Ford senses the anger rising but Ash shocks her when she continues.
“I saw it happen, you know. Have you ever seen anyone die? Watched as the light disappears from their eyes?” Ash’s voice has taken on an eerie quality, and Ford feels goose bumps run across her flesh. “I couldn’t look away from that spark dimming, growing distant until it was gone entirely. I dream about it every night, my mother’s face as the life drained away, her eyes going blank.”
“We need to talk about getting you some counseling, Ash.” Ford’s voice is soft, comforting. She needs to take better care of her young charge. She should have known this would be too much. She’s been pushing her too hard.
But the tears stop abruptly. Ash sits up ramrod straight, wipes a hand over her face.
“No, we don’t.”
“You’ve suffered a trauma. It’s incumbent upon me to get you some help so you aren’t scarred by this forever. You can learn some coping mechanisms so you don’t relive the moment over and over. It sounds to me like you have PTSD—”
“I said no. I won’t do it. I’m fine. I was frustrated by Vanessa’s attack this morning, caught off guard, but I am fine. I can handle this.”
The note of steel in her voice is alarming, but more so the absence of all feelings. She’s turned off her emotions quicker than flipping a light switch.
They sit in silence while Ford assesses her young student. She can’t force her. But she can keep a closer eye on her.
“All right. No counseling.”
“Thank you.”
“That said, as difficult a moment as this is for you, Ash, I can’t have you disrupting the school. Cutting will not be tolerated. You’ve got five points now. Instead of Saturday school, I want you here, in my office, every day at 4:00 p.m. for after-school detention. Do you understand?”
“I understand, Dean Westhaven.” The soft voice is back.
“And hand over the cigarettes. And don’t even think of lying to me, Ash, I can smell them on you.”
“I don’t have any more, Dean. That was my last one.”
She meets Ford’s eyes again, this time defiant. Ford doesn’t know what to make of these personality swings, from soft, pliant girl child to steely, cold woman. She did not pick up on this young woman’s darkness when she interviewed her. She knows now this was a mistake. Ash Carlisle bears watching.
“Four tomorrow, Ash. Bring your homework.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ignoring Ford’s wince, Ash lopes from the room.
33
THE HACKER
Since I’ve been disciplined, the girls of Goode accept me back to the school with grace, almost as if the spat in the dining room this morning never happened. I walk the halls expecting the whispers and stares, but it’s as if the whole school came to an agreement that they’re going to leave me alone, and after my meltdown with the dean, I’m relieved to move through the rest of the day unmolested.
I didn’t enjoy the disappointment in Dr. Medea’s eyes at my late arrival this morning. He didn’t scold or hand out JPs, as I expected, but that look was enough to make me vow never to be late for him again. And my programming sucks.
I want to get him back to that smooth, smiling, generous soul he was the first few weeks of school. I have to keep him on my good side.
In English, I receive a B on my Mary Shelley essay, with extensive notes on how to revise. I skip lunch, grab a smoothie from the Rat—no way I am going to face the wolves so soon—but talk myself into going to dinner, head up, eyes focused ahead.
When I sit at the sophomores’ table, Vanessa stands and moves. Piper, after an apologetic glance, follows. Oddly, Camille stays, nattering on about her upcoming meeting in the attics, a cardinal seen flying into the open chapel doors, and a letter from home written by her stepbrother.
Battle lines drawn. I ignore Vanessa, roll my eyes at Piper, indulge Camille’s soliloquy, eat my Cobb salad, then, back on the hall, purposefully sit in Vanessa’s usual spot in the sewing circle for an hour, chatting with a couple of girls from my English class, bitching about my two weeks of detention. They are enamored. Better, though, is the look on Vanessa’s face when she realizes I’ve captured her spot. She takes one look at me in the middle of the circle and her eyes burn with hatred. She huffs and disappears down the hall. Utterly priceless.
