12. Tiffin Talks Ghost in the Machine #2
“Keep your ears open on the first floor,” Ravenna says. “My money is on a fifth-form girl. Your class is a bunch of troublemakers.”
Charley takes a shower, washes her hair, and does the extra step of combing through her conditioner.
Back in her room, she rummages through the bottom of her closet for the blow-dryer and round brush her mother gave her as a going-away-to-school present, “just in case you ever want to do something different with your hair.” Charley knew Fran had been stalking other Tiffin students on Instagram and noticed they all wore their hair down.
Charley clicks on YouTube, searches for “How to Achieve the Perfect Blowout,” and gets to work.
Half an hour later, she gazes in the mirror.
Her hair, which might generously be called “dishwater blond,” now has hints of honey as it flows over her shoulders.
Is this her? She takes off her glasses. Her mother also sent her with five pairs of disposable contact lenses, but Charley hates them; they feel like suction cups on her eyeballs.
The hair, she decides, is enough.
She skips dinner; she doesn’t want to be seen, and so she nibbles at crackers as she waits for East to text.
He normally reaches out between seven thirty and eight with the downward arrow emoji.
When, at eight twenty, she hasn’t heard from him, Charley texts him the down arrow emoji followed by a question mark.
He responds: My bad. I’m getting extra help from Bergeron tonight.
Charley flinches like she’s been smacked and emotion rolls over her like Attila the Hun invading Gaul.
She went to all this trouble and he’s canceling ?
The end of the semester looms, but why didn’t he get extra help last night?
Of course, as soon as she admits to herself that these meet-ups are important to her, he backs off.
He was going to kiss her Tuesday night, she’s sure of it, but she torched the moment.
Maybe he’s pissed, maybe he figures she’s not into him.
She snatches up her backpack and storms into the common room to check out to the Sink—but instead of finding Bergeron, it’s Ms. Vandermeid.
Right, Charley thinks. Because Miss Bergeron is with East.
“I’m going to the Sink,” she says. “Charley Hicks.”
“You’re new this year,” Ms. Vandermeid says. “How are you liking Tiffin?”
“I’m not,” Charley snaps.
Ms. Vandermeid studies Charley long enough for Charley to feel like a petulant child. She probably should have played along, Ms. Vandermeid is the college counselor and will be in charge of Charley’s future next year.
Ms. Vandermeid nods. “I feel that way too sometimes. You’re free to go. Have a productive night.”
Fuck Priorities, Charley thinks as she bolts for the Sink.
It’s never going to happen anyway; how is he going to get materials downstairs—flooring, paint, a slab of granite, furniture—without anyone finding out?
At the very least, Mr. James will notice.
East claims he’s been on DIY sites learning how to install light fixtures and put up wallpaper, but there’s just no way.
Priorities is going to end up being a nothingburger.
Charley should be glad she isn’t wasting her time.
Except she’s not glad. When she walks into the Sink and sees Taylor and Hakeem studying side by side—they’re doing problem sets for pre-calc, which Charley needs to finish as well, she’s behind—she feels like someone is choking her.
East doesn’t like her, he was teasing about her hair, he would never like her, she has prided herself on not being delusional and here she is, fucking delusional.
She races up to the third-floor bathroom; it’s as good a place as any to cry, but when she pushes in, she hears someone retching.
“Davi?” she says.
The toilet flushes and Davi emerges, eyes watering. She moves past Charley to the sink, where she rinses her mouth and washes her hands.
“Barbacoa again?” Charley says.
Davi holds Charley’s gaze in the mirror. “It’s my business, okay?”
Charley knows the right thing is to offer help: I’m here for you if you want to talk, or Do you want me to help you find counseling? But she knows nothing about eating disorders and she can’t exactly judge Davi when she’s such a mess herself.
“Okay,” Charley says. “I just came up here so I could cry in peace.”
“I thought I was the only one who knew this bathroom existed,” Davi says.
“Well, you’re not.”
“Cinnamon and I had some of our best talks here,” Davi says. “Out of the dorm, you know. Away from everyone else.” Her eyes narrow. “You hair looks… amazing. Did you blow it out ?”
Charley shrugs.
“Well, if you ever want to do makeup…”
“I’m good, thanks,” Charley says.
“The only reason I don’t like you,” Davi says, “is because you don’t want me to like you.”
Fair enough, Charley thinks.
