Page 8 of Good Girls Lie

The dean smiles wryly. “Good. Computer science it is. If you do like this sort of thing, you’ll enjoy your professor, Dr. Dominic Medea. He used to work in Silicon Valley. And as for piano, you’ll be with Dr. Muriel Grassley. She is a Juilliard-trained pianist who has wonderful connections, so you’ll be able to work with some of the best programs in the country. She’ll be expecting you in the theater after convocation. I knew you’d want to get started right away.”

“About piano, I—”

A small chime dings, sweet and gentle.

“We’re out of time, I’m afraid. Take your bags to your room, and then change for convocation. I will see you in the chapel in thirty minutes. Welcome to Goode.”

Dean Westhaven turns her attention to the stack of papers on the desk in front of her.

I am dismissed.

7

THE ROOMMATE

Relieved and vaguely excited by surviving my first important meeting at Goode, I replay the conversation as I make my way to the grand staircase.

I was so sorry to hear of your father’s death...

My parents are a sore subject, too fresh, too indecipherable, so I push their faces out of my mind. I don’t want to think about them, nor about him. Not now, not ever.

Pale. So pale. Waxy. Quiet. Hair parted on the wrong side. The red of his lips unnatural as if he’s been kissed too hard and too long. Crying. A crush of people. The smells: chlorine and stale, piped, air-conditioned air overlaid with overly ripe white lilies, stamens pushing aggressively toward the ceiling, stinking of death...

Vomit dribbling from his mouth, eyes staring, blank and empty... The screams...

“Stop!” I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one has heard. I am blissfully alone.

Get it together. You will not think of this now. You will never think of this again.

Lies. I tell myself such pretty lies.

I bite my lip so hard it makes me tear up, but I am back in control. I square my shoulders and wheel the heavy bag to the staircase, careful to remember I am supposed to go up one side only or I’ll never graduate.

Nonsense.

But I stop anyway at the base of the stairs. Is it left, or right? I think back to the conversation I had with Becca the bully. I’ve already assigned her the role. Becca said left so it’s right. Definitely right.

At the top of the first flight, I have to lean against the banister on the landing and readjust my grip on the heavy suitcase. Everything I own is inside. I don’t plan to return to Oxford, ever. But the weight of it is untenable. On the second floor, I push through a door and stop, breathing hard, arms aching, and pull the packet from my backpack.

Room 214.

This is no hotel, there are no arrows to point me in the correct direction. There is a small kitchen ahead, and a grouping of soft tan suede sofas, chock-full of girls.

Make a good impression, Ash.

“Which room are you looking for?” one calls.

“214,” and the girls point to the left as one, a flock of helpful, smiling little birds.

I drag the bag down the hall. One of the wheels has shattered, no wonder it’s so hard to move along the carpet. There is a piece of paper taped to the door at the end, 214 written in bold black Sharpie. Steeling myself, I open the door into...darkness. A heady, musty smell, overlaid with bleach. Across the room are two cobwebbed windows covered in smeary, dotted dirt. The floor is draped in tarps; neatly stacked ladders line the far wall, a row of paint cans in front of them. A fluorescent light swings from the ceiling. When I flip the switch, it comes to life with an ominous crackle.

What is this place? This isn’t my room, it can’t be. There’s no bed, for starters. And it’s so dank and dirty...

Peals of laughter.

It takes me a second to realize why they’re laughing.

The assholes have sent me to the wrong room on purpose.