Good Girls Lie

by J. T. Ellison

  Or so I think.

  JUNE

  Oxford, England

  24

  THE PROPOSAL

  They are sitting together at one end of the dining room table when I drag in, high, drunk, dirty. I’ve come through planning to sneak up the back stairs to my room. This is a place I don’t expect them to assemble, in either position or companionship. I don’t know how they’ve managed it, how they knew I was coming home, how they timed it. Surely, they haven’t been here waiting for two days—no, someone from the village reported that I was heading their way.

  They look ridiculous, eclipsed by the grandness of the room, awkward, the two of them snugged together like this.

  Mind, our dining room table might be a bit different than yours; it seats forty comfortably, forty-six in a pinch. The room is massive, echoing when empty, but the acoustics are perfect for a house party. The dark oak wainscoted walls are covered in priceless oils of hunting scenes. From forest to table, the Carr family philosophy.

  It strikes me as funny, this. I, too, come from forest to table now.

  Damien Carr has a reputation—likes to keep to himself, holds his own counsel, does everything with stiff-upper-lip discretion, which is why his clients love him. Why the Queen knighted the sick fuck “for service to the British banking system.”

  My mother, on the other hand, good old Sylvia, newly monied and married to an icon, loves to show it off. She takes full advantage of the Carr treasures to hold lavish feasts for important and interesting people.

  This space used to be the site of so much fun. I’d watch the festivities from the anteroom, getting in Dorsey’s way as she sent up the courses. Laughter, the clinking of china and goblets, the room growing more uproarious as the cellar was raided again and again.

  He went along with it for a while. Then he put a stop to the parties. My mother cried and whimpered and begged, but Damien is like granite, implacable when he makes up his mind.

  I’ve drifted. My parents are staring at me. My mother wears a semblance of a smile—the opening salvo. I laugh. I might be a little too high.

  “Ashlyn, please sit down.”

  I’ve been sleeping rough for two nights, bunking on the floor of a friend’s flat in the village. A rat has gnawed the edge of my messenger bag. I don’t move. The Molly, whilst making me warm and fuzzy, has my feet planted.

  My father gives it a try.

  “Ashlyn, I shouldn’t have lost my temper. I apologize.” This is said stiffly, and I know he doesn’t mean it. There’s a reason he’s seeking détente. Why?

  I stay standing but sway a bit, toward the closest chair. Finally, I collapse into it. My legs are tired. I am so, so tired.

  “Your mother and I have discussed this at length, and we believe it’s time for you to go away to school. There’s a lovely all-girls spot in America. It’s called The Goode School. It’s for children of the elite.”

  “I won’t go.” The words are out before I have a thought. I have no desire to go away to school. I barely go here anymore, why in the world would I agree to go to America and be locked away inside with a bevy of squealing quims?

  “You don’t have a choice. You are going. It’s been settled with the school already. You must do a formal interview with the headmistress. We can set up a Skype call, she’s agreed to it since you don’t live close enough for an in-person visit in time.”

  I shake my head and he holds up a hand.

  “You aren’t happy here. I understand how hard your life has been—” oh, the sarcasm, Daddy, so appropriate just now “—being the daughter of two parents who love you very much and only want what’s best for you.”

  Mum launches her gambit. “You’ve left us no choice, Ashlyn. The drinking, the drugs, the running away, it will stop now. You will go to America, which gets you far, far away from us, which is all you really want, as you’ve told us so many times. You’ll be among peers, girls who are just as intelligent as you. You won’t be bored by the provincial school districts anymore. It’s like a college, really, you choose your path of instruction. This is for the best.”

  I have zero intention of following this course but I need all the information I can get.

  “And when is this blessed occurrence taking place?”

  “You leave in August. Term begins earlier there.”

  August. It is June now. I’ll have to work fast. There’s only one way for me to truly be free.

  I have two months to plan how they die.

  Quote

  “Time passes, and little by little everything that we have spoken in falsehood becomes true.”

