Page 86

“You stay in Bolivia too long,” Jessa Mae says, “and the boys just choose some other girl instead so they can have marital relations. You can also leave the mission early if you get married, so there’s that. If you don’t snare someone in your cohort or the cohort above yours right away, you’ve got to wait another year for the next class to come in.”

They’ve each selected the boy they assume they will marry. Rachel has chosen Ernest Dunkin. He may have grown out of it, but as recently as last year I saw him blow his nose into his hand.

None of them are boys they’d choose outside of New Hope.

“There’s no guarantee,” Leah warns them. “The girls who haven’t gotten engaged in the year above ours are going to be waiting to snatch up the boys from our class. Plus, we already have six more girls than boys, so it’s extra bad for us.”

Their brows furrow as they nod again. They’re treating Bolivia as if it’s one of those contests where you’ve got thirty seconds to grab as much cash as possible.

“I’m sorry, Grace,” Ann begins, her quiet satisfaction warning me she isn’t sorry at all, “but Sam likes Naomi Josephs now.”

The news would have been a blow last summer, but I couldn’t care in the least now. Sam was a child. A handsome, obedient child. I’d pretty much forgotten about him.

“Aww, that’s nice,” I say with a gentle smile. “Sam will make a good husband to Naomi, I bet. They’ll have beautiful children.”

Rage flashes in Ann’s eyes. “But you wanted him for yourself. We told her it was wrong.”

I shrug. “There will be other boys. There will be boys the year above us and boys in the year below. Plenty of boys.”

And I won’t want any of them, even then. I will only want Ford James.

I lie awake for a long time after everyone else has fallen asleep.

For months now, I’ve wondered if I’d be happy living in New Hope again. Now I’m wondering if I can stand to live in New Hope again.

I don’t want to spend my life waiting on a man. I don’t want to plant the same bush everyone else plants or enjoy the same hobbies. I want to watch Outlander and listen to Taylor Swift and read The Hunger Games.

I want to discuss parallels between The Crucible and McCarthyism. I want to discuss the parallels between The Crucible and Bright Covenant.

I want to be able to consider the possibility that this is, in some ways, a cult.

People who choose college over the mission in Bolivia always turn out badly. They die on the street like Mary Joyce. They turn to drugs.

Maybe I’d be the exception. Even if I’m not, I just can’t picture myself succeeding here.

In the morning, we all make breakfast together and then the girls leave. There’s a Bible study class many of them are attending this morning, including Ann. I tell her I’m going to do some homework and ignore her pinched, disapproving lips.

As soon as she leaves, I change into jeans and walk into the yard with my phone in hand.

I’ve never called Ford before, but when you are drowning, you don’t fret about the manner in which you’re shouting for a life jacket.

He answers, and my name on his lips is astonished and also wary. “Grace?” he asks. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to talk to you. Is this a bad time?”

He pauses for a moment, and I hear muffled voices in the distance. “My room’s down in the pool house. Let me go there so it’s quieter.”

“This is a bad time,” I say, flushing to my roots. He’s down in Grayton Beach with a bunch of his friends having fun. He doesn’t want to hear me weighing out a major life decision.

“Nah,” he says. “There’s nothing happening right now that won’t be happening in an hour, or tomorrow, or the day after that.” He sounds weary, as if he means it.

“Are you okay?” I ask, just as a door shuts and the background noise disappears.

He laughs. “You called me because you’re upset, and now you’re wondering if I’m okay?”

“How do you know I’m upset?”

“Because you wouldn’t have called otherwise,” he says. “And because I could hear it in your voice.”