Good Girls Lie

by J. T. Ellison

  “Where’d you say you were from?”

  I drag my attention back to the driver. He’s decent looking, dark hair and skin tanned from a summer outdoors, hazel eyes. He’d said his name when he opened the door for me, Rudy or Ruly, something like that—I didn’t pay attention, why should I? He’s just the driver, a stranger I’m sharing a fleeting moment with. I’ll never see him again after today. Don’t get into the car with strangers, we’re taught. Don’t talk to strangers online. Stranger danger. Now, it’s as much a part of life as breathing.

  And who’s to say I’m not the stranger to be worried about?

  “I didn’t. England.”

  “Thought so, from your accent. Ever met the Queen?”

  Hardly. We don’t exactly run in the same circles.

  But I’m embarking on a new life. Perhaps it’s time for a bit of embellishment.

  “We go to the same church in the countryside. Have you ever heard of Sandringham? There’s a beautiful little stone church there, with a graveyard that dates back to the 1300s. They—the Queen and her husband, I mean—spend much of their time in the country, especially now they’ve been handing over duties to the younger members of the royal family. We saw them only last week.”

  “I know exactly where you’re talking about. That’s the place they filmed part of Game of Thrones, didn’t they?”

  “The very one.”

  The best lies are based in fact. The stone church at Sandringham exists. It’s called St. Mary Magdalene, and it’s a bit more than a stone cottage, but I have no idea what it’s really like. I’ve never been there. I’ve never met the Queen. I have exactly zero idea where Game of Thrones was filmed, but I assume it wasn’t on the royal estate.

  The driver has no knowledge of what I’m talking about but doesn’t want to seem stupid, so he is more than happy to pretend. He grins at me in the rearview, and I smile in turn. We’re connected now, over this lie. We both know it. Accept it. These are the social niceties of a modern civilization.

  I resume my outdoor viewing, pretending I didn’t enjoy the tiny frisson of excitement I got from the dopamine rush of telling a lie.

  Why did I do it? I swore to myself I wasn’t going to lie anymore. All part of turning over a new leaf, as my mum would say.

  And I have no business lying to this stranger, one who knows where I’ll be for the next few years.

  But it is so easy. And what will it harm? He’s practically a child himself.

  I’ve never understood my compulsive desire to lie. I’ve read so many articles I’ve become my own sociology experiment. Everyone lies. To themselves, to each other. It’s a way to belong, to be included. To look important.

  In the past, it was much, much easier to get away with these transactional lies. Purveyors of falsehoods were con men, flimflam artists. Now, everyone is a grifter. With the advent of social media, allowing the masses to peer in through the open windows and doors to your home, to your mind, your body, your soul, the only way to lie properly is to curate your life for the masses to behold, carefully, carefully. Stage. Filter. Design. My very existence is so much better than yours. Hurrah!

  I have no accessible online accounts. I don’t tweet or book or gram or snap or tok. I’ve never been interested in living out loud, and now, it’s working in my favor. It’s much, much too dangerous for me to have a past. I’m forward-looking, marching ahead. My life, my new life, waits for me on top of the mountain, in a town appropriately called Marchburg. The Goode School doesn’t allow the students to have mobile phones. There’s a solid chance I can get away without the accounts for the next few years. There’s luck, already going my way.

  In the modern age, with the ubiquitous connections available, not allowing personal mobile phones on campus is believed to be an archaic approach to education. I’ve seen the reviews, the message boards; the students hate it, hate leaving behind their screens. Even some of the mothers and fathers think this is a ridiculous rule, too, often sneaking one into the luggage for a midnight texting session with their little darlings.

  We top another rise and finally, I can see the city of Marchburg ahead. It looks like an Italian hill town, accessible only through winding switchbacks, a fortress behind a redbrick wall.

  Lies have kept me safe, kept me protected, my whole life. But here, in this new place, in this new world, I don’t need them anymore. I will be safe on the mountain. Protected.

  “Starting over is always hard,” Mum told me, “but you can do it. Go far, far away from here, daughter mine. Reinvent yourself.”

  This is exactly what I intend to do.

  4

  THE ARRIVAL

  The drive up the hill makes me slightly queasy, all the switchbacks, the steep drop-offs, but soon enough we are on even ground again. The little town of Marchburg, its streets forming an X, surrounds the school which sits in the middle, at the crossroads. I ignore the stores and restaurants and their quaint, New World names, focusing on the behemoth ahead. A castle, for that is what it looks like, an overly large country house, like those of my homeland, spreading across the glossy green acreage like a stone gargoyle, but with red brick instead of gray stone.

  The original building was damaged by fire in 1890, and the phoenix rebuilt in the traditional Jacobean style using the famous Virginia bricks known as Chilhowie, the name stamped across the face. “Chilhowies have been found as far away as Paris, France,” says the literature. A bell tower rises above the entrance, perfectly centered on the main building, which is five stories high. Similar Jacobean-style buildings wing each side of the main hall—their signs denote they’re creatively named Old East and Old West—but these were added later, and aren’t the same exact color as their mother. They are three stories each, with white wooden balconies that jut out from their top floors.

  Taken in one shot, the school is monstrous in its austere beauty.

  The massive black wrought iron gates to the school stand open in greeting for orientation day. Term starts tomorrow, Wednesday, so Monday and Tuesday are set aside for students to get settled in the dorms, buy their books, sign up for activities and sports teams, hand over their phones, and otherwise run amok on campus, reuniting with their friends and making new.