  —Marcel Proust

  OCTOBER

  Marchburg, Virginia

  25

  THE RISE

  It doesn’t take long to realize Becca’s attention has given me the greatest gift—the cachet of approval from a senior. Why have I, a lowly transfer sophomore, of no real provenance, been singled out?

  It is an instant anointment.

  I employ the one tool in my arsenal—silence. It only adds to the mystique.

  Who knew? I thought lies had power until I saw what silence could do.

  Within days, Britishisms are popping up on our hall. Girls are nipping to the loo, sitting down for a cuppa, buggering off. Loosely styled fluffy ponytails appear. Boxes arrive in the mail room, and soon half the girls are wearing Dr. Martens boots with their chapel dresses. The infirmary runs out of Band-Aids for tender ankles, and the dean threatens to tighten the dress code; though shoes have never been on the list of required conformity like our white button-down shirts and green plaid skirts, seeing her school transform so quickly is disconcerting.

  Despite my efforts to fly under the radar, and the reticence of my suitemates—no, let’s call it what it is, I’ve been openly cast aside—I am becoming a popular student. I regularly field invitations to join in—meals, game nights, gossip sessions in the sewing circle, walks on the grounds. The girls of Goode want to get to know me, but I am enjoying being unknowable. I hang out in the library, night after night, busting my tail to keep up. It’s safer that way.

  The rumors abound, I hear them whispered as I walk by—I’m the daughter of rock stars on tour, or a Scandinavian princess, or the child of a famous actor, or even, maybe, the illegitimate child of the president. (This last is met with laughter, but still, who knows?) I could be anyone, from anywhere, and without the proven tracking system recording every move of the rest of my peers, duck face smiles and puppy dog nose shots taken from yachts and beaches and ski slopes, anything could be true.

  They are children—sophisticated children, yes, but children nonetheless. The magic of possibility is still their favorite pastime, and since many regularly brush up against fame and fortune, live these privileged lives themselves when not stuck under the nursery rules of Dean Westhaven, anything goes.

  That I look at my feet and shake my head whenever the subject of my family arises only feeds the flames. Let’s be honest. I have no idea how to handle all of this attention. Ironically, my natural aloofness makes me seem unattainable, which means the girls want me more.

  The days spin on. It is October now. Rain covers the campus, cold and drizzly, and when I’m not dodging rumors and false offers of friendship, I almost feel comfortable, like I’m home.

  It’s hard to believe I’ve been here a matter of weeks. I’m feeling less like a cornered animal and more like a student. Even though some of the girls still whisper behind their hands when I walk by, thanks to Camille and her minions, it’s more often the freshmen, now, who are agog by anyone in the upper classes.

  I haven’t yet been left behind in my schoolwork, and naturally, I’m excelling in my computer tutorials. I’m working harder than I’ve ever worked before to keep up with the rest.

  Goode’s teachers are strict and professional, and th
ey seem to approve of me with an enthusiasm I have rarely, if ever, seen from authority figures. They encourage and push, enlighten and calmly correct. The dean, too, has been unfailingly kind, always stopping to ask after me or to bestow a compliment. “I hear the paper you wrote for Dr. Asolo was wonderful” or “Dr. Medea tells me you’re coming along quite nicely in your tutorials. Keep up the good work.” Every once in a while, “Have you thought more about your piano lessons?” At that, I always shake my head.

  I see Westhaven sometimes, in the windows of the attics, staring out at the quad with something akin to longing. She seems to spend more time up there than in her office, which is strange, but everything about this place is strange. Strange, and oddly wonderful. The dean is so young to be in control of this school. Only thirty-five. Thirty-five and in charge for ten years. No wonder the school feels so current, so innovative. She is a startling figure to watch, with her elegance and shyness.

  She reminds me of someone. Myself, perhaps.

