THE SOLICITOR
I just make the last bell before Dr. Asolo shuts the door. I take my seat and she greets the class with the worst possible news.
“Pop quiz, ladies. If you’ve finished the reading, this should be a no-brainer. Put away your books and take out an exam book, please.”
Groans leak throughout the room, and I join them. Is this really how we’re welcomed back after the death of one of our own? How can she expect anyone to have done the reading?
I dig into my bag for the stack of exam books I keep there. One of the items I have learned a Goode girl mustn’t ever be without is the pale blue, thin-paper exam book in which all tests and essay assignments, from pop quizzes to the dreaded midterms and finals, are taken. Centered on the cover are the words in bold On my honor, followed by two lines, one for printed name, one for a signature. By signing the cover of the exam book, the Honor Code pledge is taken. No booklets are accepted without a signature.
I flip open to the first page and look to the whiteboard at the front of the room, where Dr. Asolo has written a single essay question under the essay title, A Room of One’s Own.
What are the feminist ideals expressed in the text?
“Three hundred words, ladies. You have the hour. Go.”
I start scratching away. This is an easy one. Low-hanging fruit. I loved the book, identify with the themes. Identify more than anyone at Goode can possibly realize, actually. A room of one’s own... Even the title speaks to me. Though the way I’ve gotten to this point isn’t the way I would have chosen. I doubt Woolf would have liked to achieve this status because her roommate died. Since I am now in dubious possession of this ideal, I think I’ll include this thought in the essay.
I’m writing so furiously I barely notice when a note comes from the office. Dr. Asolo brings it to my desk.
“Ash, the dean needs to see you. You may finish your essay in your room this evening and turn it in tomorrow. You’re dismissed.”
I stop midword, staring at Asolo dumbly. Asolo nods in encouragement. “Go on, dear. Don’t look so stricken. I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”
That’s what you think.
This is not good. How many times am I going to end up chatting with the dean this week? What is it now? They discovered my lies and are throwing me out? Vanessa and Piper ratted me out? Becca reported me for some sort of violation because I didn’t lick the toe of her shoe? Is it the email?
Is it all over? The jig is up?
Breathe. This is most likely an Honor Code thing—I contradicted Vanessa and Piper about their knowledge of Camille’s affair. Though the dean brushed off what I said, she must have followed up, and they’re insisting I face them as their accuser. I did nothing wrong being honest. We’ll be able to clear this up quickly.
I cap my pen, stash the exam book in my bag, and hoist it to my shoulder. I’m going slow, dragging my feet. Asolo might not be worried, but I am.
The dean’s official office is as familiar to me now as my own dorm room. I’m surprised to see a man inside. Not the sheriff, either, but a stranger. He’s a ginger, wearing a double-breasted, blue, pin-striped suit that looks like it came straight from the back room at Gieves & Hawkes, his wingtips spit polished. His very being screams solicitor.
“Oh, Ash, there you are. Come and have a cuppa with Mr. Nickerson.”
Her attempt at British colloquialism makes me cringe, but I step forward.
“Hullo, Ashlyn.” Nickerson leaps out of his seat with a wide grin. He is young, probably in his early thirties, and as overly enthusiastic as a puppy. Tea sloshes out of the cup onto his pants leg, and he takes this good-naturedly, as if it is a daily occurrence, blotting it with his hand.
“Whoops. Quite a mess, so sorry, so sorry. Ashlyn, it’s wonderful to finally meet you. I was a friend of your dad’s. I’m so very sorry we lost him. He was a lovely man.”
Oh, such a lovely man. You clearly didn’t know him well. More important, why the hell are you here?
I take his proffered hand graciously. “I’m pleased to meet any friend of my father’s. I go by Ash now.”
“Yes, the dean here told me so. I’m sorry Charlie couldn’t come himself, he’s tied up, I’m afraid. Well, Ash. Let’s sit. I have some news.”
Charlie: Charles Worthington, my father’s solicitor. The one who explained to me how things would work after they passed. How the inquest would have to be settled before the estate could be bequeathed.
I can’t fathom what this might be, am working hard to modulate my breathing so it’s not too obvious I’m in a panic. I take the seat and accept a cup of tea. I would really prefer a cup of espresso, topped with a shot of vodka, spiked with a little “something-something” as Becca says, but I can hardly complain. At least the cup gives me something to do with my hands.
“You’ve come from Oxford?” I ask, after taking a dutiful sip.
“London, actually. We’ve had a rough go of it this autumn, I’m afraid. Snow, already.”
“Ah. London. Snow, this early. How unusual. What’s happening with the estate?”
Yes, what the ever-loving fuck happened with the estate? I thought it was being settled before I left.
“Well, of course, nothing has changed for you. Don’t you worry, you’re still completely taken care of. As you and your father agreed, you’ll come into your inheritance on your twenty-fifth birthday, assuming all the stipulations are met.”
“The stipulations? Whatever do you mean?”
“Oh, my. How embarrassing. I thought you knew. You have to have a college degree by your big twenty-fifth.”
There it is, the crux of the matter. It’s so shallow, so gauche, this desperate need for money. And the stipulations. I mean, it’s not exactly a hardship, going to school. At least it wasn’t until Grassley died. And I became a Swallow. And my roommate did a swan dive off the bell tower. And the dean started confiding in me.
“Right. That. Yes, I know about the degree stipulation. That’s why I’m here, after all. Getting myself lined up to go to college.” I shoot a glance at Westhaven, who is smiling at us absently. We pause, wait for her to chime in. This is a play, remember. Everything is timed to perfection; the way parts of the stage move in circles as the rest of the floor stays put. We maneuver around the truth, all of us do. Truth and lies, the moving circle and the sturdy planks, the very ground beneath our feet always unsteady.
It’s the dean’s turn for her soliloquy, and she delivers it masterfully. I couldn’t have scripted this better.
“Ash has a very bright academic future. I’m sure there won’t be any issue with her getting into the school of her choice. If I recall, you’re interested in Harvard, isn’t that right, dear? At Goode,” she explains to Nickerson with maternal pride, “our girls get early acceptance to their school of choice. It won’t be long before Ash gets to make her applications, and we’ll have her set up nicely in no time. We could even go for an extra-early acceptance so she’s in line next year instead of waiting until she’s a senior if that helps with the estate? I’d be happy to make a few calls.”
Nickerson lights up. “Ah, jolly good, jolly good. I’m sure that would be quite helpful to streamline everything. But I’m here with some other news, I’m afraid. Of a private nature. Normally, Ash, I’d ask to speak to you alone, but since you’re a minor and his sole heir, my bosses asked me to have a witness signature on the papers, so I’ve asked the dean to stand in. Will that be all right?”
What the hell is this about?
“I have no secrets from Dean Westhaven.” On my honor. When lightning doesn’t strike immediately, I breathe a bit easier.
“Wonderful. Brilliant. Well, Ash, it seems your father had a codicil made a few months before he passed. Almost as if he... Well, never mind that. The codicil modifies his will. Now, don’t you worry, there are plenty of assets to go round, but it seems he’s left a good portion of his fortune to another... Ash, there’s no good way to put this. You have a sister.”