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We messaged each other for weeks while we were doing our interviews, so this shouldn’t feel all that different, but it does because I’m messaging him first.

It was one thing if I was merely replying. I could argue that I was simply being polite. Even if I’m only messaging to thank him for the book, I can’t argue that now. It was never true anyway.

I love the book so much, Ford. It’s probably the nicest gift I’ve ever received. We barely got to speak today, but I hope you had a good Christmas.

His replies are usually immediate, but this time I wait several hours.

FORD

My sister is back in the hospital—she heard about us interviewing each other and got really upset. I’m sorry, but I can’t talk to you anymore.

It shouldn’t be the punch to the gut that it is. Even if I have a crush, even if I loved getting a message from him more than anything in the world and felt as if we’d become friends...there was never going to be a time when that was okay. There was never going to be a time when it could turn into more.

I creep through what remains of the holiday. I watch Faith in the mornings while my mother runs errands. I help make dinner and volunteer to go to the store simply for a break from being inside with them. The end of this thing with Ford should have left me resigned to this life, but instead I want to rage against it.

“I spoke to your father,” my mother says gently one afternoon. “He’s going to stop being so hard on you, but I need you to do your part.”

I’m gripped by fury before I can stop it. My part? Like...the long list of tasks I did in order to go to the pop-up market? Like scrubbing grout for hours on end? Like standing in the garage on a thirty-degree day to grease all the tools? Like staying home for three weeks straight with nothing but housework to occupy me? He, I notice, has been mysteriously absent the entire time. “Working.” At a school that probably doesn’t even have the heat and lights on.

“My part?” I ask, jaw grinding.

She raises a brow. “That’s exactly what I’m referring to, Grace. You think we can’t tell when you’re being indignant, the way you are right now?”

“Some people would say I’ve got the right to be indignant.”

“Yes,” she says. “But they wouldn’t be the kind of people we want you to become.”

19

The excitement in the halls on our first day back is at fever pitch. Lauren has a golden tan from her trip to Nevis. Kappy shows us pics of her rainforest hike in Puerto Rico. Zoe has a new pair of Golden Goose sneakers and some sought-after necklace—the only parts of our daily attire not proscribed by the dress code. If I could tell them about Ford meeting me in the park—I desperately wish I could tell them—my story would stop the show.

Kappy and I walk to English together when the warning bell rings. Ford’s gaze catches mine briefly, but I look away first. He couldn’t have been clearer with that message he sent, and it’s for the best, for us both. I’ve only got six months left in Penhallow anyway—in July I’ll return to New Hope for orientation before leaving for Bolivia the next month. There’s absolutely no point in wanting to stay more than I already do.

Mrs. Onorato calls the class to attention and begins talking about Romeo and Juliet. It’s poorly timed, given the situation between me and Ford. She has us read passages and then discuss their meanings aloud. I say little, too focused on the heat of Ford’s gaze along my spine, like a creeping finger. She reads one of the most famous excerpts:

‘Tis but thy name that is my enemy;

Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.

What’s Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot,

Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part

Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!

JJ has some dumb commentary about how Juliet dislikes the name Montague because it’s hard to spell and that she’d prefer a cool last name like Jackson. I really don’t know how he’s in this class.

“Grace, you’ve been quiet today,” Mrs. O says. “What do you think Juliet is saying?”

Argh.

If I was a different kid, I’d claim not to know. I’d say I’ve got cramps and ask to see the nurse. Instead, I do my best, wishing I could sink into the earth. “She’s saying that their family’s history shouldn’t matter. That they are two individuals who are separate from all of it, and everything else is irrelevant.”

I’ve never been so happy not to see Ford’s face. The bell ringing is the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.

I jump from my seat, and Alex follows.

“How was your break?” he asks as we walk out of class.