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But the worst part is the way I’m starting to question things. I don’t fit in here, but if this keeps up, I won’t fit in back home either.

And where will that leave me?

It’ll leave me where it left Mary Joyce, and nobody wants that.

When I get outside that afternoon, only two bikes still sit at the rack.

One is fine. The other—mine—has slashed tires.

Is this God’s punishment for reading the book? For not honoring my parents?

And do I really have anything to gain from this world outside my community, this world where people destroy your bike, and call you names, and shove you in the hall for no reason?

When I get home, my mother is trying to make dinner while helping Faith with her homework. “You’re late,” she sighs, her irritation barely restrained. “Please start on the salad.”

I suppress a twinge of anger. Why would she immediately assume I’d done something wrong? “I had to walk. Someone slashed my bike’s tires.”

She stiffens. “Maybe you ran over something biking to school.”

I’m supposed to agree, to nod and come up with some way to view this without anger. But I’m getting tired of being asked to pretend it isn’t personal when it is. I’m tired of keeping my eyes shut while everyone else’s get to remain open.

“And punctured both tires, which were fine when I locked up my bike and were still fine at lunch?”

My mother’s lips press tight, and then her shoulders sag. “I’ll get it fixed. Write down the combination to the lock.”

I’m the only senior on the bus the next morning, and still the least cool student among us. The air that blows through the half-open windows is as warm as my sweating back, and the stiff boy beside me stares straight ahead, as if I’m not even here. Maybe he simply wishes I wasn’t, much like the rest of the school.

A group of seniors are lounging against a white Jeep Wrangler with the top down when we arrive. Kendall H sits among them, their queen, letting her long blonde hair fall over her shoulders like a mantle.

She says something to the group, looking at me, and they all laugh. My glasses are slipping down my nose, and I don’t push them up, though I’d like to.

“Ask her,” one of the guys says.

“Did you have a nice ride, Prairie Girl?” she shouts. “Must’ve been hot in that floor-length skirt!”

There’s so much in the Bible about forgiveness, about loving your enemies. I know the verses by heart, but something sticky in my chest isn’t interested in that right now, so the one I’m reciting as I walk past them, my eyes fixed straight ahead, is this:

The Lord shall cause your enemies who rise up against you to be defeated before your face.

I’d like to see the earth fall out from under them, hear them cry in surprise and then despair, and even as I picture it, there’s the deepest sort of shame in my chest. My parents already regard me like a pile of dry kindling sitting perilously close to open flame, though I barely tell them anything. I can only imagine how they’d react if they knew how ugly my thoughts really are.

By the time I’m done tutoring that afternoon, the sun is gone and black clouds are rolling in, so I don’t seek out Ford’s book. When I exit the school, my bike still isn’t fixed. It’s now missing the seat as well.

I begin the long walk home. About half a mile from school, the skies open. I clutch my backpack to my chest, hoping to shield my laptop and papers from the rain.

I’ve got about two miles to go when a black Mercedes SUV drives past and then comes to a sudden stop, before reversing back to me.

“Hey...it’s Grace, right?” shouts the girl on the passenger side. She’s one of those girls—the Kendalls, the girls with highlights and fake tans and skirts that barely pass their butts. Ford’s friend, the girl who laughed at me yesterday, sits in the backseat.

There’s scurrying inside the car, as if they’re making room for me. They’ve been awful so far, but if I had a car, I’d probably give someone I disliked a ride under the circumstances too. And my clothes are stuck to my skin and I’m starting to get cold, and if I ignore every kind gesture, I’ll never have friends here.

“Yes,” I say warily, approaching the car. Someone inside laughs, a mean, sharp sound, and I freeze in place.

“Did you think we were gonna give your lame ass a ride?” the girl asks. “We’re just here to give you a little help.” She rolls down the window fully, and the window behind hers comes down too. “Here’s some money so you can buy a new bike and a skirt that fits.”

They start pelting me with change, handfuls of it, and I jump backward. “That’s for Ford and Leila!” they shout before they peel away, sending gravel flying in their haste.

I don’t understand. I don’t understand how they can hate me quite as much as they do. Leila wasn’t some innocent victim. She was expelled for having sex with her boyfriend on school grounds, and it all happened months before I arrived. She tried to hurt herself afterward, but that has nothing to do with my family.