Chapter 3

After school, I came home bleeding.

Vivienne was wildly popular. The moment I'd thrown the pen at her, a boy in our class had leapt up and shoved me into a desk. My forehead caught the corner of it, and as I lay there on the floor, I looked up at a room full of faces — cold, amused, utterly indifferent.

From elementary school through high school, I had never had a single friend. Vivienne had seen to that, cheerfully orchestrating my social exile year after year.

I wasn't afraid of being isolated. What I was afraid of was the teacher's demand: a parent had to come to school by Monday.

The boy's parents arrived that same afternoon, all fierce defense and wounded pride.

"My son was standing up for what was right — everyone saw it. She threw the pen first."

"Baby, are you hurt? Let me look at you."

"A girl this unstable shouldn't be allowed in school. Who knows what she'll do next time?"

I stood there with blood drying on my face and thought: if Mom were still here, she'd fight for me like this. She wouldn't do what Father did — check Vivienne's face for scratches while waving me away with a look of disgust.

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