“However, I do respect you,” Davi says.
Charley considers this. “Thank you,” she says. “That means a lot. Especially tonight.”
“Did something happen?” Davi asks.
Charley imagines confiding in Davi Banerjee about East. Hahaha!
Never in a million years. “Nothing happened,” Charley says.
She pushes out the door, but not before catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
She will tackle pre-calc, she thinks. She and her amazing hair will have a productive night.
There are only four weeks left in the semester and if Simone doesn’t intervene, East will fail her class. When F-period ends, she says, “East, will you please stay?”
She waits until everyone has emptied out (is it her imagination or is Charley Hicks lingering?) and then Simone closes the door.
“You have a zero in this class,” she says. “If you don’t start producing, you’ll fail.”
“I won’t fail.”
His cockiness enrages her. “I’m not on your father’s payroll, Andrew,” she says. “I will fail you.”
He seems amused by this, which is the opposite of what she wants. She wants fear, deference, respect.
“Maybe I do need extra help,” he says. “What about tonight during Study Hall? I can meet you here at eight.”
“Here?” Simone says. “No. I’ll meet you at the Sink.”
“I can’t let anyone see me actually studying,” East says. “It’ll ruin my reputation.”
“What about the Grille?”
“Nah, I’ll meet you here.”
Why is Simone letting him set the terms? She should say, We need to meet in a public place so nothing happens.
But she doesn’t.
Simone can’t be surprised when East shows up without books, without a laptop, without anything. Before she even opens her mouth to speak, he turns off the light in the classroom and locks the door.
Simone stands up from her desk. Is she going to stop this? There’s no one else in the Schoolhouse—she was careful to check—though she knows Mr. James swings by once or twice a night. But does he check every single room? Does he even bother to come inside?
Simone isn’t thinking clearly; she’s mortified to admit it, but she finished the bottle of wine hidden in her closet before she came.
The wine has impaired her good judgment—isn’t that what she was hoping it would do?
—and so when she feels East’s hands on her waist and his mouth warm and firm on hers, she lets it happen.
As they kiss, East runs a light finger over her nipple.
She wore only a camisole beneath her blouse instead of a bra; every choice tonight was in subconscious anticipation of what’s happening right now.
Simone can’t believe how skilled East is: Other boys his age would grab or tug, but East’s touch is a barely there graze, a tease that makes her groan into his mouth.
He leads her over to the Harkness table where she moderates discussions during class. He hoists her up so that she’s sitting in her usual spot and he slides off her jeans before kneeling before her.
Oh my god, Simone thinks. His tongue is slow at first but then he goes faster in just the right spot; she hates that he’s good at this. When she comes, she claps a hand over her mouth to muffle her screams.
He pulls away. By this time, Simone’s eyes have adjusted to the dark; she can see the outline of him heading for the door.
“Thanks for the extra help,” he says. “I understand the material much better now.”
Simone waits fifteen minutes, twenty, she’s shaking with fear and shame.
What has she done? Did she learn nothing from the debacle at McGill?
She was lucky to get this job, lucky that Audre Robinson didn’t dig any deeper into her background.
Simone’s intention was to shine at Tiffin—and hasn’t she been doing just that?
The girls in the dorm love her. Most of them, anyway.
She has diligently studied all the material she’s presenting in class and the kids—most of them, anyway—respond to her teaching style.
They have thought-provoking conversations.
“History” isn’t just facts and dates. It’s up for interpretation.
Whose perspective is represented, whose is ignored?
None of this matters, however, because Simone Bergeron is a criminal.
When she feels enough time has passed to put a cushion between East’s departure and her own, she leaves the Schoolhouse.
The second she steps out into the raw evening—November has arrived like the grim reaper; all the trees are bare, the wind howls at night, the skies have been brooding and gray—she hears her name and nearly jumps out of her skin.
She turns: It’s Rhode, coming from the Teddy.
“Hey,” he says. “What are you doing here? I thought you had dorm duty.”
“I thought you had dorm duty,” she says.
“Roy covered for me. I met with a student who wanted me to read her college essay.” He pauses. “But it turned into a therapy session. It was Annabelle Tuckerman, poor kid. Zip Zap ripped her apart. She confided that the post was true. She did make up her whole senior speech.”
“Wow.” Simone doesn’t like how close Rhode is walking to her. She worries she’s giving off a scent of wine, sex, and immorality.