I knew something felt wrong.
The dining room is on the west edge of campus and leads to the arboretum. This is the refuge I seek now. My precious little fairy glen. I’ll hide here, maybe until dark, maybe forever. The trees, rattling in the breeze as their leaves begin to fade, still provide a great deal of cover. Shelter.
The arboretum is dark and cool. Quiet. The rain has stopped. I find a mostly dry patch of grass and moss under the spreading branches of my favorite hemlock. Whip the strap of my bag over my head and sink to the damp ground, wiping away the tears from my cheeks.
I have been so exposed the past few weeks, like a raw nerve ending on a sore tooth, being prodded and looked at and whispered about. Whatever was I thinking coming here? I want to go home. Back to the rolling hills of Oxfordshire.
Sadly, this isn’t possible. I have no home, not anymore. No parents. No life back in England. I’m stuck here. I am officially under the dean’s wing, her responsibility.
I pause my crying jag.
I could go to Westhaven. But what will the dean say? What will she do? “The girls found out the truth, so sorry, Ash, we’ve done our best to keep your past hidden, chin up, we’ll get you through this.”
Like that will help.
I have an overwhelming urge for a cigarette. There are three left in the pack I smuggled in, hidden inside the toe of my flats. It would mean going back to the dorm, though, and I’m not ready to face them, not until I get myself back together. Figure out how to handle this mess.
“Fuck!”
“Language,” comes a quiet voice, and Becca Curtis steps around the trunk of the tree.
27
THE SENIOR
Ash looks so fragile, so alone. To have your private world laid bare in front of your friends—Becca knows how hard this is. Ash is clearly a rookie when it comes to having her dirty laundry aired; Becca lives with it every day. Not only under the scrutiny of her mother, last summer, Becca became a Twitter meme for one of her stupid antics. A crazy night in Georgetown that got totally out of hand was turned into a great, arty, black-and-white short film called Vomitous Key Bridgius. It was posted on Snapchat and TikTok, where it was amusing for the short amount of time it existed, but instead of disappearing into the ether like everyone else’s snaps, someone captured it, posted it to Twitter, and suddenly, it was everywhere. Even the Washington Post did a story, the perils of teen drinking, blah, blah. She was mortified, and her mother... Well, suffice it to say the senator wasn’t well pleased. Becca had been grounded for weeks.
Becca wants to give Ash a hug but knows she’ll be rebuffed. Instead, she sits, digs two cigarettes out of a pack, and offers one to Ash.
After a moment, Ash accepts, and the small spark of light in her eyes emboldens Becca. She’s dealing with a rebel after all. She knew it. Could sense it in her bones. Ash has been swanning about for weeks now, head high, looking neither right nor left, ignoring the whispers and the innuendos, but at heart, she wants to run free. Becca feels the same way.
She lights both their cigarettes, then takes a long drag off hers and blows the smoke in a smooth stream toward the branch above. The nicotine is calming.
“Bad day?”
“The worst,” Ash replies.
“I’m very sorry about your father. And your mother. It’s horrible, what happened.”
Ash stares at the ground, takes a puff. “How long have you known?”
“Since the first week of term.”
“God,” Ash says, voice breathy, accent stark on the one-syllable word, staring up at the tree branches to blink back sudden tears. “And everyone else?”
“It’s been trickling through the ranks the past week or so. Your buddy Vanessa has been waiting to spring it on you.”
“Brilliant. She’s never liked me. We don’t get on.”
“They actually brought it to me last week as an Honor Code violation and I shut them down. Told them it wasn’t their business, and it certainly wasn’t a violation. I explained you have a right to privacy, especially in a situation such as this.”
“Bollocks.” But there’s no heat in the exclamation, just resignation. A girl beaten, her gorgeous shell cracked open to reveal the soft, vulnerable innards. Becca resists the urge to run her hand down Ash’s golden ponytail.
They smoke in silence for a few minutes, until the cigarettes are down to the filters. Becca scrapes hers in the moss to kill the cherry, does the same with Ash’s, then carves out a small hole and buries the butts in the dirt.
“Why are you trying to hide it?” Becca finally asks. “I mean, it’s not like it’s your fault. No one is going to blame you for their bad choices.”
“Why are you being nice to me?” Ash replies instead of answering. Her voice is a little wild, like she’s about to become hysterical.
“You intrigue me,” Becca says, then kicks herself. “That sounded weird. You’re not like everyone else here. You’re different. You try to hide your intelligence by being meek in your classes. You just listen and absorb everything around you. You don’t want people to know who you are. You don’t want to show off who you are. There’s a humility to you, and considering the wealth and station you come from, it’s surprising.”
“I’m just a stupid sophomore with dead parents.”
There are tears now, and Becca doesn’t try to comfort, lets her cry it out. She has the sense if she tries to touch Ash, she’ll go up in smoke or run screaming from the forest. Ash is shy, gentle. Sweet natured, behind the boots and the hair and the insouciant attitude. Becca has been observing the girl for weeks now, watching how she always lets the other girls go first, how she is content to let others take credit for her work. In the cutthroat world of Goode, this is unusual. They are taught to be assertive and confident, to debate and push and scheme. Cooperation is important, yes, but strength and individuality are rewarded. Ash’s strength is quiet. But even granite can crack under the right sort of pressure.
