The school’s mission changed in the late–nineteenth century, when Sister Julianne, then Mother Julianne, ancient and bent, stubborn still, was given a gift. One hundred thousand dollars from the father of her own illegitimate daughter, bestowed to them upon his death. With this absolute fortune, she bought the school outright, a legacy for her child.
All girls who entered the gates were good, in her mind, no matter the sin they’d committed. She, too, was capable of sin. She changed the name of the school to reflect this opinion and created a new mandate—the school would take in needy girls and turn them into governesses and schoolteachers. Her descendants would run it, using the Westhaven name. The name of her illicit lover.
Soon enough, The Goode School, as it was known, became a destination for young women who wanted to break free of societal norms. Goode gave the girls who landed there a chance at an extraordinary life, a contradiction to anything they’d been taught or thought before.
When Mother Julianne died, her wishes were followed to the letter. Her daughter—a woman with Julianne’s own gray eyes and her father’s name—took over the school.
And so it went, generation to generation, a matriarchal line who took it upon themselves to educate the daughters of the land. To teach them how to be self-sufficient women, teachers and influencers in their own right. Seven generations committed to carrying on the school, its mandate as an all-female powerhouse, and the Westhaven name, of course. It is their brand as much as the school’s.
Each class has fifty girls, hand selected by Ford herself. Fifty brilliant, impressionable girls, all there to be molded into Ford’s own image, all of whom go on to college. A full 90 percent go traditional Ivy. The remaining grads either attend specialized programs—Rhode Island, Julliard, Oxford, MIT—or the approved Southern schools that are understood to be their own Ivy system.
It is a laudable record. Goode accepts only the best, guarantees a serious return on investment. And in turn, expects blood, sweat, and tears. And future endowments. Elitism costs.
Ford successfully shot down an attempt last year to admit a male student. She led the fiery charge and won, though the board wasn’t as adamant. More students meant more revenue.
But Ford made them understand the power of an all-female education, how admitting boys would affect the tenor of the day-to-day, would alter the very mission of the school. If girls can focus on their studies exclusively, she argued, without the distraction of having boys in the classroom, their grades are better, their confidence soars, and they are more effective in and out of school. Their eventual insertion into the real working world with this focus means higher paying jobs, more influential roles. Goode creates strong female leaders. Full stop.
They listened.
And unlike her mother, Ford has been blessed with a tenure free of heartbreak, free of scandal. Oh, there have been a few little things here and there, mostly girls caught with cell phones or cigarettes, marijuana in their vape pens. Beer. Shoplifting. Little transgressions, things that in the grand scheme of things don’t matter. Non–life altering. Nothing like what Jude dealt with, thank God.
Goode is a success under Ford’s stewardship.
She runs through her upcoming speech in her mind. She’s given variations on the theme every year to kick off the term, been the recipient of several as a student herself under her grandmother’s reign. Her words are echoes of her past, spoken in the voice of her ancestors.
The girls will beam, reveling in being the chosen ones. They will do anything to please her, as Ford and her classmates would have done anything to please their masters.
She notices the black town car pulling into the drive. Another congressional or ambassadorial child—those parents always too busy to see their darlings to the doors of Goode sent them in style. She is drawn, for some reason, to the shadowy figure inside.
From the car emerges a tall, thin blonde. It takes Ford a moment to place her, then she realizes she is seeing Ash Carr—no, it’s Carlisle, she reminds herself, they’re keeping her identity private, for now—in the flesh for the first time.
Poor dove. The trauma of the girl’s past few months almost derailed the application process, and the subsequent lack of funds was a serious issue, but something about her spoke to Ford, especially in their interview. The girl has a certain spark, is appealing on many levels. Ford allowed her acceptance to stand and, with the blessing of the board, granted one of the school’s rare private scholarships to bring her from England to Virginia.
Goode scholarships are based on need but can’t be applied for. It’s the school’s way of carrying on the tradition from which it was born. A small nod to the past.
Ash is sworn to secrecy; so long as she keeps her mouth shut, no one will have to know. She will be treated as just another Goode girl, accepted because of privilege, brains, and whatever inestimable quality Ford has seen in the application and interviews.
Ford waits another moment, surveying the acreage, the students, the gentle slope of lawn and trees, the possibilities ahead for another year at Goode, then turns to go. She has a meeting with Carlisle in a few minutes. She has rehearsed what she will say, as she does with every interaction. So long as Ford has time to prepare, she is perfect.
Always.
6
THE MEETING
I knock on the thick, tall wooden door and am rewarded with a trilling “Come in!”
I step through into a lovely large space. Bookcases line three walls, floor-to-ceiling built-ins with crown molding, stocked so full it makes me itch to stand in front of them, run my fingers along their spines, ignore the dean entirely.
Along the fourth wall, flanked by tall casement windows, is a creamy red marble fireplace, wood stacked in the grate as if ready for the match despite the warm day. Two gray tweed sofas face one another in the center of the room, perched atop a thick wool Oriental rug in shades of green and cream. The big wooden desk looks like a French antique; the right side of the top is taken up by an old-fashioned typewriter, a crisp white page rolled onto its platen, the carriage slide half-mast as if the writer stepped away midreturn. I can see the faint image of words through the sheet.
