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He clears his throat and turns the camera back on. “And what will you take back to your community when you return?”

I frown. “Take?”

“Like...in terms of interests, or ideas, or...I don’t know, hobbies?”

My eyes fall closed again and my heart sinks into my stomach. “I can’t bring any of it back, Ford,” I tell him.

No matter how much I love it, I can’t bring it back.

17

All weekend, when I’m not helping my mom and tackling the mountain of extra chores required to go to the Christmas market, I work on putting together my video of Ford. Our interviews were supposed to be ten minutes long, but I don’t have enough footage—I kept turning the camera off whenever it felt the topic might be too personal, like the stuff with his dad.

We have two journalism classes left before winter break. I’m pathetically glad that I have a reason to talk to him some more. I don’t ever want his messages to stop coming.

FORD

I don’t have enough. I’ll need to interview you some more.

ME

I don’t have ten minutes either. We can get it done Monday.

Off topic, and I’m not trying to give you shit about your religion, but why CAN’T you become a designer? Isn’t making things more beautiful a good thing?

Art is considered a distraction from devotion, and a worship of the physical world. There’s no way they’re going to see making rich women’s homes pretty as a good thing.

If God made you someone capable of creating beautiful things, of making other people appreciate their surroundings more, it sort of seems like you’re throwing a gift in his face by not using it.

He has a point. And I would reply by telling him that’s the sort of thing I’m not allowed to question...

But now that seems wrong too.

Ford and I finish up our interviews on Monday and spend Wednesday on our own, assembling them. He messages me at night with follow-up questions—Has your family always been a part of Bright Covenant? Do you know when the church was founded?

I’m going to miss our back-and-forth when this is done.

On Thursday afternoon, I go to the auxiliary gym for detention. I’ve put it off, worried that attending would somehow trigger my father’s attention. Fortunately, at Penhallow, detention is just community service, and you can also volunteer for it. I’m optimistic that my father will never question why I was here.

Today we are making sandwiches. I see Ford at one end of the table with a bunch of seniors. I sigh, disappointed we won’t be able to talk, but I’m not about to go wedge my way down there like I’m one of the gang. I move to the other end, where a non-threatening girl stands, already at work.

“Aren’t you a senior?” she asks. Her subtext is clear. You’re supposed to be working with your grade.

“Yes,” I reply, hoping she doesn’t challenge me on it. She doesn’t, but I suddenly realize how pathetic it is, me standing down here with the freshmen, too scared of people my own age to join them. Even Mr. Wheeler, the teacher in charge, looks embarrassed for me.

I watch what the freshman does and emulate it. I try hard not to look down the table at Ford, but when I hear laughter at his end, my gaze goes there anyway. Ford turns his head, and his eyes go directly to me. His mouth turns up into another one of those smiles of his—pleased and sheepish and secretive—and I flush, focusing on my sandwich, biting down on my grin.

When the rolling cart is finally stacked high, Mr. Wheeler—who’s looked at me with discomfort and pity for most of the hour—cranes his head in my direction.

“Grace,” he says, “can you take the sandwiches that are already done and stack them in the refrigerator? You can just head home after.”

There are groans of outrage. Half the room thinks I’m getting preferential treatment because of who my dad is, and the other thinks I’m getting it because I’m pathetic. I don’t really care for either option.

I grab my backpack and shove it on the bottom shelf of the rolling cart as I push it toward the door. I’m struggling to keep it open long enough to get the cart through when suddenly, Ford is there.

He grabs the cart and nods at the door. “I’ve got this. Just hold it open.”

He pushes it through, but instead of returning to his friends, he keeps heading toward the kitchen.