Page 50 of Good Girls Lie
“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’sAnthem. 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.”
