“You’re lying,” I say, trying hard to look bored. “Whatever.”
Vanessa raises a brow. “I’m not.”
“You are. Becca would have bounced Camille out on her ear for Honor Code violations. I know we are all guilty of bending the rules, but breaking into my computer is beyond the pale.”
Piper shrugs. “Everyone has a price, Ash. And everyone can be compromised. A lot of things at this school go through Becca.” She pinches her thumb and forefinger together, mimicking puffing on a joint.
I’m not entirely surprised to hear Becca is bringing drugs into the school. Tonight, she gave me Ecstasy and vodka, and this morning, the cigarettes. I’ve smelled pot on several occasions. Rumi must be supplying her.
Camille hadn’t been kidding when she said Becca was using me. “Great. Just fucking great.”
“The police have asked to speak with us. Do you know why?” Vanessa asks.
“I’d think that’s blatantly obvious.”
Vanessa shakes her head.
“Camille’s abortion, for one. I assume they think you know who got her pregnant. I certainly don’t, though they asked me enough.”
The two exchange worried glances.
“You do know who she was sleeping with, don’t you? You have to tell them. Maybe it will help them figure out what happened. Why she jumped. I didn’t realize she was suicidal. I know we weren’t close, but I think I’d see that, at least.”
“They think she jumped?”
“Don’t you?”
“Well, sure,” Vanessa says. “But you’re right, she didn’t really seem that depressed or anything. We did think... I mean, only for a second, we know you wouldn’t have, but—”
“Me? You think I hurt Camille? You’re insane, Vanessa”
“Like I said, it was only for a fraction of a second. Camille’s been making you out to be pretty awful. Everyone was saying that you might have found out and confronted her.”
“Everyone? Well, you can tell everyone to relax. I wasn’t anywhere near Camille tonight.”
“You were both gone...and the room looked like a big fight had happened. We heard yelling,” Piper says, haltingly.
Camille had gone to her summons, I’d been kidnapped for the tap. Naturally, they’d think we were off together since we were gone at the same time.
“Do you know who gave the summons?”
Vanessa shakes her head. “No one does. At least, no one will admit it. I’m sure they’ll ask our waitron, but it’s not like she’ll know. Summons are usually dropped off in the middle of the night. That’s how it stays anonymous. Do you think she got tapped? I heard there was a tap tonight.”
“I seriously doubt she was tapped.”
Awe dawns on their faces. “You were, though. You got tapped. Oh, my God. Congratulations, Ash. That’s a really big deal.” Vanessa’s tone chills a bit. She shifts, and her hands tighten into little fists.
“No comment.”
“Wait until everyone finds out.” Piper’s eyes are shining. For half a moment, I think she is actually happy for me. She has no idea what I’ve been through tonight, nor what I fear is to come.
“There’s nothing to find out.”
“Right. Our lips are sealed, aren’t they, Pipes?” Vanessa’s feral grin tells me the whole school will know by morning. “Oh, how did you find out about it? Camille’s abortion, I mean.”
“I didn’t. The cops asked. They knew, but I don’t know how. Probably her journal. I knew you were up to something that night, but I’m not a busybody.”
“Point taken.” Vanessa plops onto the sofa next to me, Piper sits on the floor. They’re settling in. What the hell is this?
“So, who was the father?” I ask.
“If we tell you, you can’t tell. I mean it, Ash. It has to stay between us.”
I sigh. “Then don’t tell me. I can’t say the police won’t talk to me again, and I won’t lie to them. But if you know anything, you should go to Dean Westhaven and tell her. Give her some peace. She’s having a terrible night.”
Another worried glance bounces between them. What do they know?
“We can’t. No way.”
“Then I can’t help you, and I don’t want to know.”
The silence bleeds around us. In the distance, I can hear people outside attending to the remnants of Camille’s nosedive. A hose, spraying water full force.
“Is it true you found your parents dead? Was it awful?” Piper finally asks.
