Page 100 of Good Girls Lie

Yes, Mistress.

In ten minutes, you need to walk up to Dr. Medea and flash him your tits.

No, she can’t do that,a Falconer interjects,they’ll kick her out.

Good. She’s a bitch.

Did you hear me?

Yes, Mistress.

Tell me.

I’m a bitch.

Yes, you are. Braid my hair.

Yes, Mistress.

I need five hundred words on the feminist impact of Elizabeth Tudor. By seven.

Yes, Mistress.

Go buy me a fresh notebook.

Yes, Mistress.

I’m in the mood for Jell-O. Red. Go to the kitchen and get me some.

Yes, Mistress.

I didn’t say red. I said green. You are so fucking stupid, Swallow.

Yes, Mistress.

* * *

After three days of this nonsense, I’m pretty much ready to murder Becca Curtis. Gone are the tender moments, the kindnesses, the secret glances, the brushing of hands and lips. I didn’t realize how often she touched me until it stopped.

In their place is an automaton blond monster, hell-bent on destroying everything I hold dear. My dignity. My sanity.

I itch and fetch and try to keep up with my studies, though the only real sleep I’m getting is on the cold, hard floor of the attics, and only a few hours at that. Becca has taken to forcing me to sleep on the floor outside her door, like a dog. A faithful dog. My book bag is stacked with my own dirty laundry, half-eaten snacks from the Rat, books, and papers I’ve been dragging from class to class. My fellow Swallows aren’t in any better shape.

The teachers say not a word, so I know they’re in on it. They can’t ignore the thirteen girls dragging around Goode like itchy zombies.

I take every spare moment to sleep, relish the hour of chapel, and hurry happily to my detention in the dean’s office to work off my JPs. The dean doesn’t moderate our sessions, so I catch a few z’s, set the alarm on my watch to alert me when my two hours are up and I’m due back on the seniors’ hall for more Swallow duties. Today I am scrubbing the toilets in the attics...with my hair.

I don’t know how much longer I can take this.

Finally, on day four, just as I’m about to break, quit, tell Becca she can take her industrial-size Pine-Sol bottle and shove it up her perfect little ass, I am rescued by the dean herself, who asks to see me in her attic room where we were taken the night of Camille’s death.

Becca has no choice but to let me go, though it’s done with a hiss and a promise to make things even worse for me when I return from my “pussy break.”

* * *

Why I didn’t walk away during Hell Week is something I will always wonder. Why I allowed her to treat me so poorly, so abominably, reflects on my upbringing. I allowed myself to become her victim, just like I allowed myself to become my father’s victim, my mother’s victim.

But why did I go along with them that night? Why did I not raise the red flag? Would it have made a difference? Would it all have happened differently?