“I get down myself sometimes,” Becca confides. “The pressure of being a senator’s daughter... The expectations are off the charts. I don’t even like politics. But every summer, I’m interning on the Hill or going to ambassadorial camp, and every break I have to work in my mother’s office, talking to constituents. It’s mind-numbingly awful.”
“What would you rather do?” The words are soft, spoken from behind a curtain of hair where Ash’s omnipresent ponytail has fallen in front of her face.
“Anything. I hate DC. I hate the noise, the people, the self-righteousness. They’re all so fucking smug. They pretend they run the world, but it’s all nonsense. I’d like...”
“What?” Ash is looking at her now, her nose red as a cherry, eyes swollen.
“I’d like to move somewhere in the wilderness. Design an eco-friendly farm, live off the grid. It sounds stupid when I say it out loud, but I watched this show once, where they built a cabin in the wilds of Alaska. It seemed perfect.”
“It sounds nice. I understand the desire to get away.”
“I could reinvent myself if I didn’t have my mother breathing down my neck. Oh, so sorry, Ash. That was insensitive of me.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
But the dialogue is over. Becca is genuinely stricken to see Ash has retreated into that quiet, self-contained shell again.
“Do you want another?” Becca hands Ash a second smoke, lights it. Watches her inhale and blow, hard, like she can dispel all the negativity through the haze. She coughs lightly, hand over her mouth, polite. So proper.
“What do you want with Camille tonight?”
“I don’t. That wasn’t my summons.”
“You don’t like her, do you?”
“Camille? She’s...not terribly bright. A lot like her sister. Emily was head girl last year, and was very full of herself.”
“I think she’s okay.
” The defense is half-hearted at best.
“No, you don’t. You can’t stand her, or her little dogs, either. I see how you recoil when they come near you. They are never going to be your mates.”
At the terrible British accent, Ash laughs, and Becca’s heart does a tiny dance.
“We haven’t had any real issues, she’s been decent to me. For the most part.”
“So you think. Has she been openly mean?”
“Just at the beginning of term. She was sick and wouldn’t let me help. Went to Vanessa. The two of them... Anyway, it doesn’t matter.” Ash takes a thoughtful drag. “But Camille wanted to take me to Honor Court about this? Allow me to remove the knife from between my ribs. Oh, yes, I can’t reach it, it’s in my back. Could you help?”
Becca spits out a laugh, and Ash smiles shyly. Clever boots, this girl.
“Speaking of, I did want to raise this issue with you. It’s not an Honor Code violation per se, but you really should make an appointment and tell the dean that word is out. She’ll appreciate the heads-up. We don’t want her put in any awkward situations.”
“Okay. I will. We thought it best to try to keep my family drama off the radar. I should have changed my first name, too, but I was worried... It was stupid, trying to pretend everything was okay. I suppose it was inevitable someone would find out about...their deaths. I never thought so many people would care, truth be told. I mean, I didn’t. Not about my father, at least.”
“You weren’t close?”
“No, not at all.”
There is a sharpness in her tone that stings Becca’s heart.
“I’m sorry.” Becca reaches out a hand and tucks a few strands of loose hair behind the younger girl’s ear. “So sorry,” she says quietly.
Ash freezes, shoulders suddenly tight, then unfolds herself from the ground like a young crane, dropping the last of the cigarette and grinding it out with the toe of her boot.
“Listen, Becca, you’ve been really kind today, I appreciate it. But I need to be alone now. Thanks.”
Ash takes off into the arboretum, and Becca watches her go, the long, lean body so perfect, only interrupted by the wet bottom of her gown, the damp darkness cutting her in half. She shouldn’t be alone in the forest, but it’s daytime, she’s heading toward town and Becca thinks Ash will run from her if she tries to stop her.
She’s glad they had a chance to chat. She’s been waffling about what to do tonight, but no longer.
Decision made, she pops a piece of gum in her mouth, sprays some perfume a foot away and walks through the cloud to help dissipate the smoke scent she knows will cling to her clothes otherwise.
There is much to do. Much to do.
She whistles as she walks back to the school.
28
THE HATE
Look at them. Sitting so sweetly in the moss.
They fit together so well.
They could be sisters.
They could be lovers. They probably are. She’s probably been fucking this girl and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Stupid girl.
This can’t go on, not anymore.
She can’t get close to anyone, or everything will be destroyed. And I’m not ready for things to go south yet.
29
THE FLIRTATION
I haven’t been alone in town before. I shouldn’t be cutting, there’s a computer tutorial this morning, and Dr. Medea will be hacked off when he realizes I stood him up. But I don’t want to go back. Not now. I can’t face them, leering and curious. And Becca made me feel weird. Touching me like that, she was almost tender. Like a real friend. A close friend.
And we are not friends. Not by a long shot. No, I expect Becca just wants to be nosy and find out more so she can use it against me somehow.
