“I haven’t been honest with you, Dean Westhaven.”
“Oh?”
“It’s only... I hate it. I hate the piano. Yes, I know it’s part of my scholarship but I want to give up. Every key stroke reminds me of my mother. I need more time.”
Well, that part is true, at least.
The dean’s face crumples in compassion. “Oh, my poor duck. I understand completely. Why don’t we revisit this in a few days? See how you’re feeling then.”
I’ve bought myself some time. Excellent.
“Yes, Dean. I appreciate your understanding.”
Her smile is genuine and warm. “Why don’t you take yourself to bed now? You must be exhausted. I’ll tell Muriel you’ve asked after her. And you can talk to her tomorrow. All right?”
I’d prefer never to speak to her again, but what choice do I have?
“Yes, Dean.”
And I toddle off to bed like a good little girl.
That was much too close.
Walking up the Odd stairs, I run through the situation. I probably should have mentioned the candy, but if Muriel didn’t sell me out, then perhaps I can slide through this one without some massive mea culpa.
God, I hope.
12
THE STOMP
Back upstairs, I am attacked by ravenous wolves desperate for gossip. I dutifully report my findings, brief and succinct, then scurry into our room. The sick bitches whisper disappointment in my wake; they would have been much more satisfied if Grassley had died instead of temporarily incapacitated.
I don’t tell them my role. I’m hoping it never gets out, but I’m not too sure. Goode has no secrets. This will be an excellent test.
While Camille showers in preparation for bed, I rifle through her drawers. There is nothing exciting, nothing of consequence outside of a half-empty pint of vodka. The usual detritus of a teenage girl. Disappointing, but not surprising. I have no idea what I’m looking for, anyway. Clues, maybe, a guidebook for living in this new world.
By the time Camille returns, I’ve crawled into bed, stretched out on my side facing the wall, and am faking sleep, wondering if I’ve made a mistake coming here. I’m not ready to make friends. I’m not ready to answer questions. The energy it is going to take to keep people at a distance is massive. And what if I can’t hack it? Not to mention the school aspect of all this? What if the classes are too hard?
I finally fall into a fretful sleep at midnight, restless and rumpled, and wake to the strange sense that something is amiss.
Singing. I can hear singing. Am I dreaming?
I sit up, rub my eyes. Stretch. No. Not dreaming.
But where is it coming from? Not my earbuds, though I’ve fallen asleep with them in. I pull them from my neck and toss them onto the night table. My laptop slips off the side of the bed, and I make a grab for it before it hits the floor.
Outside. The singing is coming from outside.
I go to the window. The night is black as pitch, deep as velvet. A glance at my watch shows it’s 1:30 a.m. The singing is growing louder, coming closer. The hair rises on the back of my neck. This isn’t a gentle, melodic song. This is coarse, meaningless; words shouted to a Sousa march beat.
Oh. This must be what the girls called a stomp.
Vanessa, when she could wedge a word in edgewise, explained the details over dinner. The secret societies are something like sororities at many Southern colleges, though you can’t pledge or ask to join one. The sisters have to come to you, a process known as being tapped.
I already knew the secret societies at Goode are a very big deal; I’d read about them when I was investigating the school but hadn’t paid much attention. I’m not much of a joiner, and seriously doubt I am the kind of person a secret society would want anyway. At dinner, Vanessa made them out to be almost mythical, as important to a Goode girl’s résumé as a 4.0 GPA and an admission letter to Harvard. “The societies carry over into college, you know. It’s the ultimate networking tool. Anyone can pledge a sorority. To be chosen, that’s the true test.”
The societies are secret for a reason. The members have been known to wreak havoc on the school from time to time. I’m not sure I understand how that works with the Honor Code, but I’m not worried. I’ll never find out. I am not secret society material.
When I turn from the window, I realize my roommate isn’t in her bed.
At the thought of Camille, I fall back into my bunk with a groan. The girl is just so...shallow. She’s probably book-smart—how else would she have gotten into Goode?—but has already shown she has the common sense of a gnat.