“Yes, I did. And yes, it was awful. If you’re here to be ghoulish, I have nothing more for you. Please, go to bed. Leave me alone.”
They look stricken but stand. “I really am sorry, Ash,” Vanessa says. “We promise to make it up to you.” Vanessa looks like she’s going to reach in for a hug but I am done with these girls and their constant mood swings.
I reach for the blanket on the back of the sofa. “Turn off the light as you go, won’t you?”
They do, silent as the grave.
I have my laptop open the second the door closes. Check everything public Camille might have gotten into. I see her footprints easily now that I know what to look for—times I wasn’t in my room or online. The penetration is relatively benign. Most of what I find are Google searches for the name Ashlyn Carr and Oxford, England.
I normally resist falling prey to the egotistical urge to Google my life but out of morbid curiosity, I click on the links. It will help to know what has been discovered.
The obituaries pop up immediately. My throat tightens. There are hits on profiles of Damien, and on the third page, a reference to Johnny. Damien Carr’s Lost Son.
I don’t read it. I already know what it says. Know the photo is from the funeral.
The black clothes, somber and mothball scented, lifted from trunks in attics. The thick black veil on Mother’s fascinator, the grim look in Father’s eyes.
The small girl, blond, blue-eyed, looking utterly terrorized. Burying her brother, her companion, her bosom friend.
Johnny’s death isn’t a secret that will be problematic to explain.
I breathe a little easier. Camille didn’t make it past my fire walls into the private settings.
Regardless, I enter this forbidden space now and, with only a moment’s hesitation, wipe everything from the computer.
I can’t run the risk of someone else finding my secrets.
* * *
I lie quietly in the gray predawn light, praying for sleep. I itch. I am heartsick. The night has been too intense, too strange, too scary. Too many swings between high and low. A dog barks. A girl cries. The wind blows, rustling the leaves on the ivy outside my window. I am back on the edge of the lake, the lily pads so green and white, the sky so blue. Everything is sharper in memory, not dulled.
I want peace.
I want oblivion.
It is not forthcoming.
47
THE MOTHERS
Ford is beyond relieved when Tony and his niece release her from their attentions. It is almost five in the morning now. Camille’s body is being transported to Charlottesville, the diary has been taken into evidence along with Ash’s torn shirt, and Ford has been given permission to call Camille’s mother.
Deirdre Shannon is clearly in shock when she answers the phone. She is not crying; her voice sounds frozen, robotic, almost. She’s probably been given something to calm her. Though she sounds anything but calm as she starts the rapid-fire questioning.
“Dean? What happened? They told me they think Camille committed suicide. Is that right? Was she upset? I haven’t heard from her in a few days but she seemed fine when I talked to her last. She’s had such a hard semester with the terrible flu bug she’s been suffering from. Just tell me what you know.”
The flu? That’s what she’d told her mother. Oh, boy.
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“Deirdre, she was pregnant, and had an abortion. Were you aware?”
By the gasp, it’s clear she isn’t. “Oh, Ford. No.”
“It seems she had a chemical abortion. Pills. Virginia law dictates a family member over eighteen give consent, there’s no way she could get them without a prescription, an ultrasound. She had to have been to a doctor or clinic. If you weren’t involved—”
“I didn’t know. It had to be her sister, then. Wait until I get my hands on Emily.” The threat hangs in the air, shimmering. Emily Shannon was head girl last year. Head of Ivy Bound. Smart, responsible. A solid Goode citizen. It’s not a stretch to think Camille would go to her if she were in trouble.
“I’m trying to be delicate here, but do you have any idea who the father might be?”
A breath. A pause. Finally, Deirdre says, “Yes and no. She was seeing someone this summer, I do know that, but she refused to tell me who. Said it was a boy she’d met at school. I asked how serious they were, whether she was planning to have sex with him. She told me she’d decided against it, but I’m no dummy, I know what we were like at her age. Lest you think me totally oblivious and irresponsible, I did take her to the OB-GYN, put her on birth control. The pill. Just in case. It appears I was too late. Or she didn’t take them.”
