They’re not supposed to have to talk to young headmistresses about how to make sure their schools don’t fall apart.
Chin up. If she handles all this right, Goode can weather the storm. The loss of a student—any student—is a tragedy, yes. But she will pull them through this. She refuses to let the school look bad.
Finding the missing key to the bell tower is paramount. When Ford walked the sheriff down to retrieve it, it wasn’t in her safe. Embarrassing. She looks negligent for that alone. Worse, she has no idea how long it’s been gone. It could be a day, it could be ten years. She hasn’t been in the bell tower, ever. She can’t remember the last time she looked in the safe for the key. The ones in the security office are intact, so there’s no question—the key used to open the bell tower and allow Camille out into the darkened sky was Ford’s. She is responsible.
Solve the mystery of the missing key, first and foremost. A wrongful death lawsuit will hinge on this.
But if she can prove who got young Camille pregnant, she will be ten steps ahead. She has a sense that the pregnancy is the tie that binds all of this together.
Convocation is breaking up now. Ford takes note of where the players are in this little drama.
Ash is following Becca out the great wooden doors, rubbing her stomach and looking at the ground. They are heading toward the arboretum.
Camille’s BFFs, Vanessa and Piper, are moving toward the dining hall with the rest of the girls.
Let them eat. Fortify their tiny bodies. She’s going to do the same. A shower. Some toast. Strong coffee. Then she’ll summon them, start the interviews, try to get some answers.
51
THE TURN
Jude is waiting for Ford in her cabin. She’s impeccably turned out this morning in a cloud-gray cashmere twinset and dark wash designer skinny jeans, black mules with a white block heel. She’s made a fresh pot of coffee; the cabin is suffused with the aromatic scent. It smells of home. Safety. Comfort.
All things Ford doesn’t feel anymore when looking at Jude.
“How did it go?”
“It was fine. Hard. They’re all so broken up. After breakfast, I’m going to talk to Camille’s suitemates. See if they can shed some light on her actions. Then I have the board meeting.”
“Excellent. I’ve drafted a press release for you, and the crisis management team from Owens & Tudor will be here soon. Get some caffeine in you, and I’ve made some biscuits, they’re in the oven. You need fortification. And a nap.”
“You made biscuits? Who are you and what did you do with my mother?”
Jude laughs. “All right, I sent up to the kitchens for them. But I also had them bring that honey butter you love so much. Eat. We have a long day ahead.”
“We? You can’t attend these meetings, you know. You’re no longer the headmistress.”
With a breezy wave of her hand, Jude smiles. “I’m still your mother, and I’m allowed to see to the well-being of my daughter. And our family started this school. I have every right to be here with you.
“Don’t worry. I won’t get in the way. I just want to be sure you have all the tools necessary to deal with this. Should the investigation show something more devious happened, you want to have all your ducks in a row, show you’ve done everything by the book. Suicide is a terrible situation at a school. It can engender others. Create clusters. We don’t want that to happen.”
This is true. Ford can fight this, or she can lean in, allow herself to be coddled, if only for a moment. It’s not like the board can have her removed for letting herself be mothered a bit. Jude’s words feel prophetic, though Ford knows it’s only a reaction to the mistakes Jude made a decade earlier, trying to cover up her knowledge of the stalking that led to the murder.
Suicide. Murder.
That tiny scrap of fabric, though. Ash’s torn shirt. Ash and Becca were out of bed. Becca hadn’t told the whole truth, she wasn’t with Ash the entire time. There was a ten-to fifteen-minute window...
Don’t even think it. That’s not what happened, and you know it. You read Camille’s diary. She was suicidal. Upset. There isn’t anything more to this than a disturbed young girl who felt overwhelmed by a choice she shouldn’t have had to make. Combine it with being away from her support structure, and all the ingredients for a mental breakdown were present.
Jude is watching her. “Are you okay, darling?”
