With one exception. Everyone knows Ivy Bound can get too intense. Every year, they skirt the edges of what’s allowable, and Ford has had to have a word with their leaders before. But not recently.
She wonders who’s taken over Ivy Bound this year. If pushed to guess, Becca Curtis would be the most likely candidate.
Becca, again.
Ford makes a mental note to have a private word with the girl in the morning. Ford has been accused of being too lenient in the past, but this is her school. Her duty. The girls are, on the whole, incredibly well behaved. She’s found that giving responsibility and expecting maturity works. Ford’s hands-on approach nips problems in the bud.
She doesn’t want to make the same mistakes her mother did. The school can’t survive another scandal like that.
She sits back in the chair, the sexy line of dialogue she was about to commit to paper retreating. Perhaps writing isn’t the solution to her insomnia. Perhaps she needs a different release.
It’s been a few days; she’s feeling the pleasant pull of abstinence coupled with desire. She checks the clock, it’s just past eleven. Not too late for a caller. Maybe he’ll stop by, unbidden, maybe he won’t. Their affair is casual, mutually beneficial, and totally, completely against the rules. That’s what makes it so fun.
She shoots off a text and immediately receives a smiley face with a wagging tongue and the number ten in response. She likes the fact that he responds so quickly when she beckons. He’s happy to be of service, asks nothing of her in return. He’s not been burned by a woman before, his heart is still open, free. Undamaged.
She texts back—Careful of the stomp—gets a thumbs-up.
It wouldn’t do for one of the girls to spy him entering her cabin in the dark.
She abandons the typewriter, opens her Clairefontaine notebook, runs a finger down the lines, the indentations made by her pen. She knows what the words say, doesn’t bother reading them, comforts herself in the knowledge of their existence. Words are going to get her out of here one day.
The novel she’s working on is good. Better than good, it might even be great. If she can bring herself to finish. And once she’s finished, if she can bring herself to submit. She’s such a private person, she’s afraid of what might happen. To have her words, her story, in the hands of a stranger. To draw out a laugh, to bring a tear to their eye, to make them smile and feel fulfilled—this is her calling. Goode is her job, but her destiny lies ahead.
Who will take over as dean, though, Ford? A Westhaven has always run the school, it’s tradition. You wouldn’t shirk your responsibility to the family, to the school, to our ancestors.
Go away, Mother. You had your chance, and you fucked it up. My school now, my decisions.
Ford will take a pen name, this she’s already decided. Her name is awkward at best: Ford Julianne Westhaven is a mouthful, too long for a cover treatment. F.J. West is her current favorite. Ford is her grandfather’s name, both Julianne and Westhaven vestiges of the school’s founding. She doesn’t know her real father, only remembers the cheerful, kind Santa Claus who raised her while her mother worked and worked, keeping Goode in check.
Cliff Morley died quietly in his sleep when Ford was sixteen. She misses him still.
All she wants is to move forward, to make a life for herself, a name for herself. But Goode has drawn her back into the muck of her mother’s disastrous life choices. She is mired in the past.
Then again, this angst makes good writing fodder.
Ash Carlisle is reinventing herself. Perhaps that’s why Ford can’t get the girl off her mind. A phoenix from the ashes, Ash is, exactly what Ford wants for herself.
Is she really jealous of a sixteen-year-old orphan? Is this the emotion she’s been carrying around, this mild obsession with the girl?
“Don’t be stupid, Ford.” She slaps closed the notebook. Her date is arriving soon.
In the kitchen, she fixes two drinks, an old-fashioned with her new favorite recipe: Basil Hayden’s whiskey, four dashes of orange bitters, a splash of simple syrup infused with cloves, a bourbon-smoked cherry for each glass, plus a lovely round ball of ice that she’ll add when he arrives. Symbolism is everything in a cocktail.
There is a soft knock at the door. Ford loosens the tie on her robe, pinches her cheeks and bites on her lower lip to make it swell, drops the ice in the glass, and answers the door with his drink in her hand.
“Welcome.”
He slinks in the door. Before the latch is set, he has her up against the wall. He is taller than she is by a few inches now, arms powerful and smooth, lips against her neck.
“I missed you,” is all he says. He is already hard and has her legs around his waist and is inside her before she has a chance to blink.
No words needed, no foreplay, no candles and roses. Just raw, hot desire, satisfied. They both take and take and take. They rarely give.
The whiskey sloshes out of the glasses as he strokes her, in and in and in again, until the release builds like a wave, a scream, and he is right there with her, ready to go.
“Come for me,” he says, and she does.
* * *
There is no cuddling. They sit at the table, refreshed drinks in their hands.
She asks about his day. Tells him she’s worried about a student.
He tells her she always feels this way the first week of school, not to be nervous.
He finishes his drink, tossing it back, gives her a long, searching kiss, then leaves, whistling, his whiskey-tinged breath lingering on her lips as the door shuts behind him.
Ford puts the glasses in the sink, shuts off the lights. Washes up in the bathroom, then climbs into bed. She can smell him on her still, and it turns her on.
She is finally tired enough to sleep.
If anyone knew, she would be in so much trouble.
