The dean waits until there is complete silence in the room before she begins to speak.
“Welcome to Goode, ladies. Welcome. I am Dean Westhaven, though you all know me already, either from our interactions here on campus or, if you’re new to the school, through our entrance interviews.”
A small, pale hand goes to the side of the dean’s perfectly coiffed hair, patting and smoothing it into place. I watch the gesture with interest. She’s nervous. Why?
“To matriculate from Goode is more than good fortune, it is to seize the future. The statistics don’t lie—of the fifty graduates sitting before me today, the class of 2021, all of you will graduate, and all of you will go to college. Why? Because I, your dean, expect nothing less. Your fellow students expect nothing less. Your families expect nothing less. You will excel because that is what Goode girls do.
“You are here to learn. You will work harder than you have ever worked before. You will serve your classmates and this community.
“Never forget, it is a privilege to receive this education. It is your responsibility to step into the world with grace and dignity and an inquisitive brain. You are the leaders of tomorrow. Be a leader today. Show me, your fellow students, your professors how very special you all are. You have each been chosen to have a place behind the redbrick wall. When you leave these corridors, when you are no longer protected by our traditions and our campus life, you will always be safe in the world, because you bear the stamp of Goode on your soul.
“It is vital for you to understand how important a female-only education is to your future. You will be tried—it is our lot in life—and when faced with any sort of animosity or barrier because of your gender, you will have every tool imaginable at your behest. That is what Goode does for you. Yes, you will go to college. But it is more important to recognize the power you are being given. The power of the sisterhood.
“Look to your left. Look to your right. These young women are your future. The investment you make in yourself is an investment in them, as well. Together, we all rise. Together, we are strong. Always remember your sisters.”
With a benevolent smile, the dean raises her hands and clasps them in front of her, palm to palm.
“Together,” she says.
“Together,” the room echoes as one, teachers and students linked together.
“Now, if you please, we will recite the Honor Code.”
Two hundred girls draw a quick breath and speak as one, their voices filling the chapel to the rafters, repeating the words I said in the dean’s office. This is our official claim, our pledge, our sacred word and bond. It is not unlike reciting a confession. The power of it rings through me. This is what it means to belong to something bigger than yourself.
“...On my honor.”
Dean Westhaven touches one hand to her heart, then exits the pulpit, and the chapel resumes its role as school beehive, the girls buzzing with excitement. Convocation is over. Term has officially begun.
10
THE QUITTER
As instructed, I find my way from the chapel to Muriel Grassley’s lair in the Adams Theater.
Grassley looks like she should be the subject of a modernist painting. Her face is square, her eyes almond, her lips overly lush—almost certainly the work of a needle, not God. Her brown hair is liberally dosed with gray as if she’s walked through a cobweb. She wears flowing robes of turquoise and purple, silver rings stacked on her slim fingers. She is loud and brash, and I immediately like her.
Which is going to make the next hour of my life very hard.
The music lab is in the back of the Adams Theater, facing the mountains. Like many of Goode’s buildings, glass is the predominant feature. The vista coupled with the sea of blue-green trees is striking. Happily, the piano faces into the room, instead of out. I’ll never be able to focus if I face the windows.
“Ash? I’m Muriel. Come here, let me see you.”
I dutifully cross the room to the woman in blue. I dig in my bag and extract a small gold box with a silver ribbon, which I set on top of the piano.
Those bee-stung lips part into a gigantic smile. “Welcome to Goode! I’m so excited to meet you. You brought me a gift?”
“I read that you love caramels but are allergic to tree nuts. There’s a little shop in Oxford that is allergen-sensitive, none allowed on the premises. These are totally safe.”
“What a darling you are! I will enjoy them tremendously, I’m sure.” She links her arm through mine. “So, Ash. I’ve heard your tapes, you have quite an ear, such a way with the keys. Why have you never performed onstage before? From what I’ve heard, you’re a shoo-in for Carnegie Hall!”
I smile—charming, dimples, with a touch of rueful thrown in for good measure. “My family frowned upon it. I’ve not played in a public venue, only privately.”
“Do you wish to? I’m sure the dean told you about my connections. I could have you at the Kennedy Center in a few weeks.” She slaps her hands together, back and forth, and the sound makes me jump. She is so vibrant, this woman, so loud.
“Oh, no, ma’am. I’d prefer not to.”
“You don’t want to perform?” This is said with such confusion I almost laugh. But I force my face into a downcast expression.
“Honestly, I’ve been considering giving up.”
“Oh, no. A natural talent such as yours can’t be squandered. The joy you’ll bring to your listeners... It would be such a shame, Ash. I was so moved listening to your audition tapes. You’re quite extraordinary.”
Truth, then. “I haven’t been feeling the music lately.”
“Well, we’ll fix that. Why don’t we warm up with some chromatic scales, cadences, and arpeggios at all octaves, and then try a little Bach. I always find Bach so comforting.”
Oh, yes. Bach makes me want to skip through a forest with mice following my trail. Makes one wonder why I have no desire to play.
