Page 32 of Good Girls Lie
“Yes.”
Camille’s disembodied head appears over the side of the top bunk. “Holy cow, Ash.”
“What?”
“The Commons is where you go if you get tapped.”
“I thought you didn’t know about any of that?”
“I know a few little things. I mean, my sister...”
Humblebrag, humblebrag.Camille is just so good at it.
“It’s supposed to be a really weird spot.”
“I’ll admit, it was a bit odd. In the dark, it feels like the room is suspended in midair over the mountains. I would like to see it during the daytime.”
“Maybe you wouldn’t. There’s a closed-off stairwell from it—now this is part of school lore, I’ve never seen it—but it’s called the red staircase because a girl committed suicide there after her boyfriend was killed in a car accident. He was coming to see her and never made it. She hung herself from the banister, but she also cut her wrists, so the blood dripped down the staircase. She was in there over a break, but no one knew about it because the school thought she’d gone home. When they finally looked and found her, the blood had soaked in so deeply they had to paint the stairs red to cover it up. Supposedly, one of the secret societies makes you spend a night locked in the stairwell.”
“And I thought I left all the crazy ghost stories back in Oxford.”
“Piper told me she warned you about the arboretum, too.”
“Oh, she did. It seems Goode has had its fair share of student deaths over the years.”
“There are a ton of legends here, some true and researchable, like the girl in the arboretum, some harder to verify. But I think that’s true of any boarding school, don’t you? There are prerequisites—the school must have a dark past, be haunted, suffer a terrible tragedy—I mean, you’ve read all the books, I’m sure.”
“I have,” I say lightly. “Perhaps we can make it through the next three years sans scandal or tragedy, yes?”
“God, I hope so. I don’t like ghosts.”
* * *
I’m almost asleep when I hear Camille crying quietly. Should I acknowledge this? It feels private, but with her fever... Maybe she’s more ill than she’s letting on.
“Are you well, Camille? Should I call someone?”
A big sniff. “I’m okay. Thanks for checking on me, Ash. Just missing home.”
“Is your fever down?”
“I’m okay,” she repeats. “Go to sleep.”
Soon after, the bed shifts and Camille slides off the top quiet as a stalking cat. She is out the door a heartbeat later.
I let her go.Don’t get attached. You’ll only get hurt.
But when she hasn’t returned thirty minutes later, I am compelled to seek her out. My feet are chilled as I walk the abandoned, darkened hall toward the bathrooms. Privacy isn’t important here; though there is a handicap toilet on each hall, each wing has its own bathroom, complete with showers and toilet stalls. Like a prison. Everything on display. Do you know how hard that is for teenagers? Torture, first degree.
I hit pay dirt. Camille is inside—I can smell her Philosophy perfume that reminds me of the marshmallow cream I had as a child. She is sobbing so quietly I can barely hear her.
I speak low so as not to startle her. “Camille?”
But it is Vanessa who steps from the stall. “She’s fine. Go back to bed.”
“She’s sick. I think you should take her to the nurse.”
“Mind your own business, Brit. I’ve got this under control.” A low moan escapes the stall. “Go. Now.”
