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There was. Patricia Ziegler was the morality police, spreading rumors about anyone who flirted with the boys or fell out of line. None of us dared correct her because doing so guaranteed that you’d be the next one she was whispering about.

“Fine,” I reply. “You’re not all violent. But that doesn’t mean he got beaten up because of me. There must have been something else going on.”

She laughs. “You’re ridiculously pretty,” she says. “And you’re nice. Why is it so hard for you to believe someone might like you enough to defend you? The real question is who would have done it.”

At that very moment, my gaze locks with Ford’s. He’s across the hall, and his eyes are already on me.

His knuckles are cut up.

I stare at his hands for a half second longer than I should. It couldn’t have been him. Even if he isn’t actively encouraging the things that have happened, he’s not about to defend me either. Right?

It would be naïve to think it. He’s the villain, not the hero.

Yet I can’t help but see him as a little of both.

We read The Crucible aloud in class.

JJ’s summation— “a lot of people lying to save their asses”—seems about right. Kappy insists it’s misogynistic— “Notice how only the women are pathological liars?” Daniel, the kid who sits to my left, draws parallels to cancel culture today.

While they debate with each other, I argue with myself. This is nothing like Bright Covenant. We don’t accuse people of being witches. We don’t hang people or drag them before some magistrate.

It’s only in the moments when I relax, when I believe I’ve proven my point, that some quote hits, and I see the opposite side anew.

“A person is either with this court or he must be counted against it,” says the judge. “There be no road between.”

That is what it’s like in New Hope. You either conform or you’re an agitator. You are either brought to heel, or you are shunned. There was a family down the street from us who kept hanging a flag for some sports team and every time they did it, they got a visit and it disappeared. Eventually, they did too. I assume they were sent to the less favorable community up north.

I guess I didn’t think much of it before, but...shouldn’t any society worth maintaining be able to survive questioning? Shouldn’t it be able to handle the occasional difference of opinions and desires?

I go to my locker. There’s a dick painted on it now. Just when I think the Kendalls are losing steam, they get fresh wind.

“Hey,” says Kappy. “We’re going over to Lauren’s house this weekend to celebrate her birthday. You in? She has a pool.”

My heart skips a beat and sinks, almost simultaneously. It would be fun to go somewhere for once, but back home, my parents allowed me to go out only because they knew everyone, and if there was a party, it was more formal than this.

“I don’t know if I’ll be allowed to,” I reply. “I can ask, I guess.”

Her jaw drops. “Why the fuck wouldn’t they let you go?” she demands. “Legally, you’re old enough to do whatever the fuck you want.”

I guess she has a point. I’m eighteen years old. I should be allowed to attend a small party. My parents might not love the way things are done here, but they can’t expect to wrench me away from my friend group back home and just lock me inside for the next year.

It’s an argument that would never fly with them, however. Mostly because it’s an argument only someone from outside our community would make.

Though I’ve spent the entire day gearing myself up for it, my heart is in my throat as my family and I take our seats around the dinner table.

No argument I can make will succeed. I’m already angry about the denial before it’s even been issued.

“It’s my friend Lauren’s birthday this weekend,” I tell them. “She’s invited me to her house to celebrate.”

“Who will be attending?” my father asks.

My heart beats faster. I should have known they’d ask, and I don’t know why I didn’t get all the information in advance. If I tell them I don’t know, this whole thing will be shot. “Just Kappy, Zoe, and Lauren, I think.”

“They didn’t send invitations?” my mother asks.

I sigh. “They don’t do that here. Things are just more informal.”

My parents look at each other. I can tell they’re about to say no, and another, brighter flare of anger bursts in my chest. I’m eighteen. Legally, as Kappy pointed out, I’m old enough to do whatever I want.