Page 88 of Good Girls Lie

“What are you doing?”

“Having breakfast, like normal. Though I don’t know if I can eat.”

Becca tosses her head like the Thoroughbred she is. She is a different person now. Cold. Aloof. Mildly aggravated and disgusted, like I’m a hair that’s landed on her fork.

She waves a derisive hand in dismissal.

“Fly away, little Swallow. You missed your appointment this morning, so you don’t get to sit with us anymore. Go play with your own friends. You aren’t welcome here.”

I feel my jaw begin to fall, snap my teeth together so hard they click. Becca has already taken her seat and is immediately flanked by the twins, one of whom pushes me rudely as she scoots by for the coveted chair to Becca’s left.

Tears threaten, but I blink them back and head to my old table with Vanessa and Piper and the rest of the sophomores. As I approach, they start shooting me looks. It’s clear they’ve been talking about me. They saw Becca’s little power play. They have closed ranks. I am no longer one of them.

The seat where Camille normally holds court looks so empty, so out of place. Because so many have crowded the table today, it is the only open spot. I stop behind it. “May I?”

After an interminable moment, Vanessa nods and I sit, fiddling with a piece of my ponytail. My arm feels like it’s on fire, and I force myself not to scratch. The will it takes not to claw my skin to shreds is Herculean.

“Are you okay?” Piper asks.

“Yes. It was a long night.”

Laughter, loud and harsh, filters over from Becca’s table.

“Becca pissed at you?”

“She thought it would be better for me to sit with you today. A show of solidarity because of Camille.” The lie flows from my lips as easily as my breath.

Breakfast is served. I push the eggs around my plate, unable to eat. The girls are talking about Camille, primarily, but there are a few who seem nonplussed and are planning their attack, how they’ll usurp the juniors when they try out for the fall play, Sophocles’sAntigone. It is only in the past decade that the school dropped the requirement to have the play done in its original Greek.

I hear a name that makes my radar prick up. Rumi. Who’s talking about Rumi?

It is the table next to me. Girls who live on the other side of the sophomores’ hall.

They are whispering in a staccato shorthand; I only catch every other word.

“Do you...think... I mean, he did it?”

“Who else could... Someone... Rumi stole the keys.”

“Come on, guys. You’re... It’s stupid... Like Camille would fuck a townie.”

“Well, the dean—”

Raucous laughter drowns out the rest of the conversation. The seniors, amusing themselves.

“How inappropriate,” Vanessa sniffs. “It’s like they’re happy about it. Oh, someone died, how sad, at least we get out of classes. Fucking bitches.”

While I agree, I tune out Vanessa’s complaints. I can’t help but cast glances toward Becca as the laughter continues. I try to catch Jordan’s eye, two tables over, but she is engaged in some sort of conversation with her roommate and doesn’t look up. A few other faces from that side of the dining hall look vaguely familiar. Relief washes through me.

None of the Swallows of Ivy Bound are sitting with their Falconers. This must be a part of the hazing. Open rejection.

Lovely.

“Why did she do it, Ash? Do you know? You were the closest to her.”

This from Dominique Rodrigue, a sophomore who lives at the end of our hall, right by the kitchen. We haven’t spoken more than ten words all term.

“I really wasn’t. And I don’t, Dom. I don’t know anything.”