I sit on the bench and stretch, first my neck, then my back, then my wrists. Muriel sets the metronome at sixty and I go through a quick and easy series of scales, just to get the feel for the keys. I grow serious. This is important.
I run through the second part of the traditional Hanon exercises, do some chord work. My fingers are sluggish on the keys. The strike is too soft for my liking, so I’m depressing the keys harder than normal, banging out the notes.
After ten minutes of noise, I nod at Muriel, who places a Bach fugue on the stand. I’m familiar with it, but I don’t know it by heart. I’ll have to read the music and play.
I launch in, and almost immediately Muriel holds up a hand to stop me.
“Slow down, Ash. You’re pulling the notes. Make me feel it.”
I continue to pound away. The next ten minutes are a study in extreme frustration.
“Now you’re pushing. And your texture is off.”
“Stop chasing the note, Ash. Let it come to you.”
“Feel the keys. Allow each to build on the last.”
“Your placement, Ash, your wrists.”
And finally, “Goodness, we are having an off day, aren’t we?”
Yes, we are.
I slam down both hands, the discordant notes ringing through the room. The acoustics are perfection, the sound lingers in the air until I lift my fingers from the keys and my foot off the pedal.
Muriel’s face is a mask of concern. Her star pupil hasn’t made an appearance.
“What’s wrong, Ash?”
“I said I didn’t want to play. I...can’t. It’s too soon.”
“Now, now, don’t give up so easily. You’re sitting much too stiffly and your fingers aren’t flowing. If I were a betting woman, I’d say you sound out of practice. Very out of practice. When did you play last?”
I don’t have to lie on this one. “It’s been a while.”
“Why?
”
“I told you. I’ve been considering giving up. It’s not fun anymore.”
“Is it not fun because it’s gotten too hard? Or because you don’t have anything to work toward? If your parents aren’t allowing you to showcase your talent, I know I can speak to them, make them see how beneficial it would be—”
“My parents are dead.”
“Excuse me?”
I stand too quickly and the bench scoots back with an echoey screech. My hand goes to my mouth and I squeeze my eyes shut. Finally, I catch my breath and open my eyes. Muriel is staring at this performance in shock.
“I’m sorry. This is too hard, yes, because every note reminds me of them. Every time my hands touch the keys, I see my mother. I don’t want to play piano anymore.”
“Does the dean know this? When? How? Oh, my dear, I am so very sorry.”
I allow myself to be enclosed in a bosomy hug. Muriel is crying. I hang stiffly in her arms, a trickle of tears rolling down my neck. This isn’t sanitary. Nor should I be comforting her. I begin to count. At thirty, I gently disengage. Muriel snatches a tissue from the depths of her dress and honks into it.
“Yes, the dean knows. I apologize for blurting it out, and for wasting your time today. I wanted to try, at least once, and see if it would work, but as you can tell, I’m too out of practice, and I simply don’t enjoy playing anymore. I’m so sorry. I hate to be such a disappointment.”
Muriel’s eyes are still shining, her nose is red from weeping. It is a touching show of support. “My dear. Yes, of course, I understand. Though you will find me unconvinced of your true intentions. Some time off perhaps, a few weeks to get your bearings here at Goode, and you’ll be itching to play again. A talent like yours isn’t diminished overnight.”
So you’d think. “But you’ll allow me to speak to the dean about dropping the class? It’s not you, I’ve been very excited to work with you, Dr. Grassley. It’s me.”
“Lord above, call me Muriel. Dr. Grassley makes me feel ancient. I will speak to the dean on your behalf. She is a stickler, you know. Doesn’t like change. You leave it to me, I’ll make sure she understands you need some time. And you will always have a place to practice with me, Ash. I know you’ve been through a horrible experience, but when a natural talent like yours comes along, I don’t like to see it go to waste. Will you agree to meet with me again in a few weeks? Try again?”
I bestow my best benevolent smile. “You are too kind. Thank you for your grace.”
Muriel pats my hand. “Off with you, now. You can come talk to me anytime, Ash.”
I give the piano one last long glance as I leave the conservatory.
One less thing to worry about.
11
THE DINNER
According to the letter the school sent, perky Camille Shannon, from Falls Church, Virginia, is a Goode School legacy. Her father, currently the American ambassador to Turkey, has been in the foreign service his whole career; her mother is a lawyer. Her sister, who graduated Goode last year, along with Vanessa’s older sister, was “former head girl and everything,” which is why the two of them know more than the rest of the students about the secret societies and “won’t breathe a word of it, no way, so don’t bother asking details.”
I think if they knew anything, they would spill because both girls are desperately trying to look important, but I don’t care enough to be concerned. I’m comfortable never knowing what happens behind closed doors. This I’ve learned the hard way.
Camille relentlessly fills in the rest of her CV over dinner. Her ADHD and her Ritalin and her older sister’s debutante ball and the beautiful drive down from northern Virginia and when do you think the first mixer with Woodberry Forest—that’s the closest all-boys school, Ash—might be?
All of her conversation is rich with gossip and silliness. She inquires only once about my background and quickly takes the hint when I change the subject. For that alone, I am grateful, though it means we get to hear more about her, her, her.