  Though the curriculum and mores are forward-thinking, Goode itself is mired in the past. Like home, I can feel the history emanating from the walls, but since almost every building has been renovated, at first glance, it’s all crisp and clean. The basic architecture hampers adding windows or opening walls, but everything that can be is painted in the simple dove gray of our dorm room. The white wainscotings and moldings are kept polished, the parquet and marble floors are buffed daily until they shine. Everything reflects light, from above, from below. The school is elegantly outfitted, no expense spared. Expensive and old, and for some reason, the two don’t go together.

  When I walk the corridors, it’s so easy to imagine the way the school used to look—the wood floors battered and gouged, the dark corners of the rooms cobwebby, the drapes worn thin and shiny with the passage of time. As if there is a veil to be lifted. Maybe it’s because I come from a city with exceptionally old buildings, but everything about Goode’s shiny surface belies its true nature. There are echoes here, of the past. The heart of the school, written into the remodeled walls.

  And the grounds are glorious. Especially now, in the fall, the combination of deciduous and evergreens gives the ground a multicolored show. The heat has broken, so whenever I have a free moment, I am outdoors, wandering. There are plenty of hiding places scattered throughout the campus.

  The Selden Arboretum is a personal favorite. Despite Piper’s dire warnings, I find it a quiet, restful space. There is a spot I favor above all, a small clearing, a tiny fairy meadow, where I like to read and smoke the occasional cigarette from the pack I have stashed in my closet. Such a move is risky, but I’m not afraid. Goode respects my need for privacy, for some reason. That could be Becca’s doing, but I try not to think about it. Becca is fine. She’s been very nice, very solicitous.

  There have been a few more stomps, and the entire school is getting ready to celebrate Odds and Evens weekend, a tradition that dates back to the origins of the school. Some of the sillier girls like to tell stories of the ghosts and legends, but for the most part, I have tuned them out. My world at home was full of these tales, they don’t frighten or titillate me at all. But I’m excited to do my part for the celebration—the sophomores are the sister class to the seniors and are expected to decorate the campus. Becca told me that last year, they made hundreds of water balloons and put them everywhere, and the seniors got soaked every time they opened a door or stepped through an archway. The idea of Becca being drenched makes me laugh; I wonder what sort of prank the sophomores will cook up.

  Camille: there is still silent weeping in the night, but I leave it alone. If and when Camille wants to talk, she will. Lord knows she talks about everything else. We have set rules in the room—study hours and talking hours. And when it’s talking time, Camille rarely ceases, waxing on about nothing, leaving me to find quiet elsewhere. I half think she does it so I’ll vacate our room.

  Piper: when she can be separated from her pack, she has proven to be an enjoyable companion. Camille and Vanessa are thick as thieves, and while Piper is their third, there are times when she steps out of their coterie and hangs out with me. She is quiet and wily, smart as a whip, and disinclined toward meaningless gossip, preferring to wait until she has something truly earth-shattering to talk about. She likes to share clothes and shoes, and I often find her draped over our couch, waiting for me to come back from class so we can go to the shops in town.

  Vanessa: we will never be friends. There is something in the way she looks at me, head cocked to the side, assessing with those dark, intense eyes. Always assessing. At meals, or when I’m in the library studying, taking walks along the paths that meander through campus, at our yoga sessions and study halls, every time I look up, Vanessa is watching. It’s creepy, the attention she pays to my every move, yes. But I ignore her. Which seems to piss her off even more.

  There have been no more strange scents or cracked-open doors. Those things, I believe, were in my head.

  It’s been a successful few weeks. All is nominal. I’m fitting in well enough, I’ve kept the lying to a minimum. We’ve had a lovely memorial service for Muriel Grassley in the chapel, and the matter of her untimely demise has been put to rest. I’ve managed to put my complicity in her death aside. Muriel should have read the label. She shouldn’t have relied on my word alone. Don’t get me wrong, I do feel bad, but I don’t see myself as responsible.

  A bullet dodged.