“Yes. I appreciate it, Mom. Thank you for looking out for me. Let’s have some breakfast.”
“Good girl,” Jude says, smoothing back her hair, making Ford feel like she’s nine. “You’ll want a shower and some makeup before you charge into the day, too. You look all washed-out. My poor girl. You’ve been working too hard.”
There is a soft knocking on Ford’s front door, then it swings open and a male voice calls, “Ford?”
Ford freezes. Her mother looks at her quizzically and calls, “We’re in the kitchen.”
There is a pause, then footsteps. Rumi appears, looking as surprised as Jude.
“What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be in the headmistress’s cottage. You’re a handyman.” There is such vitriol in her tone, Ford flinches.
“Mom, stop. Rumi is always welcome here. What can I do for you?”
He’s wearing a blue baseball cap with the stylized-G Goode logo. He takes it off and squeezes it in his hands, folding the bill practically in half. “I—I wanted to say how sorry I am about Camille Shannon. And see if there’s anything I can do.”
“You can leave and never darken our door again,” Jude snaps.
“Mother, that is enough. Rumi? Why don’t we step outside?”
She opens the French doors that lead to the small garden behind the cottage. In the summer, it is lovely, and such a different space than the imposing “family house” on the outskirts of Marchburg her mother renovated twenty years ago.
She’d done so assuming Ford would live there in the summers during high school and college, that they would be a family. But Ford hadn’t wanted to live under her mother’s roof once her stepdad died, even though Jude spent most of her time in New York or DC. Ford prefers her cottage. Her privacy.
Rumi pulls the baseball cap over his black curls. “I see your mom still hates my guts.”
Ford blows out a breath. “Have you heard anything useful?” Her tone is cutting, she’s being short without meaning to.
Rumi straightens. “Don’t take this out on me, Ford. I only came to see if you were okay. No, I haven’t heard anything. I don’t know anything. I had nothing to do with this. Isn’t that what you want to hear?”
“Rumi, no. Please. I haven’t slept and have barely eaten. I’m only trying to find out what happened. My key is missing, to the bell tower.”
“I don’t have it, if that’s what you’re asking. Why don’t I text you later? Get out of your hair.” His voice is quietly furious, and she can’t blame him. He’s come to comfort her, offer aid, perhaps even love, and her mother ruined everything, as usual.
Ford looks over her shoulder. Jude is standing by the French door, glaring at them.
“That’s probably for the best. I appreciate you checking on me. And no, I didn’t think you had the key. I was just telling you what’s happening. But if you overhear anything, let me know, okay?”
His eyes are hooded when he strides off into the grounds. She can see by the set of his shoulders she’s wounded him. Maybe their fling isn’t as casual as she thinks.
Back inside, she holds up a peremptory hand to her mother. “I know what you’re going to say. Trust me, he’s a good kid. Devoted to the school, despite the way you’ve treated him.”
“I don’t need to remind you his father is the reason we’re in this mess.”
“His father has nothing to do with this.”
“You’re headmistress now, aren’t you, Ford?
That’s enough of a mess for me.”
You will never be a proper headmistress to this school.
“Now, there’s the mother I know and love. Thank you for the insult. You can go now. I’ll handle things from here.”
“Ford, I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did. And I’m sick and tired of your attitude. You fucked up, Mother. You tried to cover up your knowledge of the situation and it got a girl murdered. This is totally different, and I’m handling it. It’s time for you to leave. Don’t bother me again.”
52
THE SLIGHT
I’m gritty-eyed with lack of sleep and bone tired. Because of the emergency convocation, I wasn’t at Becca’s door at seven as instructed. But I sat with Becca in the chapel, watching her hands. She needs to file her nails, they are ragged and broken after last night’s excesses in the cabin.
When the convocation ends, I calmly follow Becca to the arboretum. A cigarette is offered and accepted with a nod. There are no words. There is no touching. I honestly don’t know what to say. I don’t know what she wants. And I’m too tired to explain myself, to smooth her ruffled feathers.
