Page 27

If you’re not going to allow me to have a life here, let me go back to my old one. Words I’d never dare say aloud, though I’ve thought them several times. Not as much, lately, however.

“Lauren is an honors student. She’s got a four-o. She isn’t a bad kid.”

“We’ve set the bar a little higher for you than not a bad kid,” my father replies.

“You wanted us to become a part of this community,” I say, struggling to keep my voice respectful. “We shouldn’t just give it lip service by never actually participating in their rituals. Not everything they do is wrong.”

There is silence, and I stare at the table, knowing my parents are having one of those wordless conversations of theirs, all frowns and raised eyebrows and shrugs.

“All right,” says my father. “We’ll let you try it. Don’t disappoint us.”

So, it’s a test, and if I fail, I’ll have proven conclusively that the outside world isn’t safe. It’s a test I’ll only have to endure a few times over the next few months, but one my sisters will endure all the years my parents remain here. Suddenly, I’m deeply relieved to be leaving in June, and for once it has nothing to do with wanting to escape school.

Kappy picks me up on Saturday night. My parents insist that she come to the door so they can meet her, which Kappy handles with aplomb while I want to sink to the ground.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Felton,” she says, shaking my mother’s hand before she turns to my father. “I’m sure you don’t remember me, sir, but I was introduced to you last spring during the National Honors Society awards banquet.”

You would never guess she’s the same girl who told Ashleigh to suck a bag of dicks a few days ago.

My parents suggest we say a prayer. I die a second death while Kappy nods eagerly.

“I would love that,” she assures them.

The act dies completely when we finally get into her car. “You look like you’re dressed from the boys’ section of GapKids, circa 1990. I told you to wear shorts.”

“Shut up,” I say with a laugh. “You just met my parents. You must be able to imagine what kind of shorts I’d be allowed out of the house in.”

“But jeans?” she asks. “It’s like ten thousand degrees outside. You can’t show up like that.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. She turns into someone’s driveway and starts heading back to my house. For one horrible moment I think she’s planning to drop me off.

“We’ll go to my place and find you something to wear,” she says. “My older sister was skinny like you and has an entire roomful of clothes she didn’t take to college. But next weekend, we’re going to the mall and getting you real clothes.”

I say nothing, but my stomach tightens. It’s such a small thing, but if my parents somehow find out I changed into inappropriate clothes, they’ll definitely decide I’ve failed the test.

We weave through neighborhoods I’ve never been in, full of houses that make my jaw drop—walls of glass, multiple decks, elaborate landscaping. “I suppose the Kendalls live here,” I say.

She shrugs. “Some. Some live on the coast. Some are as poor as you, but you’d just never guess it the way they run their mouths.” She sees me flush and immediately apologizes. “I’m sorry. That was shitty. I wasn’t trying to say you’re poor. I⁠—”

I smile at her. “It’s okay. We live pretty frugally. It’s one of my church’s core beliefs.”

She shakes her head. “Man, I don’t think I’m cut out for your church.”

Looking at all these houses makes me wonder if I’m cut out for it myself.

Kappy’s community has a lake and fountain as you enter, and each driveway features an imposing gate. Her house isn’t one of the mansions, but it might as well be. There’s a large circular drive and elaborate landscaping, and everything inside is perfect. The colors are subtle and interesting but go together seamlessly. The furniture looks neither too heavy nor too insubstantial.

“Your house is like something out of a magazine,” I whisper. “How did your mother know what to pick?”

Kappy rolls her eyes. “Karla didn’t do jack-shit. That was all some expensive designer she hired after she and my dad split up.”

Her mother calls to us from the other room, warning Kappy to pick up her stuff from the floor before the cleaning ladies arrive Monday, and Kappy pulls me toward the stairs. “No time for chitchat, Karla,” she tells her mom, who just laughs.

I can’t begin to imagine calling my mother by her first name or being rude to her. I certainly can’t imagine slamming the door behind me the way Kappy does after she leads me into her bedroom, which has clothes covering every inch of the floor. In the bathroom behind her—a bathroom that’s three times the size of the one I share with my sisters—she has a massive tub, like something you’d see in a celebrity’s home.

She rummages through her sister’s clothes and comes back with cut-off denim shorts and a fitted tank. It’s way too skimpy for me, but it was kind of her, so I say nothing and change clothes in her bathroom.

“Makeover time,” she says when I emerge, fighting myself not to cover my chest.