Above the desk is a framed map of 1900s Virginia. A flag of the United States, stars out, housed in a triangular black frame, sits alone on a shelf in a place of honor.
The entire room is elegant, feminine, old-school, and inviting.
Dean Westhaven, too, is elegant, feminine, old-school, and inviting. Her dark hair is swept into a classic chignon; she is draped in a nubby Chanel suit, discreet black pumps with a two-inch heel on her slender, high-arched feet. She is not beautiful, her gray eyes with their large pupils too widely set and her nose a shade too thin to balance the sharp cheekbones, but she is striking, a presence. And watchful. So watchful. Like a gray-eyed hawk, measuring and peering.
Those disconcerting eyes hold unfathomable secrets and take my measure, and this unerring attention is intimidating. I am not used to being looked at so closely; I much prefer to hide in the shadows. Choosing to come to Goode means I won’t be able to do so, this I know. I am going to be seen. As one of only two hundred in such a small space, with my height, my hair, my face, there is no way to hide. Not completely.
Despite this scrutiny, there is something about the dean that makes me want to know more about her, and this puts up my guard.
Careful. Don’t go getting attached.
The dean gestures toward the two chairs in front of her desk. “Sit, sit. You must be exhausted after your journey.”
I take a high-backed wing chair, one leg bent beneath me on the soft seat until I remember my manners and put both feet on the floor, and watch the woman who is to direct my life for the next three years bustle around her homey office.
Dean Westhaven finally taps a stack of paper together, sets them on the desk, and smiles tremulously. “I can’t abide a mess.
I was so sorry to hear of your father’s death, Ash. And your mother...” The sigh is audible, loud and sad. The words sound practiced, as if the dean has said them a hundred times.
How many students’ parents have died?
Creepy.
“It was all very sudden,” I reply, wooden, eyes cast down. I have learned this is an appropriate response.
“Yes. Yes, of course, it was. Forgive me, I hadn’t meant to bring it up, but I saw the inquest has been resolved... Would you care for tea?” The dean plunks a cup and saucer down in front of me, pours out from a lovely floral teapot. “Take some sugar. It will help with the jet lag.”
I dutifully reach for the sugar and drop two brown cubes into my teacup. I use the small silver spoon to stir, three times clockwise, then set it on the edge of the saucer. The tea is surprisingly good, hot and fragrant, and I close my eyes as I swallow. When I finish this display, the dean is looking at me curiously.
“It’s quite good. Oolong?”
“Yes. Not surprising that you have a palate for tea.” The dean smiles amiably, and I respond in kind, not the heartbreaking grin, but a small one, lips together, teeth obscured. It makes my dimples stand out.
“I was very pleased when you decided to join us for term after all. I know you weren’t excited about leaving so soon after...”
“It’s for the best. Thank you for having me still. I needed to get away.”
The dean is looking at me closer now. “You’ve lost weight since we spoke last. Granted, I’ve only seen you through Skype—it’s hard to get the full measure of a girl through a screen.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The dean sips her tea, I follow her lead. Long silences are her thing, apparently.
“It’s understandable, considering. With some tender loving care, you’ll be back to yourself in no time. The loss of a parent—Were you close to your father, Ash?”
“He worked a great deal.”
“Ah.” The dean says this as if she’s heard it all before—the daughters of scions are often neglected by one parent or another. The pursuit of power dictates long hours.
“I do miss him. But we didn’t see him much.”
“I understand. And your mother. To lose her, too, so soon after... It’s simply tragic.”
“Yes.” I shut my mouth resolutely, praying the dean will take the hint and stop the inquisition. The way she speaks, a human ellipsis, waiting for me to fill in the blanks, is unnerving.
She does, changing tack entirely. “During our interview, we talked about the Honor Code, how important it is to the school, to our heritage, to our students. Absolute trust, that is what we ask. Lying, cheating, or other violations of the Honor Code will not be tolerated. There is no warning system—you openly violate the code and you’re out. Lesser infractions will be dealt with by Honor Court, which is run by our head girl. Do you remember the Honor Pledge?”
“Yes. It is protection for both myself and for the students around me.” I clear my throat, state with perfect clarity the words I am expected to say. “‘I will hold myself and my fellow students to the highest standards. I pledge absolute honesty in my work and my personal relationships. I will never take a shortcut to further my own goals. I will not lie, I will not cheat, I will not steal. I will turn myself in if I fail to live up to this obligation, and I will encourage those who break the code in any way to report themselves, as well. I believe in trust and kindness, and the integrity of this oath. On my honor.’”
This recitation makes my heart thunder in my chest. My hands shake a bit as I clutch the teacup, but the dean either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
“Excellent. It will be up to you how much of your past you wish to divulge, Ash. I don’t see keeping your family’s plight to yourself as a violation of the Honor Code. I think the name change is a good idea, and support your decision to keep this unfortunate situation apart from your studies. Likewise, your status as a scholarship student is not something we discuss. Most of the girls aren’t even aware this program exists. Since your case is so circumstantial, it will behoove you not to mention it. Teenage girls aren’t very understanding in general, not to mention unaware of the issues with arcane British inheritance laws.”
