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“This dance was a lot more fun before your dad came around,” snipes Larabeth Calcott, walking past with one of the Kendalls beside her.

“Somebody’s just mad she can’t go outside to act like a whore all night,” says Kappy loudly.

Larabeth whips around. “The real whore is her father,” she says, pointing at me. “You know the only reason he’s even here was because he attacked a teacher at his last school.”

My jaw falls open and what emerges is an incredulous laugh. “He didn’t even work at a school, you stupid bitch.”

I’m not sure who’s more surprised that I’ve cursed—her or me.

“Maybe she got the details wrong,” says the Kendall beside her. “But everyone knows your father’s a fucking pervert.”

They walk away, and I hold a hand to my face as if I’ve been struck.

Alex leans close. “Are you okay? That was crazy.”

“You know that’s not true, right?” I ask him, turning to include everyone around us in the question. “My father would never attack anyone. And the last time he worked at a school, I was tiny. There’s just no way it could be true.”

“They’re talking out of their asses,” says Kappy. “They’ve tried to get under your skin in any way they could all year, and now they’re trying a new one.”

Across the room, Ford’s brow is furrowed as he watches. I wonder if he’d tell me they were talking out of their asses too. It was an incredibly specific accusation from someone simply running her mouth.

The rule for the dance is that once you’ve entered, you remain until ten. There are a bunch of after-parties to follow—the part of the night everyone is actually looking forward to—so everyone is glancing at their watches by quarter till, and at ten on the dot, we pile into the limo.

I’m dropped off on the way, hugging everyone goodbye before I climb out. Alex gives me a sad smile—he seems to realize, at last, that I meant what I said about not dating.

Inside, the lights are low and my mother sits alone at the kitchen table with a crossword, waiting for me. “How was the dance?” she asks.

I spent the entire ride home thinking about what Larabeth said. It can’t be true, and yet...it is weird that we came here. I defended Dad so adamantly when Ford suggested the move was a demotion, but more and more, I’m not seeing my father as a saint, but as someone who clings to every ounce of power he can grab. He was in charge of seven schools, plus the mission program, back in New Hope. Do I really believe he cares about anyone enough to give up all that power and admiration willingly?

“Why did we come here?” I ask.

She frowns. “You know why. The Penhallow parents were having a fit about Dad taking over. He needed them to see he had a personal investment in the school.”

I pause. That’s another thing...if they were having a fit about my father taking over, shouldn’t that have happened when he first arrived at Penhallow last spring? It was mid-summer, when he’d been here for months, that it all came to a head. It’s a question for another time, and probably not worth pursuing since I doubt I’ll get the truth.

“No. I meant...why did Dad take this job in the first place?”

She sighs heavily, the sound rife with exasperation. “You know all this. Why are you questioning it now, for heaven’s sake?”

“A girl at the dance tonight said Dad was forced out of his old job for attacking a teacher.” I watch her carefully as the words sink in.

Her face pales, her eyes widen, and there’s a tiny tremor in her hands.

Which isn’t how you respond to something you know is untrue.

“What a ridiculous story,” she says, a moment too late. “Your father didn’t even work at a school.”

It’s exactly what I said to Larabeth, but even as I said it, I was thinking that he did work with teachers. A lot. There were conferences, celebrations, and a lot of out-of-town trips.

“Yeah, that’s what I told her,” I say, turning to walk upstairs.

When I arrived here last summer, it was all so clear-cut. Ford was bad; my parents were good. He was unrepentant and troubled; my parents were kind and forgiving. It almost seems now as if the situation has reversed. My father has possibly done a very bad thing and my mother is covering for him, while Ford is spending weekends in Jacksonville visiting his sister and doing his level best to get to a place where he can take care of his family.

In my room, I dump my purse’s contents on the bed so I can return it to my mom. There’s a notification from Calcul8: Ten Study Habits That Make a Difference.

I open the app eagerly. There’s just one person it can be from since the only other contacts in here dropped me off seconds ago.

FORD