22
THE CROWNING
Breakfast is surreal. I’m sleep deprived, and everyone seems to be on max volume. I push my scrambled eggs around while Piper and Vanessa interrogate me about the summons, but I give them nothing of worth. I want to keep this to myself; besides, Camille can be counted upon to share the little bits I told her last night when she’s feeling better. So far, she’s ignoring all of us, looks utterly miserable, sniffing every once in a while.
They soon grow bored of my one-word answers and begin haranguing on about the creepy handyman they saw standing in the woods, watching the soccer team warm up. I tune them out. Their little melodrama isn’t my problem.
No, what I woke worried about was Becca’s strange request. I didn’t lie to her; I can hack the dean’s email. Was the request really a test? Or was it something more? It smells like a setup. Am I being tested on my loyalty to the school? To the Honor Code? I feel damned either way—report Becca and lose her trust forever, don’t report the request and break the Honor Code. A conundrum.
As if she knows I’m thinking about her, Becca calls my name and waves me over to her table. Vanessa’s eyes grow wide, and Piper looks suitably impressed. Only Camille doesn’t seem overawed. Honestly, I’m relieved to cross the room, until I realize all eyes are on me. Bugger.
“Join us,” Becca commands, and I scramble to comply, taking the seat next to her. The table is comprised of the same tittering group of girls who surrounded Becca our first day. All are dressed in their school robes, black-and-white stoles around their necks.
“This little bird is a quiet one. But we’ll get her to open up. Won’t we?”
The girls chirp their assent, and then the barrage begins, the questions coming so rapid-fire I can’t keep up, and in some ways, I’m happy to just smile and blush and laugh a little, demurring, bowing under the influx.
“So, Ash. Your family in England, who are they?”
“How do you get your hair so full?”
“Who are better, H
ampden Sydney boys or W&L?”
“Those boots are divine. Where did you get them?”
“Why can’t we find you on social media? Are you, like, a Quaker or something?”
“Which Ivy are you shooting for?”
This from Becca, and I answer “Harvard” to knowing nods.
“Excellent. Goode girls have a great legacy at Harvard. I received my early acceptance last month. Everyone else is waiting, but the letters will be coming any day now. Almost everyone at Goode gets snapped up on early admission. It’s a tradition, so we can focus on our studies instead of worrying about writing applications essays. One of the many perks of Goode.”
“It’s a lovely place,” I volunteer. “So old. I almost feel like I’m home. Of course, Oxford is very old, too.”
“She speaks,” Becca crows, delighted. “Tell us your favorite spot in Oxford. I’ve not been, Mother’s leashed me to her side and I haven’t been able to travel at all these past two summers. Though I will be applying for a Rhodes scholarship, so I need to know all the hot spots in town.”
“Assuming you get it,” Twin One says, and Twin Two sniggers.
“As if there is any question,” Becca responds smoothly. “I’m Becca Curtis. They’ll hand me a Rhodes without blinking. Now, Ash. What are your favorite hangouts? And are the boys adorable?”
Ah. I finally understand. Silly rabbit. The allure isn’t me, it’s what I know. Who I know. The styles, the places, the people. This I can handle. I know Oxford inside and out. Still, the crushing intensity of Becca and her minions is overwhelming. I haltingly begin to list the spots I know are the coolest hangouts and am saved by Camille, of all people. She stands nearby, clearing her throat as if afraid to approach, with Vanessa and Piper on either side.
“We’re going to be late for English, Ash. The bells. Aren’t you coming?”
The bells start tolling a moment later.
“I’ll be along.”
“Really, you shouldn’t be late.”
“You’re fine, Ash,” Becca says. “I’ll explain to Dr. Asolo why you’re tardy.”
I tense, not sure if I should run off with Camille or stay put until dismissed by the seniors, and the seniors are silent, watching this tiny drama unfold until Camille shakes her head in disgust and walks away.
“Don’t worry about her,” Becca says, smirking. “She’s just jealous you’re sitting with us now. Her sister was hot shit last year before she graduated. Camille is a head girl wannabe.”
* * *
I roll into English five minutes late thanks to Becca’s insistence I stay behind. Dr. Asolo’s lips purse and she says, “See me after class, Ash.” Camille’s victorious smile makes me flush and drop into my seat, head down.
After ninety minutes discussing feminist literature and social inequality in the 1800s, Asolo gives me a serious talking-to. One more tardy and I get JPs. I try to explain Becca was holding court, but Asolo is having nothing of it.
“Personal responsibility is the backbone of Goode, Ash. Never blame others for your own decisions.”
Ouch.
Once I’m fully chastised and allowed to leave, I find Camille standing in the hall, her ever-present soldiers Vanessa and Piper at arms.
“You need to be careful with Becca, Ash. She’s using you.”
“I know how to take care of myself.”
“Not with her, you don’t. She’s not as great as everyone says. I know some things. My sister told me—”
“Give me a break, Camille. I have to get to the lab.”
I swear, she stamps her tiny little foot. The Converse high-tops she’s wearing cushion the noise. “You know, Ash, at some point, you’re going to have to choose. The seniors will graduate, and you’ll be left with nothing if you don’t forge some real relationships with your own class.”
