Page 57 of Good Girls Lie
Someone must have reported that the door wouldn’t stay closed and one of the janitors changed the knob. The lock was certainly for safety’s sake—all that paint and raw wood, nails, all things that could hurt an unwitting student.
So why does it feel like someone is standing on the other side of the door, holding their breath?
Okay, now I really am wigging out. I move quickly toward my door. As I turn the knob, a voice bleeds into the night, and I can swear I hear my name being called. It is far away, though, and I shake my head and enter the room. I’m being paranoid. I’m still half-drunk and high, and have spooked myself. The drunken image of the dead girl in the stairwell, the red stairs, the murdered girl in the arboretum, the very heart of this school is its great ghost stories. But they’re stories. That’s all.
The room is still a mess, and Camille isn’t back. She must have decided to bunk with another girl, or maybe she’s been tapped for a secret society, too. No, probably not. They say sophomores never get tapped.
But I have been.
I’m special.
I open my wardrobe door and smile in the wavy mirror. I am Ivy Bound. Becca Curtis is my secret friend. There is a handsome boy in town who flirts with me, and the dean thinks I’m a weak little sobby snatch.
I have played this all perfectly.
On my mussed-up bed is a small brown lunch bag sitting atop a T-shirt with a picture of a small bird on the front. I put it on with a smile, then open the bag to find a whole kit—cortisone cream, calamine lotion, cotton wool, Benadryl, packets of Aveeno oatmeal tub soak. Nail clippers. And a note:
Go to the nurse, and you’re cut. Sweet dreams, Swallow.
They are serious about their torture, but at least they’ve given me the remedy. Despite years tromping through field and forest, I’ve never had a case of poison ivy.How bad can it possibly be?
I cut my nails almost to the quick, take some of the Benadryl, spread cortisone cream on my arms, stomach, and thighs, then climb into bed. Set my alarm for 6:00 a.m. I’m not going to get much sleep, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything.
I’ve been tapped.
I belong.
I am quite literally wearing the fruit of my labors on my body.
The spark of pride, of excitement, almost drowns out the incessant itching of my arm, and the creepy, crawly feeling of my name being called out, carried on the mountain breeze.
Almost.
I run the evening through my mind, over and over, the screaming, the instructions, who was there. Some girls I didn’t recognize, some I did. No matter, we’ll be marked tomorrow. All I need is to find the most miserable-looking faces and I’ll know my flock mates.
“I am a Swallow. I am Ivy Bound.” I whisper the words over and over until I fall asleep.
37
THE TRAGEDY
Rumi comes to Ford tonight without texting first, ravenous. He doesn’t say anything, just smiles that come-hither grin, slams the door behind him, and takes her in his arms, kissing her deeply.
“Good day?” she asks when they come up for air, but he whispers “No talking,” grabs her hand, and leads her to the bedroom, where he flips her on her stomach and takes her from behind.
While he makes sure she’s fully satisfied, tonight is clearly about him. When he finishes, shuddering against her back, he simply pulls up his jeans, gives her another long, soulful kiss, and starts for the door.
“Wait. Don’t you want a cocktail?”
He grins and shakes his head. “I only wanted you. Goodnight, Ford.”
He saunters off into the night. Ford closes the door behind him with an exaggerated sigh of pleasure.
Good grief. He certainly knows how to push her buttons and leave her wanting more. Where did he learn all his tricks? For someone so young—it has to be online porn. She doesn’t think he’s sleeping with anyone else, but what does she know? She’s never asked, and he’s never offered.
Besides, dating is reimagined now. With Tinder and Grindr and swiping, sex is free, built to resist commitment and responsibility, often completely disengaged from the act of love. It plays well for her purposes, it’s not like she wants a true relationship with him, for heaven’s sake, but she feels sorry for the girls of Goode as they make their way out into the world. They won’t know any other way. They will let strangers into their bodies and call it freedom.
Ford has had a few serious boyfriends and a few romping partners. She knows the difference between lust and love. She’s resisted marriage, fearing that inexorable slide into the status quo. She was not built for two point three kids and a dog, a house in the suburbs, a nanny for her children. She prefers the writer’s isolation, the romantic aloneness that will allow her observational access. One needn’t experience things firsthand to be a writer, one must only be a keen observer of setting and human nature.