I mustn’t allow myself to be cowed. If I show any more weakness like I did this morning, I’ll be fighting them off the rest of term. No, staying calm and in their faces is the best way to handle things.
After study hours, I retreat to my room to draft the outline for an essay on the theories of Plato’s Cave seen in Ayn Rand’s Anthem. Satisfied with the bones, I settle in to indulge my inner naughty by writing some astounding code for Dr. Medea. I park myself at my desk with my usual setup—earbuds for some slamming music, a Diet Coke from the kitchen. A notebook in case the structure of what I’m developing doesn’t show itself—all of my code have shapes in my mind. It’s why I’m good at this, Medea told me. Some coders see in numbers or colors; my talent is shapes. Double helixes, braids, hearts, lately. A lot of hearts. The shape of the code helps me find the nuance of what I’m hacking. He says this is rare. It makes me feel special.
Technically, I shouldn’t be writing hacks, but Medea seems to enjoy my white hat work so much, and I like showing off for him. It’s like he understands me in a way most of the other teachers don’t. After my screwup today, I want him firmly back in my foxhole.
I’m halfway through a complicated keystroke analysis when I realize there is movement behind me. I ignore it, turn up the music, but it persists.
Camille, clearly nervous, is walking in circles like a caged lion, waiting until her appointed time to go upstairs. She is making silly little humming noises and scraping her hand on the top of the sofa. I don’t know how I can sense this through July Talk’s intense lyrics, but I can.
I pull out my earbuds. “Will you stop?”
Camille shakes her head. “What if...?”
“What if what?”
“I don’t know. Ignore me.”
“Impossible. You’re doing laps around the couch. It’s a bit distracting.”
“I’m just so nervous.” She goes to her dresser and I see the flash of clear glass, hear the clink as the little bottle of vodka she keeps stashed in her top drawer disappears back into her socks. Camille plops down with an alcohol-tinged sigh. “That’s better. Are you okay? You cut classes, you’re going to be in trouble.”
Oh, lovely. We’re going to bond.
“Already am. Detention with the dean for two weeks to work off my JPs. I thought you’d heard?”
“I’ve been distracted today. Where did you go?”
“Town. The coffee shop. Do you know Rumi?”
She blanches. “Oh, my God, Ash. You can’t talk to him. He’s...he’s dangerous.”
“I heard. He told me about his father.”
Camille’s pale face goes even whiter. “He just told you? What did he say?”
“The truth, I reckon. He said it was hard on him. And if he was dangerous, the dean wouldn’t have him on staff here. He seems a decent bloke, for all I could tell.”
“There are rumors about him. He likes to watch us, the girls, I mean. He stands on the path to the arboretum and watches the teams practice. He’s some sort of pedophile. You really should stay away. He’s not your type.”
“There are rumors about everyone. Me included. And I seriously doubt he’s a pedophile. He’s just lonely. And how do you know what my type is?”
A small chime and Camille leaps to her feet, her face splitting into an incandescent grin, the specter of Rumi already forgotten.
“Finally, finally, it’s time. Wish me luck.”
I say, “Cheers,” and mean it sincerely. I have no idea what the seniors want with Camille,
can only assume it’s about me. They want information and think my roommate is the best source. Why they don’t have the balls to ask me directly or go to Becca, who knows. Sometimes the logic here is beyond me.
When the door slams and I’m finally alone, I sag against the chair. Why did Camille warn me off Rumi? He seems totally fine. Nice, even.
Okay, I’ll admit, I’ve been thinking about my chat with him all day. How difficult it must be for him, to be the object of derision and scorn from the town where he grew up, to be looked down upon because of the choices of his parent. I understand more than he knows.
With all this chaos raging in my mind, I find it almost impossible to concentrate on my elegant little code. I’ll work on it tomorrow. I might as well get ready for bed, snuggle under the covers and read. Dr. Asolo assigned Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own this afternoon and I’m actually looking forward to reading it. I understand the desire to have something private, a place where you can be yourself without guile. I don’t know where that will ever be for me, not anymore.