  So why, eating my perfectly scrambled eggs with the seniors, as I’ve been doing every morning since the first summons, listening to their nonsense, staring out at the mist-blurred trees, do I have the worst sense it’s all about to come off the rails?

  26

  THE OUTING

  The babble of two hundred teenage girls is normally a proper distraction, but breakfast today is a muted affair. There was a stomp last night, waking everyone at midnight. Because of the rain, fog wisps around the boxwoods and everyone is stuck inside. Three days of gray skies now, and the girls of Goode miss the sun, which makes them grouchy. The entire room feels off. Tense. Watchful.

  I have been banished back to my table for Odds and Evens preparations. It’s strange, I don’t feel as if I belong here anymore. With the sophomores, I mean. I am Becca’s mascot, the puppy at her heels. I’m no dummy, I know how this game is played. Her protection is power personified, and I have been taking full advantage.

  But today, she’s sent me down.

  Camille and the others don’t have the gumption to deny me a seat at their table, not while Becca watches.

  I settle in. No one speaks.

  We are finishing our orange juice when a thwack sounds by my left elbow. Our waitron’s back is already turned as she moves away, the delivery made.

  I glance down to see the same creamy envelope and steady, artistic hand I was presented with the day of my summons. My heart does a backflip. I reach for it, but quickly realize this time, the envelope bears Camille’s name.

  Camille’s.

  “It’s for you.”

  Camille’s china-blue eyes shine. Hands shaking, she examines the envelope from all angles, cracks open the wax seal, and draws out the note.

  Fourth floor. 10:00 p.m.

  The same instructions I received. Camille looks up, pupils dilated in pleasure. A small smile plays on her lips. I can practically read her mind.

  It is so good to be singled out. This could make me at Goode, like Ash’s audience did for her.

  Vanessa, face twisted in anger, snatches the note away.

  “Who did you two blow to get in Becca Curtis’s good graces?”

  And...we’re back to normal. I shoot down my orange juice and gather my things.

  “Shut up, Vanessa. You’re just jealous.”

  “You and I are going to have words soon, Ash. Or should I say, Ashlyn?”

  One extra syllable and I feel the blood drain from my he
ad. “My name is Ash. I told you before.”

  “Oh? Funny. I thought your name was Ashlyn Carr. Daughter of Sylvia and Damien Carr. The late Lady Sylvia and Sir Damien Carr. Or am I mistaken?”

  Vanessa’s smile is feral. I fight to keep my breathing steady.

  “Wherever did you hear that?”

  “Ooh, it’s true, isn’t it?” Piper says. “Does the dean know you’re using a fake name?”

  Camille is shaking her head, both hands up. “Stop, you guys. Stop right now. We agreed...”

  Everyone is staring at me. All the students in the vicinity have frozen, forks halfway to mouths. They are all listening. They all know. Camille’s words—we agreed—how long have they suspected the truth? Why did they go searching for information?

  You should have told them something, given them something. But I didn’t want to lie about this, not with the Honor Code front and center like a matador’s cape.

  “Report yourself, or we’ll do it for you,” Vanessa says. She has clearly been planning to drop this bomb at the perfect moment. Now that she has the upper hand, I’m hardly surprised to see her turn the screw.

  Panic floods my system, my vision blurs. Adrenaline or tears, I don’t know which, but I’m going to fall apart in a moment if I don’t do something. I can’t stand here in the dining room denying my parentage, that would be a lie, and if they know the truth, lying about it will get me into trouble.

  How did they find out?

  What else do they know?

  I think back to Becca’s request for me to hack the dean’s email... Did she find someone else to do it for her? Was Becca looking for information on me, not herself? Oh, bollocks. Great big bloody bollocks.

  I bolt. There’s nothing else for me to do. My bag slams against my hip as I run, the sharp edge of my laptop digging into the soft flesh of my thigh with every step. I don’t care about the pain, I just want to get away. It’s too much. I don’t want to do this anymore. Balancing my old life and new is just too hard.