Becca, too, looks exhausted. Halfway through the smoke, she says, “This is going to be a massive clusterfuck, you know.”
I’m not sure if she’s speaking rhetorically, but I wade in. “Camille’s suicide? Yes, it’s quite a mess.”
“No, stupid. Having cops on campus. They’re going to be looking at everything. I’m supposed to meet someone tonight. I’ll have to reschedule.”
I’m surprised to feel a random spark of jealousy. “Someone like who?”
“Just someone. I’ll have to warn him off.”
“Oh, you mean Rumi? I know he’s providing you with—”
Becca turns on me, eyes blazing. “Shut. Your. Fucking. Mouth. How stupid are you?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes, you are sorry. God, Ash. You’re going to get us all kicked out if you don’t start acting smarter. I really thought you were different. You’re supposed to be a genius rebel. I thought I could trust you.”
“You can, Becca. I’m no rat.”
“You’re not much of anything as far as I can tell. And in case you have it in that pretty little head to say something about last night, if you say anything to anyone, I will bury you. Am I clear?”
Becca takes one last huge drag from her cigarette and drops the butt on the ground. She walks off, leaving it smoldering.
Mic drop.
I squat down and put it out, scraping it through the earth. My fingers come back sticky with Becca’s lip gloss. I run my finger over my lower lip, smearing the remnants on my mouth. It tastes like cherry and old cigarettes.
I take a last drag of my ciggy, put it out, and bury the butts. I can at least help cover our tracks.
Becca is almost out of the arboretum now. The leaves are starting to fall, and there’s a clearing toward the school where I can see people coming into and out of the forest. I can catch up to her if I get a move on.
I start after her but pull up when another girl steps out of the woods. I can’t see who it is, but Becca talks to her for a moment, hands her something. I hurry forward but by the time I catch up, Becca is alone again.
“Who was that?”
Becca ignores me, strides out of the forest and up the path to the dining hall. I catch her by the door.
“Becca—”
“Just shut up, okay. Keep your mouth shut and we will all be fine.”
Becca storms into the building, and I trail behind, uncomfortable being ignored. At the table, I start to pull out my chair, but Becca puts a hand on my arm.
“What are you doing?”
“Having breakfast, like normal. Though I don’t know if I can eat.”
Becca tosses her head like the Thoroughbred she is. She is a different person now. Cold. Aloof. Mildly aggravated and disgusted, like I’m a hair that’s landed on her fork.
She waves a derisive hand in dismissal.
“Fly away, little Swallow. You missed your appointment this morning, so you don’t get to sit with us anymore. Go play with your own friends. You aren’t welcome here.”
I feel my jaw begin to fall, snap my teeth together so hard they click. Becca has already taken her seat and is immediately flanked by the twins, one of whom pushes me rudely as she scoots by for the coveted chair to Becca’s left.
Tears threaten, but I blink them back and head to my old table with Vanessa and Piper and the rest of the sophomores. As I approach, they start shooting me looks. It’s clear they’ve been talking about me. They saw Becca’s little power play. They have closed ranks. I am no longer one of them.
The seat where Camille normally holds court looks so empty, so out of place. Because so many have crowded the table today, it is the only open spot. I stop behind it. “May I?”
After an interminable moment, Vanessa nods and I sit, fiddling with a piece of my ponytail. My arm feels like it’s on fire, and I force myself not to scratch. The will it takes not to claw my skin to shreds is Herculean.
“Are you okay?” Piper asks.
“Yes. It was a long night.”
Laughter, loud and harsh, filters over from Becca’s table.
“Becca pissed at you?”
“She thought it would be better for me to sit with you today. A show of solidarity because of Camille.” The lie flows from my lips as easily as my breath.