“My parents divorced when I was eight and Emily was eleven, and our father won custody, so we traveled with him all over the world. I have some language skills and an impressive travel résumé, so I’m planning to study international relations at Brown. I have my eye on Georgetown Law so I can go into practice with my mother. I moved back home to DC to be nearer to her. She’s so lovely, we’ve grown so close these past few months.”
In case you’re interested, I wasn’t... Mummy remarried in the spring. Camille wants to play field hockey, almost ended up at Madeira, has a wicked crush on the son of the man her mother married, “but that’s, like, incest, so it’s a no go,” and loves her chocolate Lab, Lucy. Full stop. Everything and anything of relevance to Camille Shannon laid bare on the white linen.
Will someone please come shoot me, relieve me of this boredom?
Jesus, she’s still talking. I’ve tuned it out now. Chatter chatter chatter. She speaks so much neither Vanessa nor Piper are able to share much about their lives. Neither am I, but that is all good with me.
I try (and fail) to stay entirely focused. The dining hall is a pleasant surprise. Situated with floor-to-ceiling windows that look north into the mountains, each round table of eight is covered in fine linen. The cutlery is silver, the plates china. Waitresses—nicknamed waitrons—come to the table for our orders, as if we are in a fine restaurant. Several meal options take into account the various food allergies and preferences of the students. Hungry but nervous, I end up with a Cobb salad laced with cubed grilled chicken, like I’m eating at a country club.
“Well?”
I come back from my woolgathering to see all three faces staring at me curiously.
“I’m sorry. Zoned out for a moment. Jet lag. What were you saying?”
Camille tosses her head. “I said, which Ivy are you shooting for?”
“Oh. Harvard.”
“Naturally,” she drawls in a most annoyed voice, “but what’s your second choice? Not everyone gets into Harvard, you know.”
“I like my chances,” I say lightly. My chances can be helped along at any time by a few clicks on a keyboard, but there’s no reason to brag. Camille has that corner covered. But this is dangerous territory. Back to you, roomie. “Tell me about DC. I wasn’t able to spend any time there.”
Off she goes.
I have to admit, I didn’t know what I was in for, agreeing to go to dinner with these three intimate strangers, but by the time the dessert plates are cleared, I know one thing for sure—I really need to watch myself. These are friends to be kept at a distance, especially the way Camille gossips. But the buffer they provide is vital, as is their intelligence on the strange world of Goode. If I’m totally friendless, a loner, I’ll stand out even more.
Our plates have just been cleared when whispering starts on the other side of the dining hall, growing quickly, a tidal wave moving through the room.
I catch the name Grassley. The piano teacher.
“What is it?” I ask. “What’s happened?”
A waitron stops by the table. “They’ve had to take Dr. Grassley to the hospital. Some sort of allergic reaction.”
Oh, bloody fucking hell.
I dive into my bag and paw through, digging until I find the gold box with the silver bow. I flip it over and look at the ingredients label: Manufactured in a facility that is allergen-free.
Oh, my God. What a horrible, careless mistake. I gave her the wrong chocolates.
Jet lag, fear, whatever excuse I can come up with, I grabbed the wrong box from the depths of my bag.
I excuse myself and take off at a run, though I really don’t know where to go outside of the dean.
Halfway to her office, I slow.
What is this going to look like? I gave the woman a dose of chocolates that made her sick. And I’m trying to get out of piano.
Will they think...?
Stop. None of this matters. You have to own up to this. The box will have both your fingerprints and the shop’s address. Broad Street, Oxford, England. You can hardly play dumb. You’re such a fucking idiot. Way to go, Ash. That’s how to fly under the radar, for sure.
I start running again, skid to a stop in front of the dean’s office. Her assistant, Melanie, is there, and I don’t even have to fake the tears that start when I ask to see the dean.
“What’s wrong, dear?”
“I just heard about Dr. Grassley. Will she be all right?”
Dean Westhaven emerges from her inner sanctum, looking appropriately alarmed.
“Ash? What’s wrong?”
“I heard about Dr. Grassley. Is she... Is she?” I collapse into sobs. God, this is too hard. I want to go home.
For the second time today, I am enfolded in a hug. It’s the most mothering I’ve had in years. The dean strokes my hair, murmuring until I calm down.
“There, there. You’re okay. Muriel will be fine. She had her EpiPen, she went to the hospital just in case. I’m sure she’ll be back quite soon. It happens, Ash. Accidents happen.”
EpiPen. She has an EpiPen. Maybe she’s going to be okay after all.
“Did she say anything about our meeting today?” Don’t be so freaking suspicious, jerk. I sniff, hard. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to fall apart like this. It’s only I told her I didn’t want to play piano anymore, and then she got sick—”
“Ash, this is not your responsibility. She’s had an allergic reaction, but they caught it in time. She’s going to be just fine. This happens at least once a term with Muriel, it’s a hard allergy to manage. Now, what’s this about the piano? It’s part of your scholarship.”
Careful now, careful.
Good Girls Lie Page 5
