Page 51 of Good Girls Lie

“I heard. He told me about his father.”

Camille’s pale face goes even whiter. “He just told you? What did he say?”

“The truth, I reckon. He said it was hard on him. And if he was dangerous, the dean wouldn’t have him on staff here. He seems a decent bloke, for all I could tell.”

“There are rumors about him. He likes to watch us, the girls, I mean. He stands on the path to the arboretum and watches the teams practice. He’s some sort of pedophile. You really should stay away. He’s not your type.”

“There are rumors about everyone. Me included. And I seriously doubt he’s a pedophile. He’s just lonely. And how do you know what my type is?”

A small chime and Camille leaps to her feet, her face splitting into an incandescent grin, the specter of Rumi already forgotten.

“Finally, finally, it’s time. Wish me luck.”

I say, “Cheers,” and mean it sincerely. I have no idea what the seniors want with Camille, can only assume it’s about me. They want information and think my roommate is the best source. Why they don’t have the balls to ask me directly or go to Becca, who knows. Sometimes the logic here is beyond me.

When the door slams and I’m finally alone, I sag against the chair. Why did Camille warn me off Rumi? He seems totally fine. Nice, even.

Okay, I’ll admit, I’ve been thinking about my chat with him all day. How difficult it must be for him, to be the object of derision and scorn from the town where he grew up, to be looked down upon because of the choices of his parent. I understand more than he knows.

With all this chaos raging in my mind, I find it almost impossible to concentrate on my elegant little code. I’ll work on it tomorrow. I might as well get ready for bed, snuggle under the covers and read. Dr. Asolo assigned Virginia Woolf’sA Room of One’s Ownthis afternoon and I’m actually looking forward to reading it. I understand the desire to have something private, a place where you can be yourself without guile. I don’t know where that will ever be for me, not anymore.

I brush my teeth and get into my pajamas. Glance at the clock. It’s nearly eleven. Time for lights out. Camille has been gone for a while, longer than I was.

I read, get lost in the words, the rhythm. My eyes are starting to droop when the pounding begins, fists slamming against my door with such force the small painting above Camille’s desk crashes to the floor.

34

THE TAP

The door flies open. Screaming, shouting, hands all over me. I am screaming now, too, completely freaking out. My mind is blank except for a single thought—Get away! Get away!

I struggle mightily, but there are too many of them. They get me by the arms and legs and push a rag into my mouth, then throw a bag of some sort over my head. It smells like pine cones and it muffles my screams. My ears feel like they’re going to burst with the pressure of these internal yells.

They wrestle me out of the bed and out the door. I don’t know how many adversaries there are, just feel so many hands yanking and pulling. Someone giggles and this infuriates me. They drop me twice, my back smacking into the stair tread, but as quickly as they lose their grip they have me again, wrapping arms around my waist, and they haul me up, up, up.

I am crying now, but my whimpers are drowned out by the rag, the hood, the shouts. A door swings open and I feel a cool breeze, then I’m tossed handily into the air and land with a thud on the floor. The door slams closed, and the screaming stops.

My hip hurts.

I am alone.

It is so quiet.

The bag is gone from my head. I had my eyes squeezed shut so tightly I didn’t realize they’d removed it. I spit out the rag, heave in deep breaths.

Fucking Vanessa and Camille. Becca said the note at breakfast wasn’t her summons. This was a setup. They just wanted me alone so they could fuck with me. Who did they recruit to help?

I will burn them down.

I get up, on all fours first, then stumbling to my feet. I don’t recognize the room, don’t know where I am. Where the cool air is coming from. But it’s so cold my teeth begin chattering. I’m barefoot, arms uncovered; the short pajamas do nothing to keep me warm.

The door has a light on under it, weak and yellow. I can hear the whispering growing louder as I near. I try the door. The knob turns but something is blocking it.

“Bugger it all. Bitches!”

I walk left, fingers trailing against the wall to keep my bearing. My eyes are adjusting now, but even so, I bump into a table. I realize there’s a glass on the table, filled with a small amount of clear liquid. A hand-lettered sign leans against it. I have to squint to read it in the darkness.

DRINK ME!