Breakfast is served. I push the eggs around my plate, unable to eat. The girls are talking about Camille, primarily, but there are a few who seem nonplussed and are planning their attack, how they’ll usurp the juniors when they try out for the fall play, Sophocles’s Antigone. It is only in the past decade that the school dropped the requirement to have the play done in its original Greek.
I hear a name that makes my radar prick up. Rumi. Who’s talking about Rumi?
It is the table next to me. Girls who live on the other side of the sophomores’ hall.
They are whispering in a staccato shorthand; I only catch every other word.
“Do you...think... I mean, he did it?”
“Who else could... Someone... Rumi stole the keys.”
“Come on, guys. You’re... It’s stupid... Like Camille would fuck a townie.”
“Well, the dean—”
Raucous laughter drowns out the rest of the conversation. The seniors, amusing themselves.
“How inappropriate,” Vanessa sniffs. “It’s like they’re happy about it. Oh, someone died, how sad, at least we get out of classes. Fucking bitches.”
While I agree, I tune out Vanessa’s complaints. I can’t help but cast glances toward Becca as the laughter continues. I try to catch Jordan’s eye, two tables over, but she is engaged in some sort of conversation with her roommate and doesn’t look up. A few other faces from that side of the dining hall look vaguely familiar. Relief washes through me.
None of the Swallows of Ivy Bound are sitting with their Falconers. This must be a part of the hazing. Open rejection.
Lovely.
“Why did she do it, Ash? Do you know? You were the closest to her.”
This from Dominique Rodrigue, a sophomore who lives at the end of our hall, right by the kitchen. We haven’t spoken more than ten words all term.
“I really wasn’t. And I don’t, Dom. I don’t know anything.”
The whispering chatter at the adjacent table begins anew, drawing me back. What does Rumi have to do with Camille? I’ve seen nothing, nothing, to indicate they even knew each other. Hell, Camille warned me away, said he was dangerous. A pedophile.
I can hardly believe that was yesterday. Yesterday, Camille was alive and warning me away from Rumi. Yesterday, Becca and I were friends. Yesterday, I was still protected. Safe.
I can’t do this. I can’
t sit and eat and pretend it’s all okay. Can’t gossip and can’t laugh. But to get up and leave now will draw every eye in the place.
Camille did this to herself. So why do I feel so very responsible?
53
THE AFTERMATH
Some of the girls see the counselors, others sit in circles crying in jags, bemoaning the loss of a friend, but most just congregate in the sewing circle to tell lies about Camille and her suicide. Word of the abortion has spread, and speculation runs rampant. There are no secrets in a school as small as Goode, and with Camille gone, it seems all intimacies she shared are now fair game.
Vanessa and Piper act shell-shocked enough, keeping to themselves in their room, but how else did word of Camille’s indiscretions get out? I didn’t say anything. Maybe Becca, she was there. But I can’t help but think it was Vanessa and Piper who leaked the news. It makes them seem important, ties them to the tragedy. It helps the school make sense of why Camille died.
Alone, I finally get in a nap, then pop in my earbuds, select my most hard-core London ’80s punk scene playlist, and try to read a book by a programmer named Peter Seibel, a collection of interviews with famous coders. Dr. Medea handed it to me last week and suggested it might be a fun read, offered extra credit for a report. In normal circumstances, I’d agree and already be outlining the paper. But today, the text is dry as dust, the interviews boring and repetitive. I’m not in the mood.
The room feels so empty. My thoughts stray to Camille, looking for any signs that she either was depressed or truly hated me enough to sabotage my life at Goode, and finding none that stand out in my memories, I turn them, inevitably, to Becca.
Even though none of the Swallows had been with their Falconers this morning, I can’t help but wonder...was the banishment this morning because I missed my appointment, or was it because I didn’t jump right into Becca’s bed last night?
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
My mum said that to me once, a very long time ago.
I try out some adjectives ahead of the noun: hell hath no fury like a privileged, spoiled, imperious, conceited, false girl scorned.
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