It’s cold and damp, the wind picking up as I walk down the street. There’s no question I’m skipping class; even though I’ve bundled my gown into my bag, I’m wearing my Goode School uniform. And I don’t fit in. Even now, with the uniform screaming I am one of you, I am apart, solitary.
I wander from storefront to storefront—the hairdresser, the dress shop, the laundry, the pub—until the rain starts again. The coffee shop where the girls like to hang out on the weekend while they do their laundry, The Java Hut, is three doors down from where I stand. I hurry in, shaking out my ponytail.
The air is redolent of coffee beans. It is such an American smell. I’m used to the must of old buildings packed with books and antiques and carpets that have seen too many wars to count, and the wafting scent of scones overlaid with tea, but not coffee. Wet wool and cold stone and spilled lager and blood, the scents of my people.
The coffee shop is empty. It’s like no one in town exists except for when the girls come to spend their money in the shops. It’s creepy, Marchburg, creepy and strange. The buildings feel shallow against the two-lane roads, like in a Western movie, just fronts with no rooms inside, the streets almost empty as if the residents know a shoot-out is about to take place. Or rabid dogs are going to come screaming around the corner, or hordes of spiders will start carousing down the storefront walls.
My imagination is in overdrive today. A shiver passes through me and I debate just heading back to school, taking my lumps. As I told Becca, it was bound to happen, the girls finding out about my parents, no way I was going to be able to keep it quiet forever. Still, I’m overcome with disappointment. All I’ve done is try to keep people away so they won’t find out about my life in England. Now even that’s crumbling at my feet. I’ve failed in the one stupid thing I’m supposed to be managing perfectly—keeping my past to myself.
And Becca... Why is she being so nice? What does she really want? There might be a true overture of friendship there, but I’m only a sophomore. Becca is the shining light of the school. I’m nothing, or trying to be. We don’t make sense as friends, not in the least.
I feel eyes on me, whirl around, and almost leap out of my skin.
My driver—the one who brought me to Marchburg from the airport—is standing by the counter of the coffee shop, smiling.
“Hey,” he says.
My heart is cantering away from the sudden adrenaline rush. I put a hand to my chest. Is he following me? “Jesus, you scared me. What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here? I work here. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in class?”
“I thought you were a driver.”
“I thought you were a student.”
“I needed a break.”
“Fair enough. The Westhavens own most of the businesses in town, and I work for the family. Which means I’m whatever they need me to be. Today, I’m a delivery boy and barista. Would you like a coffee? Macchiato? Flat white? Or tea? You’re from England, surely you’d prefer tea. All your meetings with the Queen and all.” As he speaks, he moves around the counter, turning expectantly. “Tea, yes?”
I have the overwhelming urge to burst into tears again. This day is confusing, to say the least, and he’s just called me out on my earlier lie. “Yes. Tea. Thank you. How come I’ve never seen you on campus?”
“Because you scurry around with your head down, your bag clutched to your chest like you’re carrying diamonds inside. If you ever looked up, really looked up, you’d have seen me. I mean, I’ve seen you.”
There is something in the way he says it that makes a tiny thrill run through me. I’ve been noticed by this man.
Then another thought, and my face flushes. “Wait. Have you been watching me?”
“You’re very watchable, Ash Carlisle.”
He grins, lopsided, and I realize he is very, very cute. A small thrum starts in my chest. I wasn’t wrong, he is flirting. He moves around the small service area, grabbing the sachet of tea, pouring out the water, adding two biscuits to the saucer, with economy and
grace, like a panther.
“Here you go, Ash. On the house. Want some sugar? You look like you could use it.”
“No, thank you.”
I accept the cup and the biscuits and sit at the table farthest from the door.
“Are you enjoying school?”
He’s wearing a name tag that says Rumi. Rumi, that’s right. Not Ruly or Rudy. I like Rumi much better. I smile—charming Ash, flirty Ash—and he joins me at the table.
“School is lovely. It’s only...”
“Word’s out about your folks, I presume?”
“How do you know that?”
He leans back, balancing the chair on two legs, arms behind his head, flexing the ropy muscles, the biceps defined. His shirt has ridden up and a line of dark hair disappears into his jeans. It seems so intimate, this, and I know I’m blushing. He’s so casual about his sexuality. The images come alarmingly fast—white sheets, dark hair, the twisting of legs. A flutter in my groin.
“Don’t be so prickly, princess. I was in the dining hall this morning, doing a delivery. I overheard. You caused quite the stir, running out like that.”
I push the tea away with a heavy sigh. “This is ridiculous. Why does everyone care so much about who I am and where I come from? It’s not like their parents aren’t rich or important. Some of them are dead, too.”
“You really are self-centered, aren’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Poor little me, everyone’s so fascinated by me.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or slap him. I settle for frowning and taking a sip of my tea. It’s lousy, truly terrible, but I don’t tell him.
“Feeling like you’re in a fishbowl, princess?”
“Stop calling me that. I’m not a princess.”
“Tell that to the man who has to work for a living.”
“I have nothing. Nothing. As soon as I’m out, I’ll be working, too.”
Good Girls Lie Page 12
