THE DINNER
According to the letter the school sent, perky Camille Shannon, from Falls Church, Virginia, is a Goode School legacy. Her father, currently the American ambassador to Turkey, has been in the foreign service his whole career; her mother is a lawyer. Her sister, who graduated Goode last year, along with Vanessa’s older sister, was “former head girl and everything,” which is why the two of them know more than the rest of the students about the secret societies and “won’t breathe a word of it, no way, so don’t bother asking details.”
I think if they knew anything, they would spill because both girls are desperately trying to look important, but I don’t care enough to be concerned. I’m comfortable never knowing what happens behind closed doors. This I’ve learned the hard way.
Camille relentlessly fills in the rest of her CV over dinner. Her ADHD and her Ritalin and her older sister’s debutante ball and the beautiful drive down from northern Virginia and when do you think the first mixer with Woodberry Forest—that’s the closest all-boys school, Ash—might be?
All of her conversation is rich with gossip and silliness. She inquires only once about my background and quickly takes the hint when I change the subject. For that alone, I am grateful, though it means we get to hear more about her, her, her.
“My parents divorced when I was eight and Emily was eleven, and our father won custody, so we traveled with him all over the world. I have some language skills and an impressive travel résumé, so I’m planning to study international relations at Brown. I have my eye on Georgetown Law so I can go into practice with my mother. I moved back home to DC to be nearer to her. She’s so lovely, we’ve grown so close these past few months.”
In case you’re interested, I wasn’t... Mummy remarried in the spring. Camille wants to play field hockey, almost ended up at Madeira, has a wicked crush on the son of the man her mother married, “but that’s, like, incest, so it’s a no go,” and loves her chocolate Lab, Lucy. Full stop. Everything and anything of relevance to Camille Shannon laid bare on the white linen.
Will someone please come shoot me, relieve me of this boredom?
Jesus, she’s still talking. I’ve tuned it out now. Chatter chatter chatter. She speaks so much neither Vanessa nor Piper are able to share much about their lives. Neither am I, but that is all good with me.
I try (and fail) to stay entirely focused. The dining hall is a pleasant surprise. Situated with floor-to-ceiling windows that look north into the mountains, each round table of eight is covered in fine linen. The cutlery is silver, the plates china. Waitresses—nicknamed waitrons—come to the table for our orders, as if we are in a fine restaurant. Several meal options take into account the various food allergies and preferences of the students. Hungry but nervous, I end up with a Cobb salad laced with cubed grilled chicken, like I’m eating at a country club.
“Well?”
I come back from my woolgathering to see all three faces staring at me curiously.
“I’m sorry. Zoned out for a moment. Jet lag. What were you saying?”
Camille tosses her head. “I said, which Ivy are you shooting for?”
“Oh. Harvard.”
“Naturally,” she drawls in a most annoyed voice, “but what’s your second choice? Not everyone gets into Harvard, you know.”
“I like my chances,” I say lightly. My chances can be helped along at any time by a few clicks on a keyboard, but there’s no reason to brag. Camille has that corner covered. But this is dangerous territory. Back to you, roomie. “Tell me about DC. I wasn’t able to spend any time there.”
Off she goes.
I have to admit, I didn’t know what I was in for, agreeing to go to dinner with these three intimate strangers, but by the time the dessert plates are cleared, I know one thing for sure—I really need to watch myself. These are friends to be kept at a distance, especially the way Camille gossips. But the buffer they provide is vital, as is their intelligence on the strange world of Goode. If I’m totally friendless, a loner, I’ll stand out even more.
Our plates have just been cleared when whispering starts on the other side of the dining hall, growing quickly, a tidal wave moving through the room.
I catch the name Grassley. The piano teacher.
“What is it?” I ask. “What’s happened?”
A waitron stops by the table. “They’ve had to take Dr. Grassley to the hospital. Some sort of allergic reaction.”
Oh, bloody fucking hell.
I dive into my bag and paw through, digging until I find the gold box with the silver bow. I flip it over and look at the ingredients label: Manufactured in a facility that is allergen-free.
Oh, my God. What a horrible, careless mistake. I gave her the wrong chocolates.
Jet lag, fear, whatever excuse I can come up with, I grabbed the wrong box from the depths of my bag.
I excuse myself and take off at a run, though I really don’t know where to go outside of the dean.
Halfway to her office, I slow.
What is this going to look like? I gave the woman a dose of chocolates that made her sick. And I’m trying to get out of piano. Will they think...?
Stop. None of this matters. You have to own up to this. The box will have both your fingerprints and the shop’s address. Broad Street, Oxford, England. You can hardly play dumb. You’re such a fucking idiot. Way to go, Ash. That’s how to fly under the radar, for sure.
I start running again, skid to a stop in front of the dean’s office. Her assistant, Melanie, is there, and I don’t even have to fake the tears that start when I ask to see the dean.
“What’s wrong, dear?”
“I just heard about Dr. Grassley. Will she be all right?”
Dean Westhaven emerges from her inner sanctum, looking appropriately alarmed.
“Ash? What’s wrong?”
“I heard about Dr. Grassley. Is she... Is she?” I collapse into sobs. God, this is too hard. I want to go home.
For the second time today, I am enfolded in a hug. It’s the most mothering I’ve had in years. The dean strokes my hair, murmuring until I calm down.
“There, there. You’re okay. Muriel will be fine. She had her EpiPen, she went to the hospital just in case. I’m sure she’ll be back quite soon. It happens, Ash. Accidents happen.”
EpiPen. She has an EpiPen. Maybe she’s going to be okay after all.
“Did she say anything about our meeting today?” Don’t be so freaking suspicious, jerk. I sniff, hard. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to fall apart like this. It’s only I told her I didn’t want to play piano anymore, and then she got sick—”
“Ash, this is not your responsibility. She’s had an allergic reaction, but they caught it in time. She’s going to be just fine. This happens at least once a term with Muriel, it’s a hard allergy to manage. Now, what’s this about the piano? It’s part of your scholarship.”
Careful now, careful.
“I haven’t been honest with you, Dean Westhaven.”
“Oh?”
“It’s only... I hate it. I hate the piano. Yes, I know it’s part of my scholarship but I want to give up. Every key stroke reminds me of my mother. I need more time.”
Well, that part is true, at least.
The dean’s face crumples in compassion. “Oh, my poor duck. I understand completely. Why don’t we revisit this in a few days? See how you’re feeling then.”
I’ve bought myself some time. Excellent.
“Yes, Dean. I appreciate your understanding.”
Her smile is genuine and warm. “Why don’t you take yourself to bed now? You must be exhausted. I’ll tell Muriel you’ve asked after her. And you can talk to her tomorrow. All right?”
I’d prefer never to speak to her again, but what choice do I have?
“Yes, Dean.”
And I toddle off to bed like a good little girl.
That was much too close.
Walking up the Odd stairs, I run through the situation. I probably should have mentioned the candy, but if Muriel didn’t sell me out, then perhaps I can slide through this one without some massive mea culpa.
God, I hope.