“Ah. A boy she met at school—so it could be someone from one of the all-boys schools around here. Woodberry Forest is the closest, and the one Goode has the most events with.”
“Possibly. She’s mentioned having fun at the dances. It was someone she was seeing at home, though, I get the sense. But, Ford, do you think she was upset over having an abortion? I would think she’d be relieved. I know that sounds callous, but she’s sixteen, for heaven’s sake. It would have ruined her life.” A beat. “Was sixteen.”
And then she breaks, the tears and the wails and the moans, and Ford hangs on to the phone and takes it all in. She owes it to Deirdre and to Camille. She owes it to them all.
She has failed. She has failed. She has failed.
When Deirdre gathers herself, Ford tells her the rest. “We are investigating the entire situation, how she came to be on the bell tower, which is always locked, what might have driven her there. Why she didn’t reach out for help. The sheriff is running the investigation, but I’m looking into things here. I know we want to keep this private if possible.”
“What about her roommate? That British girl? Camille said she’d been thinking about asking to move to a different room. I know they didn’t get along.”
“I wasn’t aware they were having issues. Normally the girls are quite open with me about their personal problems. But the police did find Camille’s journal, and she said some very unkind things about Ash. I suppose it stands to reason—Oh, Deirdre, I am so sorry. I just don’t have any good answers for you right now. But we will continue talking. Let me know what Emily says. Anything she can share will help. We can at least get an idea of who Camille was seeing and find out if something happened with the relationship that made her want to hurt herself.”
“I do know she hadn’t seen him in a while. I asked, and she told me they’d broken up. I got the sense it was a quick thing, nothing terribly special. Honestly, she could have come to me, I would have helped her. She’s my daughter, I love her.”
“I know you do, Deirdre. I am so sorry.”
“Ford, I want you to look closely at her roommate. This Ash girl. I—Well, to be honest, when Camille said she was rooming with a girl from out of the country, I was a bit concerned. I told Howard, and he had a dossier drawn up. It had some very disturbing details. You know about the brother, yes? The suspicions about how he died? And her parents—”
“You did a background check on one of my students? Deirdre, you know we handle these things in-house. I found nothing to give me pause. Yes, I am aware of the circumstances that bring Ash to us and trust me, she is a gentle, pliable girl. Devastated by the loss of Camille, too.”
“Yes, well, girls do lie, Ford, you know they do. And in light of the situation, now aren’t you glad we did a more thorough search? News of the parents’ deaths was very upsetting to Camille. Not to mention the younger brother. She didn’t understand why her roommate wouldn’t tell her. And she has been using a false name. That girl has lost a lot of people. Now my daughter is dead, too.”
Deirdre’s voice is getting louder, stronger, more intense with every sentence. Ford is horrified by the implication that she is somehow neglectful, responsible for Camille’s death, simply by bringing Ashlyn Carr to Goode.
“Deirdre, really. This isn’t a path worth following. Ash and I discussed the name change at length and decided it was for the best. She didn’t want her parents’ deaths defining her here at Goode. Didn’t want to be openly rehashing it over and over. I can’t blame her. Truly, her desire for privacy is understandable. And I don’t think Ash’s personal situation has any bearing on Camille’s suicide. The circumstances of an unwanted pregnancy alone shed a great deal of light on Camille’s state of mind, not to mention breaking up with the boy who got her pregnant. It’s a fraught situation.”
Ford can hear whispers in the background, someone talking to Deirdre. Coaching her? Are they on speakerphone? Who’s been listening to her trying to comfort this grieving mother? What has she said that can be used against her, against the school?
