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I help with dinner, which is dry and overcooked by the time my dad walks in.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says. “We had to let the drama teacher go today.”

“Oh no,” my mother replies. “Was she upset?”

My father’s jaw sets. “I don’t care if she was upset. She refused to lead the class in prayer. I can’t have that kind of insubordination on the first day of school.”

My hand, in the process of ladling out casserole, freezes. Earlier today, I’d been pretty certain I was going to tell him about the reading list for English. But what if Mrs. Onorato argues to keep it? I like her. I don’t want to see her out of a job simply because she doesn’t understand how the texts she’s recommending are a danger.

“How were your classes?” my father asks.

I force a smile. “They were fine. No complaints.”

It’s the first time since I was very small that I’ve dared tell him a lie.

5

The next morning, Hope takes the bus and I ride my bike, since I’ve agreed to tutor after school and there’s no late bus. I could wait for my dad, but most nights he stays ’til six. If my second day goes as poorly as my first, and there’s no reason to believe it won’t, I doubt I’ll want to stay that long.

Someone has shoved a wet wad of gum in my locker latch. I use a piece of notebook paper to remove it and ignore the laughter behind me, just like I ignore the hand that tries to flip my skirt up as it passes me in the hall and the occasional hard elbow as I walk.

If I give them absolutely nothing in response, they’ll tire of tormenting me eventually.

When I reach English, I keep my eyes on my desk. Ford seems to win every encounter somehow— he’s popular while I’m despised, he got away with vandalizing my home, and he proved I was judgmental. I won’t give him the satisfaction of noting his smirk when he enters the room. I sense him, though, as he passes. His tread is heavier than anyone else’s and...it’s something beyond that, something I can’t identify. I just know.

The bell rings and Mrs. Onorato rises from her chair. “Who here has a favorite quote?”

A few hands are raised—nothing like a bunch of AP English geeks to have a favorite quote—and mine is among them, tentatively.

So, I note, is Ford’s.

“Great,” she says, passing a stack of index cards to the guy in front of her. “If you have a favorite, write it down on these. If you don’t have a favorite, you’ve got five minutes to find one.”

I have a few that I like, but what comes to mind is one I try to remember when I’m struggling to forgive. I’ve said it to myself several times over the past two days: “Perhaps everything terrible is, in its deepest being, something helpless that wants help from us.”

Once everyone is done scribbling, she has us pass our quotes forward.

“Now I’d like you each to come up here and tell us why the quote is important to you,” she says. “Next week you’ll start doing full presentations. This will help you get used to speaking in front of the class.”

My chest tightens. If I’d known I was going to have to discuss the quote I chose, I’d probably have selected something else, something that means less and doesn’t make me sound like Prairie Girl.

There are volunteers. I’m too anxious to pay much attention to what they say.

Mrs. Onorato reads the next paper to herself. “JJ, please see me after class,” she says, shuffling the paper to the back of the pile and then she glances up at me. “Grace? I’m impressed. Not a lot of teenagers quote Rilke. Come on up.”

I flush. I don’t want anyone to be impressed. I want them to be bored enough to forget me. Reluctantly I go to the front of the room and take the paper from her.

I glance up, expecting to see a scowl on Ford’s face but finding surprise instead. Like the way he looked at me at the pool that first day. As if he sees me and he sees me in a way no one else does, and that way isn’t necessarily bad.

“Tell us a little bit about why you like it, Grace,” Mrs. Onorato prods.

I swallow. Standing in front of these people and explaining myself will feel a lot like giving a piece of myself away. A piece they’ll just throw in my face later.

“Because sometimes I need help forgiving others,” I reply. “Or even forgiving myself.”

JJ snickers in the back, and my stomach ties into a knot. Why did I have to say that? I might as well have told the entire class about Satan’s thumbprint on my neck. I return to my seat, my face hot, my heart pounding in my ears. It’s not even JJ I’m angry at because he’s pathetic—a puppet, doing whatever he can to get approval, to get a laugh. It’s Ford who’s the puppet master, pulling everyone’s strings, making me miserable.

More kids go up. There’s Socrates—the unexamined life is not worth living; there’s Robert Frost—I took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference. Everyone’s quote in some way glorifies the questioner, the rebel. Maybe it’s something teens universally do, and maybe I’d do it, too, if I hadn’t grown up within the confines of Bright Covenant. I’m not sure if skipping this phase was beneficial or not.