  What must be freshmen stand in bewildered clumps under the oak trees bordering the wall. Parents stumble around with furniture and boxes in hand. It is a bright, sunny late-summer day, the sky so blue it is hard to look away.

  When the town car slides to the curb in front of the huge redbrick building with Main Hall carved into the gray stone lintel above the door, all heads turn. Hiding in the back, I feel unaccountably shy, embarrassed to be the center of attention, even for a moment. But the driver pops out of the town car and comes round to the door, flinging it open as if I am the Queen herself. He practically bows.

  “Here you are, miss. Your very own Sandringham, tucked into the Virginia mountains,” Ruly, or Rudy, or whatever his name is, says, and I shiver. He knows more than he lets on. The school does look quite a bit like Sandringham. How very eerie. I must be more careful going forward.

  With him standing there, holding the door, the smile turning quizzical, I have no choice but to get out, unfolding my long body from the back seat. I have a cramp in my thigh, but I smile winningly.

  “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 a C.”

  “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’s tradition. 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 the left staircase, 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.

  This is a very bad idea.

  I fight the urge to run, plant my feet, flexing my quadriceps so I am grounded, stable.

  Dr. Asolo retakes her seat. “That was Becca Curtis. Senator Curtis’s daughter. Becca’s a senior and loves to spook the incoming girls. She’s only playing with you. Ignore her.”

  “It wasn’t very funny. Is she always so mean?”

  “No, actually. She’s quite a lovely girl. One of our best students. A true leader. Just a wee bit sadistic when it comes to newbies. You’ll see. You’re in sister classes, after all, and many of the school events are done with your sister class. Odds and Evens.”

  “I see.”

  “Kitchen rules are straightforward and posted on the door. The Rat—that’s the little café over there, through the staircase in the back of the building—is open until 10:00 p.m. If for some reason you miss a meal, you can always grab a latte and a banana or a sandwich. I highly recommend the tuna melt. Library hours are in your packet, along with your class schedule and everything else you might need, including your keycard for the buildings and student ID. Don’t lose them—there’s a five-hundred-dollar fee to replace them. Can you manage that bag by yourself or do you need some help?”

  “I can manage.” I slide the packet into my backpack and redirect my suitcase, immediately wishing I’d agreed to help. The bag is so heavy, but it’s all I have.

  “Excellent. Welcome to Goode. You’re going to love it here.” Dr. Asolo starts away but I stop her.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Asolo, I’m supposed to meet with the dean. Can you point me toward her office?”

  “Oh!” Dr. Asolo peers at me curiously. “The dean doesn’t usually meet with students on their first day. And opening convocation is in an hour. Her office is just there, through the doors, down the hall.” She points toward the right side of the building. “You can leave your bag with me if you like.”

  “Thank you. I’ll bring it with me.”

  “Suit yourself. It’s been a joy, Ash Carlisle.” She smiles briskly and disappears back into the office, shutting the door behind her.

  I take a huge, shuddery breath, blow it out, hard.

  I’ve got this.

  5

  THE DEAN

  Dr. Ford Julianne Westhaven watches from the attics as her girls arrive for term. She loves it up here. When she attended the school, she was desperate for a glimpse into the seniors’ hall, for an invite to the forbidden level. As the ultimate legacy, she thought it was her right. But traditions are traditions, and the only time she’d been allowed, up until her own senior year, was blindfolded, being dragged up the wrong set of stairs during a secret society tap.

  The room is cozy. The windows overlook the Blue Ridge Mountains on one side and down the mountain to the green valley on the other. If she could set up her permanent office here, she would. Inst
ead, she uses it for escapes during the day when she doesn’t have the time to flee to her cottage on the grounds.

  She knows she has to go down and greet the classes, is excited, in her way, but turning herself from a months-long private life to a public one always takes a toll. She is at heart an introvert, has to force herself to smile and laugh and participate in her own world. Being continually thrust in front of the microphone as the mentor to two hundred impressionable young women is alternately terror-inducing and exhausting. She is expected to speak at every opening convocation, every graduation, and several times in between. She is their lodestone, their shining light, their leader.

  Ford aspires to be a novelist, not headmistress to a band of brilliant young girls. Oh, she knew she would take over the school eventually, but hadn’t planned to be doing this in her thirties. She assumed she’d step in once her mother was too infirm to handle the school, that she’d have a full, laudable writing career first.

  But her mother screwed up everything, so instead, here Ford is, hiding in the attics, dreading the start of term as she has the past nine autumns. She can hear Jude’s voice echoing through the chambers of her mind.

  It is expected of you, Ford. It is your role in life to be the dean of this school, as I and your grandmother and hers were before you.

  Ford doesn’t like doing what is expected of her. And yet, she does it anyway.

  A Westhaven has held the top position since the school opened, in the early 1800s, as an Episcopal-run home for wayward girls. Girls who needed to disappear. Girls who’d disgraced themselves and their families. Girls who would have otherwise ended up in bawdy houses, as prostitutes, or worse. Decidedly not Goode girls.

  Ford’s namesake was a nun who served the school when it opened in 1805. Sister Julianne was a radical who thought all women should be educated. She felt the poor, lost girls of Virginia who found their way to Marchburg needed to serve a purpose and started teaching them to read and write. Quietly, stealthily, she turned the ones who were capable of change into ladies. Some even managed to return to Virginia society, though most moved west and started over under new names. The illegitimate children were adopted out or put into service at the plantations in the area.