Page 103 of Good Girls Lie
She shakes her head. “I don’t think it has bearing on the case. Like I said, this seems to be someone playing a cruel joke. I think I’ll delete it and we’ll all move forward.”
Good idea, Dean. Really good idea.
“Oh, one more thing...tell me, is there any indication this email was sent to anyone else? Or only to me?”
“I don’t see any other addresses. Yours only.”
The bells toll, the deep tenor clangs of the tongue against the brass especially loud in this space. Moments later, the dean’s mobile rings. She glances at it. “Ah, this is Melanie. I need to go. And you’re expected in English now, aren’t you?” She smiles, benevolence incarnate. “Go straight to class, Ash. We don’t want Becca finding you in the hallways, do we?”
See? I told you they are in on it.
60
THE SOLICITOR
I just make the last bell before Dr. Asolo shuts the door. I take my seat and she greets the class with the worst possible news.
“Pop quiz, ladies. If you’ve finished the reading, this should be a no-brainer. Put away your books and take out an exam book, please.”
Groans leak throughout the room, and I join them. Is this really how we’re welcomed back after the death of one of our own? How can she expect anyone to have done the reading?
I dig into my bag for the stack of exam books I keep there. One of the items I have learned a Goode girl mustn’t ever be without is the pale blue, thin-paper exam book in which all tests and essay assignments, from pop quizzes to the dreaded midterms and finals, are taken. Centered on the cover are the words in boldOn my honor, followed by two lines, one for printed name, one for a signature. By signing the cover of the exam book, the Honor Code pledge is taken. No booklets are accepted without a signature.
I flip open to the first page and look to the whiteboard at the front of the room, where Dr. Asolo has written a single essay question under the essay title,A Room of One’s Own.
What are the feminist ideals expressed in the text?
“Three hundred words, ladies. You have the hour. Go.”
I start scratching away. This is an easy one. Low-hanging fruit. I loved the book, identify with the themes. Identify more than anyone at Goode can possibly realize, actually. A room of one’s own... Even the title speaks to me. Though the way I’ve gotten to this point isn’t the way I would have chosen. I doubt Woolf would have liked to achieve this status because her roommate died. Since I am now in dubious possession of this ideal, I think I’ll include this thought in the essay.
I’m writing so furiously I barely notice when a note comes from the office. Dr. Asolo brings it to my desk.
“Ash, the dean needs to see you. You may finish your essay in your room this evening and turn it in tomorrow. You’re dismissed.”
I stop midword, staring at Asolo dumbly. Asolo nods in encouragement. “Go on, dear. Don’t look so stricken. I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”
That’s what you think.
This is not good. How many times am I going to end up chatting with the dean this week? What is it now? They discovered my lies and are throwing me out? Vanessa and Piper ratted me out? Becca reported me for some sort of violation because I didn’t lick the toe of her shoe? Is it the email?
Is it all over? The jig is up?
Breathe. This is most likely an Honor Code thing—I contradicted Vanessa and Piper about their knowledge of Camille’s affair. Though the dean brushed off what I said, she must have followed up, and they’re insisting I face them as their accuser. I did nothing wrong being honest. We’ll be able to clear this up quickly.
I cap my pen, stash the exam book in my bag, and hoist it to my shoulder. I’m going slow, dragging my feet. Asolo might not be worried, but I am.
The dean’s official office is as familiar to me now as my own dorm room. I’m surprised to see a man inside. Not the sheriff, either, but a stranger. He’s a ginger, wearing a double-breasted, blue, pin-striped suit that looks like it came straight from the back room at Gieves & Hawkes, his wingtips spit polished. His very being screams solicitor.
“Oh, Ash, there you are. Come and have a cuppa with Mr. Nickerson.”
Her attempt at British colloquialism makes me cringe, but I step forward.
“Hullo, Ashlyn.” Nickerson leaps out of his seat with a wide grin. He is young, probably in his early thirties, and as overly enthusiastic as a puppy. Tea sloshes out of the cup onto his pants leg, and he takes this good-naturedly, as if it is a daily occurrence, blotting it with his hand.
“Whoops. Quite a mess, so sorry, so sorry. Ashlyn, it’s wonderful to finally meet you. I was a friend of your dad’s. I’m so very sorry we lost him. He was a lovely man.”
Oh, such a lovely man. You clearly didn’t know him well. More important, why the hell are you here?