I brush my teeth and get into my pajamas. Glance at the clock. It’s nearly eleven. Time for lights out. Camille has been gone for a while, longer than I was.
I read, get lost in the words, the rhythm. My eyes are starting to droop when the pounding begins, fists slamming against my door with such force the small painting above Camille’s desk crashes to the floor.
34
THE TAP
The door flies open. Screaming, shouting, hands all over me. I am screaming now, too, completely freaking out. My mind is blank except for a single thought—Get away! Get away!
I struggle mightily, but there are too many of them. They get me by the arms and legs and push a rag into my mouth, then throw a bag of some sort over my head. It smells like pine cones and it muffles my screams. My ears feel like they’re going to burst with the pressure of these internal yells.
They wrestle me out of the bed and out the door. I don’t know how many adversaries there are, just feel so many hands yanking and pulling. Someone giggles and this infuriates me. They drop me twice, my back smacking into the stair tread, but as quickly as they lose their grip they have me again, wrapping arms around my waist, and they haul me up, up, up.
I am crying now, but my whimpers are drowned out by the rag, the hood, the shouts. A door swings open and I feel a cool breeze, then I’m tossed handily into the air and land with a thud on the floor. The door slams closed, and the screaming stops.
My hip hurts.
I am alone.
It is so quiet.
The bag is gone from my head. I had my eyes squeezed shut so tightly I didn’t realize they’d removed it. I spit out the rag, heave in deep breaths.
Fucking Vanessa and Camille. Becca said the note at breakfast wasn’t her summons. This was a setup. They just wanted me alone so they could fuck with me. Who did they recruit to help?
I will burn them down.
I get up, on all fours first, then stumbling to my feet. I don’t recognize the room, don’t know where I am. Where the cool air is coming from. But it’s so cold my teeth begin chattering. I’m barefoot, arms uncovered; the short pajamas do nothing to keep me warm.
The door has a light on under it, weak and yellow. I can hear the whispering growing louder as I near. I try the door. The knob turns but something is blocking it.
“Bugger it all. Bitches!”
I walk left, fingers trailing against the wall to keep my bearing. My eyes are adjusting now, but even so, I bump into a table. I realize there’s a glass on the table, filled with a small amount of clear liquid. A hand-lettered sign leans against it. I have to squint to read it in the darkness.
DRINK ME!
Oh, sure. Like I’m falling for that. It’s probably drain cleaner or rat poison.
I pick up the glass and smell the contents. The sharp tang of alcohol makes my sinuses burn. Oh. It’s vodka.
Why would Vanessa and Camille kidnap me, lock me in, and tell me to drink a shot of vodka? Is this an Odds and Evens thing?
I dip in a finger and taste, yes, it’s just vodka. I toss it back.
Fuck them. Fuck them and this stupid school and this stupid night.
I don’t fall to the floor in a sputtering mess and die, so I feel my way through the darkness to the other side of the room. The night is black as pitch and there are curtains on the windows, gossamer white billowing in the breeze. The windows are open, that’s why it’s so damn cold in here. And there is another door.
I put my ear to it. I can hear something. Echoes of voices.
I turn the knob slowly, and the voices halt.
Someone is in the stairwell. They’ve heard me.
Logic: it’s Vanessa and Camille, waiting to jump out and scare me. They must have recruited several others to help pull this off.
But something about this room makes me feel like there is something much, much worse behind the door.
Reckless fury forces my hand. I whip open the door, only to see a dim light illuminating a set of winding stairs. Red stairs.
This must be the infamous red staircase.
I try not to focus on the horror story behind the reason the stairs are painted red, but my mind’s eye supplies all the necessary pieces—the rope around the girl’s neck, the blood dripping from her arms, her black hair streaming to her waist, the white gown stained gray with age. It’s like she’s hung here for centuries. The image is so vivid, if I reach out a hand, I can touch the body.
