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We curl up on couches and chairs as they tell me about what I’ve missed. Seven months ago, I’d have found this agonizing—their delight in the telling of it says they want me to find it agonizing. But as I hear about Leah’s solo at the Christmas chapel and the spring prefects ceremony that Ann got to attend in my place, I’m simply...mystified—that they could think I’d care, that I was once someone who did care. I want to tell them about Ty’s motorcycle and coastal dune lakes. I want to tell them about the way our school gym’s ceiling was made to look like a nighttime sky, and the book Ford gave me, and Kappy’s bottomless generosity and thoughtfulness. I want to tell them about the Cotswolds and girls who plan to become geneticists, about boys who climb into your window and don’t want you to go to Bolivia next year.

They’re telling me about the stars in their sky without realizing they’re actually inside a high school gym, looking at string lights on navy blue paper. They’ve got no clue how much bigger and freer and more promising the world is than the world we were shown.

But saying any of this aloud won’t enlighten them. They won’t regard me with envy. They’ll only see the crack in the fortress.

After I’ve politely smiled at their tales for longer than I’d thought possible, the conversation turns to me—and it’s as if I am an alien they’ve captured, one they are intrigued by but scared of simultaneously.

“So, what’s it like?” Jessa Mae asks breathlessly. “Is it as bad as it looks in movies?”

I laugh softly. “I live in Penhallow, not New York City. It’s barely bigger than New Hope.”

“Yeah,” urges Rachel, “but what’s it like? Do they do drugs?”

They want me to say yes. They want me to regale them with how awful and immoral it all is so they can continue relishing their safety here. “No one I know does. They really aren’t as different from us as you’d think.”

“Have you seen them drink, though?” asks Ann.

Last fall, I’d have given her an honest answer, but I no longer trust Ann. Anything I say is guaranteed to get back to my father. “My friends don’t,” I reply. “They’re all super smart. Kappy is going to Brown. She wants to be a doctor.”

“What kind of name is Kappy?” demands Jessa Mae, as if Jessa Mae is a perfectly normal name itself.

I shrug. “It’s a nickname. Her real name is Kaplan. I think it’s her mom’s last name.”

Ann scowls. “Isn’t that a Jewish name?”

I sigh heavily, fighting my irritation. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Do you think it’s a good idea for you to be friends with her then?” she demands.

She’s jealous. The realization hits me, sharp and sudden and certain. Her questions and her disdain aren’t out of worry for me at all. She’s jealous that I’ve moved on from her, that I’ve found new friends at all. She would love nothing more than for me to say something terrible about Kappy, something she could run to my father with to force me to end the friendship.

“I don’t see why it matters. We never talk about religion.” And even if we did, Kappy would just probably say someone bad in the Bible sucked a bag of dicks. “She’s not the type to make someone convert.”

“Do they take the Lord’s name in vain?” asks Rachel.

I take the Lord’s name in vain, but only when Ford is going down on me.

I guess I can’t say that to them.

“It’s pretty common outside of here,” I reply. “They say ‘OMG’ a lot. It’s an acronym.”

“That’s so disrespectful to you,” says Ann. “I hope you tell them that.”

I’d argue that they don’t mean anything by it, that OMG is as meaningless to them as gosh or wow, but Ann will just double down and recite something about how broad the gates of hell are.

“Do they have sex?” Jessa Mae asks.

“My friends? No.” I cast a glance at Ann and decide to throw her a bone, mostly because I need to give her something to say to my father. “There’s a group of girls they call the Kendalls because two of them are named Kendall, and they are all super pretty and popular, and the rumor is that most of them have had sex. They’ve been really terrible to me. They filled my locker with panty liners my first week of school, and they call me Prairie Girl for following the dress code.”

Ann looks satisfied by this. “I’m so sorry. It sounds awful.”

Let Ann report back to my father that I’m not as miserable as she’d hoped, but I’m still kind of miserable.

“We talked to the girls who returned from Bolivia last summer,” Jessa Mae says in a stage whisper. “They told us you need to pick someone to marry as soon as you get there.”

The rest of the girls nod in agreement.

I look between them in dismay. “I thought the point was that we were taking two years to get to know each other?”