“I know my daughter, Ford. I know her well. If she was depressed enough to consider suicide, she would have reached out to me. I feel it in my heart.” Deirdre clears her throat, and the broken mother is gone, replaced by the steely prosecutor. “And because of this, we will be recommending an independent investigation.”
Ford tries to continue sounding conciliatory. “That is certainly your right, Deirdre, but believe me, we’re looking into this. The sheriff has taken Camille’s body to Charlottesville for autopsy, and—”
“Yes, we heard. Howard is on a flight home from Turkey now. He feels it should be looked at by someone closer to the family. He will be in touch with the sheriff to have Camille brought here, to DC, where we can keep an eye on things. I don’t want to be going through an intermediary. You understand.”
We don’t want your local idiots to fuck it up, Ford hears clearly, though the line is silent.
“And of course, if there is a wrongful death suit, we need to be sure everything has been handled properly.”
“Did you just threaten to sue me?”
“You are in charge there, Ford. I’m not saying it’s a sure thing, but don’t be surprised to be served. We thought you’d turned a corner with Goode, revamped all that your mother tore down. I suppose we were too quick to judgment.”
Christ, she’s cold as ice.
“That is your prerogative. But, Deirdre, I can assure you, Ash had nothing to do with this. She’s a grieving sixteen-year-old who has been keeping her hurts to herself. I was up with her most of the night. She’s terribly traumatized by Camille’s death, as are we all. I know she’ll want to attend the funeral. You can meet her yourself, and you’ll see. She’s just a young girl in a lot of pain.”
“And I am a middle-aged woman in a lot of pain. My daughter is dead. I’m the one who’s suffered the loss here, not some girl who’s only known my daughter for a few weeks. No. She is not invited. There will be no students whom we don’t approve. Camille’s friends Piper and Vanessa may come, but no one else. Not even you, Dean.”
Hurt, dismayed, frustrated, Ford realizes it’s time to end the call. “I think you’re in shock, Deirdre. We’ll talk again soon. I am so sorry for your loss. For our loss.”
“Thank you, Ford. I appreciate the sentiment. I’ll be in touch.”
The line goes dead, leaving Ford to wonder what, exactly, just happened.
A condolence call that ended up with a lawsuit threat. Intimations against Ash.
Who is this girl she’s brought into her school?
> And on cue, a knock on Ford’s door. Jude Westhaven, draped in cashmere and pearls, perfectly power-bobbed and highlighted, stands in her doorway.
“Well. Isn’t this quite a mess?” she says.
“Mother. What are you doing here?”
Her mother’s face is unreadable, but her words are not. “My goodness, darling, I’m here to comfort you. I am so, so sorry. There is nothing worse than losing a student. I came because I know how you feel. I came because I’d like to offer my help getting things back on track. I came because I thought you might need me. And perhaps, you’d let me help.”
Ford lets the words wash over her like a benediction.
“It wasn’t my fault, Mom.” And then she collapses into tears, and her mother’s arms are around her.
48
THE BITTERSWEET
Glee. It’s such a funny word.
So many meanings. The thesaurus is full of synonyms, all implying something beyond happiness. Delight. Joviality. Mirth. Merriment.
A song written for men in three or more parts. That’s highly misogynistic, don’t you think? Let’s give it a fix, shall we?
A song written for women in three or more parts.
There. That’s better. And it’s more appropriate. We are at an all-girls school, aren’t we?
Perhaps this story should have been called glee.
Then again, there’s nothing about lying in these synonyms. Or is there? How much happiness really exists in a person? We’re capable of great emotional swings, yes, but they shuttle between two normatives: happy and sad. It is only when we wish to impress or impart that the sliding scale of nouns goes into overdrive.
If we’re trying to rouse someone with our vocabulary, we can find hundreds of words to use in place of these base terms. For example, I would hardly write an essay and say I am happy to be accepted to The Goode School. No, no, no. My essay would be littered with extremes: ecstatic to be accepted, thrilled to be joining you, elated to make the move to America.
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