I lie on the bed, stare at the slab of wood above me, rubbing my temples for comfort. Tomorrow is the first day of classes, I’ve almost killed a teacher, my roommate is a jerk, and I’m wicked tired. I took some melatonin to help me sleep—I read it was good for jet lag—but all it’s done is give me a splitting headache.
The singing and stomping grow louder. Should I go to the door and look out to see what’s happening? Tempting. But no. Again, stay off the radar, Ash.
They are on the hall now, which means everyone is being disturbed. Earlier, I wondered aloud about the split floors and why they aren’t inverted, with freshman having to hike the three stories and seniors only one, but Camille made it very clear the attic rooms are incredible, with sloped ceilings and big windows with clear views of the Blue Ridge Mountains all around the campus. They are the most special. Sought after.
The seniors have their own staircase, too. I was warned three times today to never, ever, go anywhere near the seniors’ curlicue staircase. “Underclassmen who go up to the attics uninvited will never graduate,” Vanessa said, eyes wide and serious.
I rolled my eyes at yet another ridiculous infraction rule to be obeyed. I am the least superstitious girl on the planet, but fine with me. Like I told my suitemates, I’m here at Goode to study my ass off and get into Harvard. If I excel and fit in, I will have an easy path to Boston.
It has been drummed into me all day—a diploma from Goode guarantees you placement wherever you want to go. Women from The Goode School hold the highest positions in every industry, from politics to business, law to medicine. Some are published authors, some are tenured professors. There are research scientists and a cadre of CEOs. Goode is the foundation upon which all things are built.
The singing stops abruptly. The silence is deep, as can only be found isolated away in the mountains.
I begin to drift, then start awake to the sound of whispers. I strain but can’t make out the words, only the gentle susurrus of girls’ voices. A giggle.
Then, “Ash.”
It’s quiet, almost inaudible, but it is definitely my name. I sit up so quickly I smack my head on the bottom of Camille’s bed.
“Ow. Bloody hell.”
The whispers stop.
It must be Camille and Vanessa and Piper in the hall, talking about me. The new girl poisoned the piano teacher. Watch out, she’ll come for you next.
I slide out of bed and make my way in the dark to the door. I fling it open, step into the hall.
It is empty.
I move next door and put my ear to the wood. The doors are thick, but I can hear the barest hint of gentle, wheezy girl snores. Either they’re pretending to be asleep, or I’m hearing things.
You’re exhausted. You’ve been on guard all day. You’re jet-lagged and stressed, in a new environment, and you’re being silly. Go back to bed.
A door is ajar at the end of the hall. There is a flickering light inside.
Just a glance. One quick little look.
“Ash?”
I jump, my heart taking off at a gallop, whirl around to see Camille, her face red, eyes puffy.
“What are you doing in the hall...?” Standing in front of their door? she might as well add, though she tra
ils off, watching me inquisitively.
“I thought I heard my name. Someone was outside the door whispering. Are you all right? You look like you’ve been crying.”
Camille gives a big sniff and gestures toward our room. I let her go in first, stop at the door. Turn my head toward the open doorway only to see nothing but deep, velvety darkness where the light once shone.
Inside our dark room, Camille climbs into her bunk. She lies there, sniffing.
“What’s wrong?” I finally ask.
“It’s nothing. Go to sleep.”
“If you want to talk—”
“I don’t. Okay? I didn’t feel well, and now I’m all right. Go to sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
She falls asleep quickly, but I’m awake for good, it seems, so I pull my worn copy of The Republic from the bedside table and fasten a nightlight to the thin cover. If I can’t sleep, I might as well study.
But my mind is wandering. The whispers, the crying, the light in the ajar door like an invitation. A decade-old murder. Secret societies. What purpose could they possibly serve? And what sort of secrets do they hold?
Worse, a galvanizing thought.
What have I gotten myself into?
13
THE INSOMNIAC
The dean can’t sleep.
