Page 99 of Good Girls Lie
She straightens her desk, flicks away invisible lint from her jacket.
The door in the photo.
Ford thought it was hers because she’s assuming guilt. But no one has made any demands or threats. All the cottages look the same from the front. It was dark. It was indistinct. Her face was never in it. Only a sliver of thigh.
Who else might Rumi be visiting?
Maybe whoever sent the message isn’t trying to catch her out. Maybe they’ve given her exactly what she needs to escape this mess intact.
58
THE HAZING
Camille’s suicide coincides with the start of Hell Week, as it’s mockingly referred to among the Swallows. The tradition of Ivy Bound—and all the societies at Goode, it turns out—is to haze the living shit out of their Swallows for the first week after they’ve been tapped. It’s meant to weed out the girls who aren’t going to make it through.
That I am suddenly in a single and being given a sort of papal dispensation from the teachers makes it ten times worse. Becca wasn’t kidding when she teased me the first day at Goode about a roommate dying. Not only do I get the room to myself, I’m given class credit that assures my GPA won’t be taking a nosedive because of the effects the tragedy has on my ability to study.
The girls of Ivy Bound take full advantage. I am treated abominably. My first days as a Swallow are a blur of misery. A constant push and pull, so intense I fear I’ll go mad with the humiliation and fevered pitch.
After her nasty showing at the coffee shop, Becca seems out to get me. With disdain dripping from every command, she runs me all over the school. The other Ivy Bound Falconers take a personal interest in me, as well, bossing and laughing, inflicting their own little tortures. One trips me as I scurry onto the seniors’ hall to deliver hot tea to my Mistress; I lay sprawled on the floor, soaked in Earl Grey, while they laugh and laugh.
And they speculate. Openly.
I’m the one whose roommate jumped. What sort of asshole am I?
The Swallows are all covered in a terrible rash, the blisters clustered so tightly they ooze wet patches through our T-shirts. I eventually tape gauze to my stomach to try to stop the leakage, but this makes me itch even more. I’m not about to go to the nurse, so I self-medicate with double the recommended dosage of Benadryl three times a day, bathe in oatmeal, and cake on the calamine lotion. Combined with a severe lack of sleep, I move about in a daze, accepting both condolences and snide, knowing remarks with the same languorous attitude.
I can’t focus on anything properly. I am exhausted. I am scared and sad and terrorized. My once regulated days have turned capricious and chaotic. I am reminded of the Bach fugue Grassley made me play; I am in a fugue state myself from morning to night.
The orders never cease.
* * *
Go get me a latte. Skim milk. Not that whole crap you brought me yesterday.
Yes, Mistress.
Fetch my sweatshirt, I’m chilly.
Yes, Mistress.
I need a book from the library.
Yes, Mistress.
My laundry needs folding.
Yes, Mistress.
I’m out of cigarettes, run into town and get me some.
Yes, Mistress.
Smoke this joint.
Yes, Mistress.
Drink this shot.