I am bloody tired of being scolded by this girl.
“You assume I want a real relationship with you, Camille. Just because we’re roommates doesn’t mean we’re friends. Stop telling me what to do, how to think, and we’ll be just fine.”
“You’re going to regret this. Mark my words.”
She takes off through the glass-fronted trolley toward Old East, Piper and Vanessa in her wake—eerily similar to Becca and the twins, I realize—and I go the opposite direction, toward the computer lab, shaking my head at the childish argument.
My whole life, people have tried to get me to take sides. I’m tired of it.
Becca is at our table in the computer lab, waiting for me with a smile.
She’s using you.
Probably so. Everyone in my life has been using me one way or another. What is one more? At least this one has power.
I know some things.
This is murkier ground. The innuendo in Camille’s tone is clear. There is something more to Becca than meets the eye.
Part of me wants to scoff. The other, the wolf brain inside me, the survivor, knows I should find out what my new friend is capable of.
23
THE REJECTION
After Medea’s tutorial, I spend the rest of the day avoiding both Becca and my suitemates, attending classes, scribbling notes, trying not to be called upon. Trying to disappear. To stay off the seniors’ and the sophomores’ radars.
I end up decamping to the library, ostensibly trying to catch up on my work. Dramas aside, I am already behind and I’m only just beginning to get a feel for the rhythms of Goode. The library is like a sanctuary. A safe place. It is cozy, wood-paneled with inlaid parquet wood floors. It seems to be one of the few places on campus that hasn’t been renovated, though it is modern, well stocked, with a history section that doesn’t quite rival the Bodleian but is impressive nonetheless. Private cubicles have a soft armchair in addition to the dark wood desks, scratched and worn, the relics of an earlier age, before Goode shed its past like a snake’s skin and became the shining monument on the hill to all-girls education.
The many books stashed within its walls are friends in a way none of the girls on my hall will ever be.
I spend the evening in a private cubicle, working, until Ms. Morton, the librarian, comes to kick me out. Now I have no choice but to face Camille. Détente is necessary.
I wind my way back to Main, walking quickly through the trolleys. They unnerve me, for some reason, these glass tunnels suspended in midair. It is deeply dark outside in a way Oxford never was. On my floor, I creep to the small kitchen, fill my water bottle, then slink down the hall. It is relatively quiet; everyone is in their rooms. Some music plays behind closed doors, unidentifiable pop screeching, but I am alone. All the better. Perhaps this will be my routine—classes, a snack, the library. If I can make it through the term with as little engagement as possible with my suitemates, all the better.
I stop in front of our room. The door to the storeroom across from us is cracked open slightly. Why?
I hesitate, then cross and lean in, listening. For what, I don’t know. Voices? Breathing? Vanessa and Camille, plotting as they’ve been each night?
This is silly. I reach for the knob to pull the door closed, but as I do, the scent hits me. Home. It smells like...home. Like freshly brewed tea and damp wool and my mother’s signature perfume, the scent I used to bathe myself in when I was little, when my mother would be careless enough to leave the bottle on the dressing table, finely cut purple glass with an old-fashioned ball pump made of velvet. Gardenia and civet. Lush. Unmistakably female.
It is so intense, this memory, so immediate, I slam my fist into the door and it swings open with a creak. I enter the room, eyes searching. It is dark, cold, and empty.
“Mum?”
But there is nothing.
This is ridiculous. The room is no different than the first time I saw it, full of old paint cans and drapes, hardwood flooring and ladders stacked against the walls. Boxes
and crates, covered in paint-dappled sheets. A storage room. A leftover.
But the scent lingers.
I shake my head, trying to get it out of my nose. Whatever am I doing? My mother is dead. And I don’t believe in ghosts.
* * *
Camille isn’t in the room again. Whatever. I grab my bathroom gear, hurry down the hall, wash my face, brush my teeth, braid my hair, and am back in less than five minutes.
I am unsettled. I can’t fall asleep. And when I finally drift off, I dream of death. The slack jaw. The harsh scent. The blankness in my mother’s eyes.
The blood.
I wake to the sound of weeping. It takes me a few minutes to realize the room is still empty, and it is my own pillow drenched in tears.
* * *
Camille misses breakfast, but when I go back to the room to switch books between computer and English, she is there, sitting at her desk, twisting a curl in her fingers, staring out the window. Pale, washed-out in the sunlight. Black circles under her eyes, the heating pad clutched to her stomach.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m perfectly fine.”
Lies, lies, lies. Why not? After last night’s little trip down memory lane, I’m feeling...vulnerable.
“I was worried when you didn’t come back.”
“I slept in Vanessa’s room. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“You want to tell me what’s really going on?”
Her eyes fill with tears but she shakes her head. “It’s all good. I told you, my time of the month is rough.”
I’m surprised to find myself feeling sorry for her. “If you ever want to talk—”
“I. Don’t. So. Stop. Asking.”
“Sod off then.” I grab my books and leave. Screw her. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to get the Goode stamp of approval. This is all that matters. The petty bullshit of my suitemates isn’t important.
Good Girls Lie Page 10