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He shrugs. "Because they're covering every last cent—my tuition, my living expenses. And because being the number-one grad at a small college no one's heard of is better for your law school application than being in the middle of the pack."

I like the way he thinks everything through, the way he's so careful about his decisions. My friends here have the luxury to choose between Ivies and to make mistakes...He knows he doesn't, and he's working around that fact.

“So, this is cool?” he asks, running a hand through his hair. “If I ask you about moving to Penhallow?”

I bite my lip. Probably not. But what could I possibly discuss instead? “Mr. Scott said he wasn’t going to show it to anyone. So, I guess it’s okay.”

“What exactly are you worried about?”

“If my father knew some of the things I’ve thought since coming here, he’d find a way to send me back.” I laugh to myself. If I’d known this back in August, I’d have made the film myself and shown it over dinner.

A vein pulses in his temple, and his focus is so intense that I can barely take a full breath. “And why is it that you want to stay?” he asks.

You.

You’re the reason I want to stay.

And art class. And the books I get to read in English. And Kappy.

All of these things are better and more exciting than anything I knew before this.

But mostly, it’s you.

I try to ignore the heat crawling up my neck. “It’s been hard here, but it’s also been a nice break. In my community, you’re constantly petrified of breaking a rule or appearing to break a rule. I feel like I can relax, if that makes sense.”

As he reaches into his backpack to pull out his phone, I turn my face to the sun and take a deep breath of the freshly cut grass. I assumed he was going to start filming, but he’s reading instead. “I actually looked up the definition of the word cult,” he says. “I’m not trying to make you mad, but tell me how I’m wrong. ‘The demand for unquestioning loyalty, isolation of members from outside relationships and information, cohesive control, us-versus-them thinking, members who have difficulty leaving due to social or financial entrapment.”

Something inside me doesn’t want to listen, wants to fight automatically. “I could say the same thing about you all here. Do the Kendalls demand unquestioning loyalty? They do. Do they engage in us-versus-them thinking? Absolutely. Would a member of the Kendalls have difficulty leaving because of social entrapment? You can make anything sound like a cult.”

He simply gives me a look. A look that says I’m going to let this go, but we both know I’m right.

And he is. Because every member of the Kendalls will leave here for college and move on to other groups. They won’t be chained to the lockers at Penhallow for the rest of their lives, laughing at Kendall H’s jokes. They are there by choice and to some extent that choice serves them, while I’m not sure I can say the same.

“I’m gonna turn on the camera now,” he warns.

I nod, fiddling with the top button of my shirt while he sets up. Once again, his gaze drifts there, then jerks away.

“Okay, let’s start by discussing why you came here.”

I shrug. “My father was chosen to come here to heal the community.”

His jaw grinds. “He went from being the superintendent of all the schools in New Hope to being the headmaster of one school outside of it. He didn’t think of that as a demotion?”

It had never even occurred to me to consider it that way, but it’s a very outsider way of thinking. “Not everything in our world is about power and prestige. It’s a special honor to be chosen for this, to be asked to heal so many people.”

“Okay,” he says, his jaw clenching, as if it’s a physical effort to let the topic go. He glances at his questions. “Now discuss on camera what you miss about New Hope.”

I tell him how social we were there and about all the school traditions I’ve missed out on. “We had this winter dance, and the tunnel all the students make for the seniors on the first day, and a bunch of events for graduation that I won’t be a part of.”

Do I actually care about any of them now? I don’t think so. I’d sure rather hear a valedictorian address from Kappy than I would Patricia Ziegler.

“Let’s say for a minute that your community just disappeared,” he begins and I frown, already suspicious of where the question is headed. “What would you do? You wouldn’t be able to go to Bolivia. So…would you go to college? Would you do something different?”

My eyes fall closed, and my face tips toward the sun. “I’d go to college and...” I hadn’t even let myself put this thought into words, but it’s been floating around for a few weeks. “Kappy’s house is so beautiful. They paid someone to come in and choose everything for them. I mean, it’s not as if I didn’t know that home design existed before because I’ve seen those magazines in stores, but I never thought of it as a job someone could do. So that’s what I would want. I would want to decorate houses. Beach houses.” I shrug and laugh, embarrassed I’ve even said it aloud.

“Grace,” he says, turning the camera off, “my friends talk about playing for the NFL, or starting a hedge fund and retiring at thirty, or getting nominated to the Supreme Court, and they talk about these things as if they’re likely when they’re not. Why are you all embarrassed to admit something that’s totally achievable?”

“Because it’s not achievable for me,” I reply. “There’s no place for that in New Hope.”