She’s been tossing and turning for the past hour, running the day over in her head, looking for mistakes, issues, pitfalls. She has a staff meeting tomorrow with all the teachers to address any concerns that have arisen, and she’s not looking forward to it. It’s always the same, every year, teachers immediately singling out the students who need extra help, who are being disruptive, who are not fitting in, too sad, or too stupid, to cut it. All that negativity is such a downer. She’s not had to intervene in any disciplinary actions so far, which is good—maybe she’s worrying for nothing. Maybe tomorrow’s meeting will be smooth sailing.
She has Ash Carlisle on her mind—not surprising, after her tearful breakdown over Muriel’s unfortunate incident. If Ford’s being honest with herself, though, she’s been thinking about the girl for weeks, ever since the news of her parents’ passing, so unexpected, so lurid. When Ash appeared in the doorway to Ford’s office—thin, tall, haunted—Ford was torn between offering a hug and sending her back to England.
Something about Ash bothers her. She doesn’t have the whole story of the girl’s past, this much is clear. The shadows in her pretty blue eyes aren’t something brought about by a loving, stable life. With her parents’ deaths... Yes, that’s all. The shadows are grief. Grief explains everything—the weight loss, the soft voice. How the girl seems to scurry. A broken heart. Shadows. So many shadows.
Ford hadn’t noticed when she interviewed her. The computer’s camera wasn’t great; the room Ash had been in was dark and gloomy, lit only by the natural light from the window. They lived in an estate in Oxfordshire, Ash explained, on a vast expanse of land. Ford had looked up the house itself during the background check—harled stone, three stories, covered in ivy, elegant grounds. Quintessentially British. The parents were the right sort. Ash herself was the right sort. Some spots on the academic record, to be sure, but so often the children of these kinds of people lash out until they find themselves.
Discipline. Focus. Identity. That’s what Ford offered here at Goode, in addition to being a ticket to ride.
The Ash she’d talked to was gregarious, insouciant, brilliant. Not mousy. Not hunched in on herself. Not stricken with fear at every question.
What’s happened to her since her father’s death, her mother’s death? Has Ford made a mistake allowing her to come?
Considering the rumblings...
According to Erin Asolo, Becca and Ash had clashed. Becca had said something wildly inappropriate and was scolded. Erin explained the tiff at the first-night-of-term cocktail party, an annual tradition for the Goode faculty and staff. They all got tipsy and divvied up the chaperone schedule, from dorm duty to offsite dances with the local boys’ schools.
Ash managed to secure the attention of Becca almost immediately, and who knows where this will lead. To be honest, Ash managed to secure Ford’s attention, too. Perhaps she is that kind of girl, one so unforgettable obsessions are born.
Ford knows this is a situation worth watching. Time will tell. She also knows that sometimes, with teenagers, things sort themselves.
Becca can go either way—wonderful, loving friend or cold, heartless bitch. She’s off-the-charts intelligent, absolutely. But there is a coldness in her, deep down in her core. Ford can easily imagine her as a little girl, that direct, unblinking gaze as she pulled the wings off a butterfly in her mother’s garden.
This event is in the psychological profile on Becca Curtis. Her mother, Senator Ellen Curtis, mailed it to Ford two weeks ago. A disturbing report from a psychiatrist in McLean, Virginia, who stated her concerns for Becca’s welfare in plain language.
Summary: Patient lacks empathy. Knows right from wrong, but isn’t concerned with following rules. Lies about inconsequential things, evades my questions. Reckless behavior noted by mother—disobeying curfew, drinking, drugs. Patient shows contempt for her mother and authority figures in general, including myself. Possible borderline personality disorder, possible bipolar disorder, possible depressive disorder. Or possibly a teenager trying to get attention from an absent parent. Recommend therapy three days a week and a course of medication.
Along with the psychiatrist’s findings, there was a typed letter.