The air squeezes tight around me, and suddenly as it appeared, the apparition is gone. The stairwell is empty.
A door slams, a breeze passes, and the air changes. I am not alone.
Becca Curtis is standing behind me. That is, I think it’s Becca, but something is wrong with her face. It’s like she’s dead, a skeleton, her eyes black holes in pale, pale skin, stretched tight across her skull. She is wearing all black; a hood covers her yellow hair, which makes that deadly pale face stand out in stark relief in the darkness.
She appears so suddenly I jump, stumbling down two stairs before I catch myself on the railing. My God, I could have broken my neck.
I reach out a hand to see if Becca is real, but my arm feels heavy. I can barely lift it.
Not just vodka. There was something else in the drink.
Becca is a statue before me. Her mouth moves, lips twisting in a command that sounds like we’re underwater.
“Walk, Swallow.”
“Swallow?”
“Walk. Down. The stairs. Now.”
I wind my way down the stairs carefully, holding on to the railing for support, Becca following. We go on and on, circling down, down, down. My head is growing fuzzier by the minute.
Finally, we hit another door.
“Open it, Swallow,” Becca says. There is no denying the authority in her tone. I comply. My hands look big against the wood. Clown hands. Carny hands. I giggle, this is freaking hilarious.
The door opens to a dirt hallway, and the smell of ancient things assails me. Suddenly, things don’t seem so funny. My mouth is dry, so dry. I need to sit down. I lean against the wall, start to slide down but Becca hoists me up.
“Walk.”
Becca lets go of my arm and prods me in the back. I walk, feet bare in the dirt. I can feel every pebble, every grain. Cold. There are dead things here, rotting things. Cobwebs spring from the ceiling, brushing against my hair and forehead. I gasp and swipe at them, but Becca just says, “Hurry, for God’s sake,” and I keep going, fighting the urge to sprint, walking on and on for what feels like forever. It is dark, and I’m cold, and the walls are vibrating.
The ground starts to slope upward, and the air gets better. I can see light now, light at the end of the tunnel, which strikes me as hysterical, and I start giggling again, softly. This is no longer scary, it is glorious and
fun.
“Ready yourself,” Becca mutters, and the door swings open.
35
THE SWALLOW
Becca pushes me into a room full of confusion. I see half-dressed girls and girls in robes with hoods. What the hell?
“Took you long enough. Did little Alice not want to drink up her cuppa?” I turn my head blindly but a female voice screams, “Don’t you dare look at me!” She is definitely not Vanessa.
What is going on?
I look at my feet, dirty from the stroll through the tunnel. They pulse at me, friendly and kind. I like my feet. They have a good shape, high arched, toes long and elegant. But vulnerable, too. They get banged up so easily. I remember breaking my little toe last year, stumbling into a table. It hurt like hell. Took forever to heal. I couldn’t wear boots for months.
“Sorry, toe,” I whisper.
“Line up, you stupid twat. And stop talking to yourself like a madwoman.” The screamer pushes me into the row of girls. I lose my balance, knock the one standing next to me with an elbow, and the whole line topples like dominoes. Hushed laughter fills the room, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing, too. If there are other people here, I’m not going to die.
I want to look and see who else is lined up, but I’m wrenched back to my feet.
“Stay,” Becca says, and I plant myself. I am a tree. I have roots. That’s why my feet are covered in dirt, I need to root down. Root to the earth, daughter. Feel its energy flow through your body.
I can hear these ghostly words but they don’t make sense, not entirely.
“I think you gave them too much. None of them can keep their heads up.”
“I didn’t. They’re just sleepy. It took me forever to get the last Swallow to cooperate.”
“Are you sure, Becca?”
“Yes. Let’s get started. Swallows!”
I look up. I know my name. I am the vessel for the dead. I bring death and destruction in my wake. The souls of my people are inside of me.
“When I say ‘Swallows’, you say ‘yes, Mistress.’ Swallows!”
Good Girls Lie Page 14