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"This is ridiculous," I tell her. "How long are you going to give me the silent treatment?"

Her jaw sets. "The problem, Grace, is that you are not sorry."

"I told you that Ann kicked me out and you weren't willing to help me. I don't know what you expected me to do."

"What I expected," she says, tearing basil into small pieces, "is that you would resolve it in a dignified manner. No matter how much you wish it were otherwise, you are not Kappy. That's not the child I raised, nor is it the child I want."

I snort. "So, you'd prefer a high school graduate who's as obedient as a child or a well-trained dog to a geneticist who went to Brown?"

"Yes," she says. "A million times over."

It's so incredibly screwed up I can't explain it to her.

"I'm going to prom," I announce. Because no, I'm not asking her permission. I already know how that works out. And a person who'd prefer a lapdog to Kappy is someone who's never going to be reasoned with. "We're going as a group, and I'm sleeping at Kappy's afterward."

"You—"

"You want to ship me off to Bolivia for two years, Mom? Fine. But I am going to prom, so figure out what you need to say to Dad to make it happen."

She stares at me as if she's never seen me before. "I'm not paying for a dress."

I can barely repress a triumphant smile.

I don’t need her to pay for a dress. Kappy's sister has a million discarded formals in her closet that will fit. I don't need anything from her but a roof over my head for the next five weeks.

29

Prom occurs in mid-May. While my father continues to be chilly toward me, things have mostly returned to normal otherwise.

I’m working on dinner a few nights before the dance when my mother informs me that I’ll be staying with Miriam during my orientation back in New Hope “since things are strained with Ann.”

Strained is a word that suggests our relationship will recover, and it definitely will not. But guilt makes my stomach swim. She’s gone to the trouble of setting this up for me, and as she starts to talk about the clothes we’ll need to make before I go—new “appropriate” dresses and heavy work pants for building the school—it doesn’t get any better.

I can’t ask them to let me skip the mission. It will reflect badly on them and⁠—

“I signed you up to chaperone Faith on a camping trip the weekend after graduation, by the way,” she says.

My friends have rented a house on some island in the Bahamas, leaving the day after we graduate. I knew I wouldn’t be able to go, but surely there’s some middle ground that exists in the universe between chaperoning your kid sister’s camping trip and partying in the Bahamas for a week?

My guilt eases away.

On the morning of prom, Kappy, Lauren, and Zoe all go to get their hair blown out. When I meet them at Kappy's that afternoon, they take turns doing my hair for me with Kappy's Dyson. It looks as good as theirs by the time we're through. I allow them to add the barest hint of blush to my cheeks and a pink balm to my lips.

My dress—baby-blue, floor-length with spaghetti straps—was the most conservative option among Kappy's sister's discards, but it still clings to every curve. Next to my friends, however, it's hard to imagine my father complaining: Zoe's dress dips so low in back that she did repeated “bend-over” checks to make sure it didn't reveal the crack of her ass. It came close.

We take a million photos and then the boys swing into Kappy's driveway, just as they did last February. “Damn, Grace,” says Alex. “You look like a model.”

Or a girl who's about to sleep with Ford James.

I had my cooling-off period, as Ford put it, and I haven't changed my mind. Tonight might be my last night out for a while, depending on how things go after I graduate, so this is it. After prom, I'll be attending a party at Matt's house along with most of the senior class—and Ford is sleeping there tonight. I plan to join him there.

When we leave Kappy's, my phone remains behind in her room, just in case my parents check.

Prom is held in a hotel ballroom in Destin. Our heels click, click, click through the lobby alongside dozens of other Penhallow kids, the light from the huge chandelier gleaming off freshly straightened hair, the hotel staff watching us with amused smiles as we pass. I look for Ford when we enter but spy my father first. He glowers but I ignore him; my dress might not be covenant-approved, but we're not in New Hope right now.

Ford is standing near the DJ, watching me, in a rented tux. He gives me a quarter-smile and I return it. I doubt I really needed the blush—I can feel the heat of my cheeks every time I press the back of my hand there.

My friends and I dance and take a million pictures. Whenever the dance floor gets crowded, I move to the middle and Ford finds me. Mostly our backs are to each other, but his hand will find mine or brush my hips.