Page 5

I reach the store quickly. It’s uncrowded inside, and cool—my damp bra turns icy under the blasting A/C. I pass a makeup display, with its photos of perfect girls with pore-less skin and lipsticks with names like honey-kissed and bite me red—and for just a moment I picture myself as one of those girls. Showing up on the first day of school in honey-kissed, my glasses miraculously unnecessary—and becoming the kind of girl who wants to be kissed as opposed to one who isn’t allowed to. I shake my head almost as soon as the daydream begins, warning myself about wanting the wrong things.

My entire life is a cycle of want and denial. I’m sometimes hit with the grief of giving up a dream before I’ve even realized I was dreaming it.

I buy the baking powder and grasp it in my left hand, steering the bike home with the right, the sun pressing down on me like an iron. By the time I reach my street, my shirt is stuck to my skin, and sweat is dripping into my eyes. I use the back of my hand to wipe them as I turn into the driveway, which means I don’t see Ford James standing in the garage until it’s too late.

For a moment, I just stare. His eyes are the prettiest, softest brown...hazel, I guess. There’s a flush along his cheekbones. A few barely visible freckles along the bridge of his nose.

I climb off the bike, so shaky and unsettled I half expect my knees to buckle as my feet hit the floor. My father keeps talking about forgiving him, and we are going to be classmates. Surely, I should at least attempt civility?

“Hi,” I say, leaning the bike against the wall. I channel my mother’s social voice, ignoring the quick tapping of my heart. “You must be Ford.”

His eyes narrow. “Don’t,” he says, turning to the shelf behind him.

I take an involuntary step backward. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t talk to me, and don’t give me any of your hypocritical religious bullshit. We’re not friends.”

My jaw falls. This guy definitely vandalized our home and probably tried to burn it down, yet I was being nice and forgiving. I owed him nothing, but he’s throwing it back in my face.

“I was hoping you weren’t as bad as my parents said,” I reply, my chest tight. “But it looks like they were right, as always.” I’m not turning the other cheek, the way I’m supposed to, but something about him seems to pull the worst side of me forward.

He turns back to me, his nostrils flaring. “And I was hoping you wouldn’t be a judgmental little bitch, so I guess we were both wrong.”

I gasp. No one has ever called me a bitch in my life. And judgmental? He defaced my house! He’s the reason I had to move here.

“Do yourself a favor,” he adds, “and stay out of my line of sight at school or you’ll regret moving here.”

“Not to worry,” I reply, heading for the door. “You and I definitely won’t be in the same classes.”

I walk into the house with my hands shaking, so angry that heat is seeping through my ears. But already, shame is there too, and it’s front and center as my temper starts to fade.

He called me a judgmental bitch and I...implied he wasn’t smart enough to be in my classes.

When I return to my room and the waiting essay, the question about why I want to go on the mission is easier to answer.

I want to go on the mission because it’s safe. I want to go on this mission because I’m not ready for the dangers of the real world. Because I don’t like who I am inside it.

Because something inside me is broken.

And someone like Ford James can only make it worse.

4

My mother drives me and Hope to school on our first day, though we’ll take the bus or bike from now on. The middle school and high school are on different parts of the campus, and Hope begs my mother to drop me off first. “Oh sweetie,” my mother says, “you’re going to be fine.”

I laugh to myself. Hope’s desire to be dropped off last has nothing to do with fear, and everything to do with her ridiculous crush on one of those seniors from the pool party. If I have to hear about the boy with the pretty eyes one more time, I’m going to lose my mind. I’m pretty sure the guy was one of Ford’s buddies. He probably helped set the fire.

Maybe we share a genetic pull toward monsters.

Hope reluctantly climbs out at the middle school entrance and then my mom drives two blocks down the street and parks in the high school lot.

Penhallow Prep looks like an old college campus— massive red-brick buildings with ivy coming up the side, a wide swath of green lawn and old oaks. I was thrilled when I first saw it, but now all I can focus on is how painfully different I am from the girls who lounge in the grass as if homeroom is optional. They look like they’re in a sexy movie about private school—their kilts barely skim their bottoms while mine, per the dress code, falls to my knees; their oxfords are unbuttoned, while mine is buttoned to the neck; their hair is blown out, while mine is scraped back in a tight ponytail.

If this was a movie, I’d definitely be the girl they nominate prom queen as a joke.

I push my glasses up and reach for the door, but my mother stops me. “Today won’t be easy,” she says, as if I hadn’t figured it out on my own. “Leila, Ford’s sister, was popular here...”

My tongue darts out to my upper lip. My father has now told me multiple times to steer clear of Ford. The whole family is troubled. Miscreants for children, drunk floozy for a mother. If Ford and his friends bother you, just ignore them. They’ll go away eventually.