Good Girls Lie(10)

“Big Mother?”

“Dean Westhaven.”

I bite back a laugh. The moniker fits.

“Anyway, I was saying, I never got your letter. I’m from DC. You’re from England?”

“Yes. Oxford. It’s northwest of London.”

A full-blown eye roll. “I’ve been to Oxford. My father was ambassador to France for a time, and we traveled all over Europe. But you already know that from my letter.”

“Yes. How nice for you.”

“I took the top bunk and the left desk.”

Camille promptly exits the room, I assume to insist on a different roommate. But she returns a few moments later with two more girls in tow.

“Ash, meet Vanessa Mitchell and Piper Brennan. Vanessa’s mom works for State, her dad’s off on some submarine somewhere for the Navy, and Piper’s parents own like half of North Carolina. Ash is not short for Ashley, ladies.”

Is she mocking me? Her smile seems genuine, but her tone is off.

I greet the two new girls, quietly assessing, being assessed. Vanessa is petite like Camille but athletic, with muscled calves like a runner or dancer, brown skin, and natural, riotously curly hair. Piper is almost my height, with red hair and freckles. Both seem friendly enough.

“You’re from Oxford? Talk. I want to hear your accent. I love a good British accent.” Vanessa is the imperious one. Piper only nods her agreement.

“Um, hullo? Care for a cuppa?”

The girls look at me impassively.

“Oh, stop torturing her,” Camille says with mock severity. “It’s rude. You’ll hear her talk plenty. Vanessa and Piper are in the suite next door to us. We’re going to convocation. Would you care to join us?”

I can think of nothing I’d like less, the jet lag is catching up to me and I’d like the bathroom and another cup of tea, but in the spirit of international relations, I agree and start toward the door. Camille clears her throat.

“Um, Ash? Aren’t you going to change?”

I stop in the doorway, glance down at my outfit. I am wearing travel clothes, comfy ripped skinny jeans and an oversize plaid shirt.

“No, why?”

Only then do I realize the three girls are wearing dresses. And holding robes of some kind, cloaks, maybe, over their arms.

“We dress for convocation, always. Westhaven’s orders. She likes us looking put together.”

Oh, you idiot. Of course, they would. Whatever were you thinking?

“No one told me. I didn’t pack any dresses. Just the white shirts for our uniform.”

There is a momentary silence.

“No dresses?” Camille looks stricken, her head whipping between my ruined jeans and her own immaculate hose and skirt as if she can’t believe she’ll have to go out in public with her new miscreant roommate, but it is Piper who saves the day, crooking a finger.

“Come with me. I have something that will work for you. You’ll never fit into any of Camille’s things, she’s a teensy little stick.”

Camille tosses her head. “Rude. Shut up, Piper. We can’t all be Amazons.”



8

THE WARNING

The room next to ours looks exactly the same, like it’s out of a sleek, modern hotel. The “something” Piper offers is a black satin sheath with a black lace overlay. Simple. Elegant. An Audrey Hepburn movie costume. She hands it over, the price tag still dangling from the collar. Rents can be paid with such a sum.

“You can keep it. I have another almost identical,” Piper says.

I demur and hand it back. “Thanks. I’ll take my chances with the dean.”

Piper shrugs and hangs the dress back up in the wooden wardrobe. “Suit yourself. If you keep your robe tight, maybe she won’t notice. It’ll be in your wardrobe with your uniform skirts—standard issue, everyone gets them. The seniors’ stoles are black with a white stripe, we lowly sophomores are blue. Freshmen are red—they stand out, trust me, I felt like I had a target on my back all last year—and juniors are dark green. Graduation stoles are different, multicolored based on your area of study, just like a college. I’m ready for the black-and-white stoles, they’re so much easier to match. Our blue—” she pulls the stole out of her gown; it is a sickly pewter blue and doesn’t work with her coloring at all “—is a pain, I look terrible in it. Though you can imagine how I clashed with the red last year. You will need to get some dressy clothes, though, we have a lot of formal events.”

She closes the wardrobe and faces me, looking me up and down with cool, inscrutable blue eyes. She would look severe if it weren’t for the freckles. They ruin the seriousness of her demeanor. She will always look like a girl, not a woman, even when she’s fifty.

“You might as well stick to black. It goes with everything, looks good under the robes, and your coloring is perfect for it.”

“Black. Right.” The color of mourning. I’ve been in black a lot recently.

“I’ll take you shopping if you want. There’s a nice little boutique around the corner. Next to the laundry, which is part of the restaurant where we eat on the weekend, Jacob’s Ladder. It has a pool table, too. It’s not exactly couture, but they’ll have a skirt or two that will work. What else do you need to know? Oh, stay away from the handyman. He’s a creeper. And remember not to walk alone along the back path through Selden Arboretum if you take the shortcut.” Her voice has taken on the warning edge I’ve already heard several times this afternoon.