Page 4 of Good Girls Lie
“Thank you for the ride.”
When the students realize I’m just another one of them, they go back to their conversations. Ignored, I feel better. I’d truly like to stay anonymous, do my work, study hard, get into Harvard, and leave my wretched old life behind. Strangely, I’ve never felt so alone as I do at this moment, watching the joyful faces of my soon-to-be classmates as they run and shout and hug tearful parents goodbye.
My watch twitches with a reminder—I have a meeting with the dean of the school in fifteen minutes.
Ruly Rudy, who has wrestled my massive suitcase out of the car, is standing nearby with a hopeful grin on his face.
I hand him five precious dollars, heart in my throat at the thought of letting go any of my hoard. But it is expected. “Thank you again for the ride.”
I shoulder my backpack and drag my suitcase up the stairs, entering Main Hall.
It is cool and dark inside, a welcome respite to the late-summer heat. Oddly empty, too, and quiet to the point of austerity. White columns, marble floors. There is a great sense of space, two massive staircases curving into the second-story balcony like a theater. On either side, unmanned tables are set up with engraved metal signs: A-E, F-K, L-P, Q-Z.
Why am I the only one here? Have I already done something wrong?
A middle-aged woman with gray hair in a chic bob, black glasses, and bright red lipstick that makes her look like an aging Parisian model, steps out of the office and hurries over, beckoning, and I make my way to the first table.
“Here’s a new face! Welcome to Goode. I’m Dr. Asolo, English department. You’ve missed the masses, lucky girl—most have already registered. We were getting ready to break things down, just waiting on the stragglers.” She looks over my shoulder. “Where are your parents?”
The lie comes easily, smoothly, without thought. “They dropped me.”
Dr. Asolo’s lips purse in disapproval but she puts a hand on the metal sign, tapping it with her thick gold wedding band. “We usually like to meet the new students’ parents, but if they’re already gone...”
“They are. So sorry.”
“You didn’t know,” she says absently, waiting. Her hands are captivating, capable, nails short and buffed, with clear polish—another Goode regulation. No hair dyes. No colored polish. Au naturel. The ladies of Goode will not be fake.
Dr. Asolo clears her throat. “Name, dear?”
“Erm, Ash. Ash Carlisle. With aC.”
“I am a professor of English, dear. Your accent isn’t so heavy that I need subtitles.” She chortles at her joke, and I smile, a blinding, perfect smile that nearly makes my cheeks crack. I’ve almost forgotten. Charming Ash.
“Very good. Carlisle, Carlisle...” Dr. Asolo roots through the box on the table, then pulls out a packet like she’s retrieved Excalibur from the stone, triumphant. “Here we are! You’re in Main, Room 214. Freshmen and sophomores are on level two, juniors on level three, and seniors on four, in the attics. You’re class of 2023, so you’re an Odd—staircase on the right only. If you take the wrong staircase, you won’t graduate. And you’re not allowed on the seniors’ floor without an express invitation. Don’t let them catch you trying to sneak in, either.”
This is said with such alacrity I feel a stab of panic. “You mean, like, it’s a rule? You watch everyone to make sure?”
“Oh, no, dear. It’stradition. You’ll find we have a few here. Now, your roommate is already upstairs getting settled. I’m sure she’s very anxious to meet you. You’re from England, isn’t that right? Well, Camille is from DC but she lived in England when she was younger, so you’ll have lots in common.”
A knot of girls enters the hall, creating a commotion. At their center is a tall, willowy blonde, ethereally pretty, with shrewd green eyes. The girls stop in front of the tables. I know I’m staring; I can’t look away. Epochs of instinct tell me this is an important moment, an important person I need to impress. I’m nervous to be singled out so soon, so quickly, though. My God, I haven’t been here ten minutes and I’m already drawing attention. I smile. Wide. Molars showing.
The blond goddess stares back, a perfectly groomed eyebrow cocked. Her voice is sharp and low, demanding. “Class?”
“Um, ’23. Sophomore.” As if they can’t do the math.
“Hmm. Be sure you take theleftstaircase, wouldn’t want you not graduating, now would we?”
I glance over my shoulder at Dr. Asolo. Hadn’t she said Odd classes were to take the right staircase? But the professor is busying herself with another student folder and doesn’t look up.
The girl turns back to her crowd and says, sotto voce, “Did you know if your roommate dies, you get the room all to yourself for the rest of the year? I wonder how long this one will last.”
The girls surrounding her titter, and a chill spreads down my spine, making me stand straighter. We are the same height, eye to eye, and there is something smoldering in the other girl’s depths. Fire and hate and more, something wrong. I am the first to look away.
Dr. Asolo, who is paying attention after all, takes exception. Her pleasant tone is gone now. “That is quite enough from you, Miss Curtis. You are excused.”
With another coy smile, the girl floats away, her hair drifting down her back in a perfect, shining blond curtain. The circle of girls around her giggle loudly as they follow. My eyes stay on the older girl until she is out of sight, through the doors.
Jesus. What was all that about? It’s like she knew. It’s like she looked right through my Cheshire smile and into my heart and twisted the tiny knife she found there, like a key in a lock.