Oh, the irony—don’t ever lie, cheat, steal—but lies of omission are just fine.
The dean briskly continues, “Because of your exemplary insights into Plato in your admissions essay, we’ve loaded you heavily into the liberal arts track. You placed out of math, so there is still an open slot in your schedule. There are three classes offered during that time period—French, Latin, and computer sciences. The former are eventual requirements junior and senior year and I highly recommend—”
“Computers, please. Ma’am.”
“Dean, not ma’am. And are you entirely sure? This isn’t a class to enter into lightly, Ash. You won’t be able to use the computers to email with friends back home or work on your social media feeds. This is a nuts-and-bolts education on programming, highly advanced and usually reserved for the young ladies who have shown an aptitude and plan to head into engineering and aerospace programs at leading technical schools, like MIT or Caltech. We don’t normally allow sophomores in this class, but we have a new professor and he wishes to expand the program to include all class levels. I disagree, but times have changed, and Goode must change with them.”
I feel such a sense of relief at this option, this one small thing I know I’ll be comfortable with, I nearly cry. “Yes. I am absolutely sure. I like computers. Not the social media nonsense. I like how the systems work.”
“I noticed you aren’t active online, unlike many of your peers. I was happy to see it. Unless you have private accounts we aren’t aware of?”
“Goodness, no. I find social media a waste of time. Not to mention an invasion of privacy.” She has no idea what an invasion it would be. I plan to keep it that way. All my accounts were deactivated before I got on the plane.
The dean smiles wryly. “Good. Computer science it is. If you do like this sort of thing, you’ll enjoy your professor, Dr. Dominic Medea. He used to work in Silicon Valley. And as for piano, you’ll be with Dr. Muriel Grassley. She is a Juilliard-trained pianist who has wonderful connections, so you’ll be able to work with some of the best programs in the country. She’ll be expecting you in the theater after convocation. I knew you’d want to get started right away.”
“About piano, I—”
A small chime dings, sweet and gentle.
“We’re out of time, I’m afraid. Take your bags to your room, and then change for convocation. I will see you in the chapel in thirty minutes. Welcome to Goode.”
Dean Westhaven turns her attention to the stack of papers on the desk in front of her.
I am dismissed.
7
THE ROOMMATE
Relieved and vaguely excited by surviving my first important meeting at Goode, I replay the conversation as I make my way to the grand staircase.
I was so sorry to hear of your father’s death...
My parents are a sore subject, too fresh, too indecipherable, so I push their faces out of my mind. I don’t want to think about them, nor about him. Not now, not ever.
Pale. So pale. Waxy. Quiet. Hair parted on the wrong side. The red of his lips unnatural as if he’s been kissed too hard and too long. Crying. A crush of people. The smells: chlorine and stale, piped, air-conditioned air overlaid with overly ripe white lilies, stamens pushing aggressively toward the ceiling, stinking of death...
Vomit dribbling from his mouth, eyes staring, blank and empty... The screams...
“Stop!” I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one has heard. I am blissfully alone.
Get it together. You will not think of this now. You will never think of this again.
Lies. I tell myself such pretty lies.
I bite my
lip so hard it makes me tear up, but I am back in control. I square my shoulders and wheel the heavy bag to the staircase, careful to remember I am supposed to go up one side only or I’ll never graduate.
Nonsense.
But I stop anyway at the base of the stairs. Is it left, or right? I think back to the conversation I had with Becca the bully. I’ve already assigned her the role. Becca said left so it’s right. Definitely right.
At the top of the first flight, I have to lean against the banister on the landing and readjust my grip on the heavy suitcase. Everything I own is inside. I don’t plan to return to Oxford, ever. But the weight of it is untenable. On the second floor, I push through a door and stop, breathing hard, arms aching, and pull the packet from my backpack.
Room 214.
This is no hotel, there are no arrows to point me in the correct direction. There is a small kitchen ahead, and a grouping of soft tan suede sofas, chock-full of girls.
Make a good impression, Ash.
“Which room are you looking for?” one calls.
“214,” and the girls point to the left as one, a flock of helpful, smiling little birds.
I drag the bag down the hall. One of the wheels has shattered, no wonder it’s so hard to move along the carpet. There is a piece of paper taped to the door at the end, 214 written in bold black Sharpie. Steeling myself, I open the door into...darkness. A heady, musty smell, overlaid with bleach. Across the room are two cobwebbed windows covered in smeary, dotted dirt. The floor is draped in tarps; neatly stacked ladders line the far wall, a row of paint cans in front of them. A fluorescent light swings from the ceiling. When I flip the switch, it comes to life with an ominous crackle.
What is this place? This isn’t my room, it can’t be. There’s no bed, for starters. And it’s so dank and dirty...
Good Girls Lie Page 3
