stop!” I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one has heard. I am blissfully alone.

Get it together. You will not think of this now. You will never think of this again.

Lies. I tell myself such pretty lies.

I bite my lip so hard it makes me tear up, but I am back in control. I square my shoulders and wheel the heavy bag to the staircase, careful to remember I am supposed to go up one side only or I’ll never graduate.

Nonsense.

But I stop anyway at the base of the stairs. Is it left, or right? I think back to the conversation I had with Becca the bully. I’ve already assigned her the role. Becca said left so it’s right. Definitely right.

At the top of the first flight, I have to lean against the banister on the landing and readjust my grip on the heavy suitcase. Everything I own is inside. I don’t plan to return to Oxford, ever. But the weight of it is untenable. On the second floor, I push through a door and stop, breathing hard, arms aching, and pull the packet from my backpack.

Room 214.

This is no hotel, there are no arrows to point me in the correct direction. There is a small kitchen ahead, and a grouping of soft tan suede sofas, chock-full of girls.

Make a good impression, Ash.

“Which room are you looking for?” one calls.

“214,” and the girls point to the left as one, a flock of helpful, smiling little birds.

I drag the bag down the hall. One of the wheels has shattered, no wonder it’s so hard to move along the carpet. There is a piece of paper taped to the door at the end, 214 written in bold black Sharpie. Steeling myself, I open the door into...darkness. A heady, musty smell, overlaid with bleach. Across the room are two cobwebbed windows covered in smeary, dotted dirt. The floor is draped in tarps; neatly stacked ladders line the far wall, a row of paint cans in front of them. A fluorescent light swings from the ceiling. When I flip the switch, it comes to life with an ominous crackle.

What is this place? This isn’t my room, it can’t be. There’s no bed, for starters. And it’s so dank and dirty...

Peals of laughter.

It takes me a second to realize why they’re laughing.

The assholes have sent me to the wrong room on purpose.

Oh, ha, bloody ha.

I look back up the hall and one small wren detaches herself from the flock and joins me. “Sorry. We like to have fun with new girls. You’re Ashley? I’m Camille.”

“My name isn’t Ashley. It’s Ash.”

“Well, that makes no sense. Ash isn’t short for Ashley?”

“No.”

Camille’s perfectly petite nose rises an inch, and one groomed eyebrow quirks.

Judgment made.

“Ash, then. Well, as I said, I’m Camille. We’re here. Across the hall.” She gestures toward a pristine white door with 214 engraved on a rounded, champagne brass plaque bolted to the door. How could I have missed it?

Two corkboards are below the room number with our names on top: Ash—Oxford, England on the left, Camille—Falls Church, Virginia on the right. Both hold pushpins. Mine is empty, Camille’s has photos of her travels—in a sari, on the back of an elephant, feeding a camel—and a few buttons with chirpy sayings on them.

“Don’t be angry. The girls thought it would be funny if you believed the storage room was your suite.”

“I didn’t find it funny at all.” An intimate staring contest ensues. Camille is the first to look away.

“Whatever. They’re just goofing. You’re the last one here. This is ours. The view is decent, but the room’s nothing to write home about.”

I follow Camille in and have to bite my lip again from exclaiming aloud. Gotta look cool, gotta look nonchalant. But...this is nothing like what I expected.

Oh. Oh, my.

The website showed rooms that were small, dingy, and dark, similar to the one across the hall, but this—this is practically sumptuous. Light gray walls, wainscoting, bright white crown molding along the ceiling. Spacious. Lovely.

The beds are bunked, one on top of the other, towering with fluffy pillows and warm down comforters. There is an overstuffed sofa, the windows have gray velvet hangings, two dark wood desks that look like priceless antiques sit side by side on the other end of the room.

This palace is mine. Mine, and Camille’s.

It takes me a moment to focus back on my new roommate. Camille has been prattling on, ignorant to my awe.

“Are all the rooms like this?”

Camille pops a hip. “Ugh, yes. They redecorated last year and went with this neutral crap, and it’s soooo boring. It’s like living in a hotel. It used to be so cool, sort of dark and gothic, had its own personality, you know? Really old-school. More European flair. Granted, the building is super old, so it was probably time for an upgrade. I mean, nothing worked, the windows were stuck shut, and the bathroom pipes creaked and moaned. But this...it’s, it’s...”

“Monotonous.”

“Yes, that’s it, exactly. Monotonous. Monochromatically monotonous.” She giggles at her alliteration as I move to the window. The view is pretty, the quad a green expanse stretching out in front of the building, lined with old oak trees and pathways. A large sundial stands in the center, circled by a stone bench.

Camille is still talking. “You’re allowed one painting for above your desk, but we can’t even put things on the walls outside of that. It is so 1984 here. Rules, rules, rules. Big Mother is always watching, too.”