Dear Dean Westhaven... This was crossed out with a flourish and Ford written in blue-black ink, a heavy blot on the bottom of the d. Ford knows it was written with a fountain pen, which is meant to impress, and also knows the senator’s aide typed the letter and shoved it in front of her boss’s face to be signed and personalized. A DC special.
Dear Dean Westhaven Ford,
Becca has been having some issues. We had a clinical assessment (attached) and she’s been diagnosed with some sort of depression. She will be returning to school with a prescription for Zoloft.
I know you will keep an eye on her. She’s been improving rapidly since the medication kicked in and seems quite excited to return to school. Please keep me abreast of her progress. You may email me anytime at [email protected].
Yours,
Senator Ellen Curtis
Ford read this and thought, Her public email address, too. My God, Ellen Curtis is a heartless bitch. No wonder Becca is acting out at home.
And the diagnosis could hardly be called some sort of depression.
But Ford dutifully updated the senator on her observations with an email earlier this evening.
Senator,
Becca seems to have settled in just fine. Excited for her classes, already showing true leadership for the student body. I will keep a close eye on her. Good luck in the midterms.
Fondly,
Ford Julianne Westhaven
Dean, The Goode School
Titles. People do love their titles.
Ford doesn’t see the same girl the doctor does, which is worrisome. Becca has never struck her as deliberately cruel, but perhaps Ford only wants to see the best in her girls. And she understands the desire to get attention from an absent mother, even if it’s negative attention. Ford was—is still—known to disregard her mother’s advice in favor of making some colossal mistakes of her own. Her mother made the worst one, and now Ford is shackled to Goode, for better or for worse, forced to read something much too personal about one of her students. Penance.
Yes, Becca needs some extra attention this year. She will be graduating in the spring, already has an early acceptance to Harvard. She might start slacking off, and Ford can’t let that happen. Perhaps Ford will offer a tutorial. Becca has shown a propensity for short stories. She’ll challenge her to write a small collection, with Ford editing. With the ri
ght topics and guidance, perhaps she can even submit to magazines at the end of the semester.
That’s Becca sorted.
So what else is bothering her?
Ford finally throws back the covers and goes to the kitchen. Makes a cup of tea, chamomile, and adds a few drops of CBD oil. She needs her rest.
She sits at her desk, sipping, allowing herself a few moments to worry. A good exercise, this. When her mind is cluttered, she indulges it for ten minutes. Then she puts it aside. She sets the timer and lets her thoughts tumble.
She is interrupted by the phone, an unrecognized number. She answers.
“Dean Westhaven? This is Dr. Aquinas, I’m at County General. I’ve been treating your Dr. Grassley.”
“Oh, yes. Is she all right?”
“I’m so sorry to have to share this, Dean, but you are Dr. Grassley’s primary emergency contact. She didn’t respond well to the epinephrine—I see in her chart that she’s had several incidents in the past year. Sometimes the body simply can’t get out of reactive mode and the flare-ups are too much for the heart to handle. These long-term anaphylaxis cases are so difficult—”
“Excuse me, what are you saying, exactly?”
“I’m sorry, Dean. Dr. Grassley passed away an hour ago.”
JUNE
Oxford, England
14
THE FIGHT
Gravel spits and an engine revs, then cuts off. The front door slams a second later, shaking the mullioned windows. My father screams my name from the foyer. I can hear him though I’m on the third story of the house. I wince. He knows. He knows I know.
“Ashlyn Elizabeth Carr! Where are you?”
I weigh my odds. If I stay here and he has to come up, will he be more furious or less? Time heals all wounds, though whoever penned this bon mot clearly didn’t have a teenage daughter. Our wounds only get deeper, wider, nastier. They fester.
“Ashlyn! Come down here immediately.”
I creep from my room to the hall. I can hear my mother now, emerging from the solarium where she keeps her office. She spends all day in there, arranging dinner parties and sojourns to the countryside, writing thank-you notes. She is useless. Meaningless. Living a pretend life in a pretend world. Since my brother died, she’s done nothing but plan her stupid parties and nip on the sherry. A tot in your tea, dear?
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