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“Dad, I don’t know. I’m seventeen. That’s why I’m going to Paris next year,” I said. “I want to figure it all out.”

His face collapsed at this reminder that I might be leaving. We’d shared such a nice day, and I didn’t want to ruin it, but I also didn’t want to hear another lecture on responsibility. “You don’t want me to go?” I said.

“No, that’s not it,” he said. “If you really want to, then I’ll support you.”

“I really do,” I said.

“There’s no doubt I’d miss you. I mean, I know you’re away at school now, but the thought of you all the way across the Atlantic—it terrifies me. It’s hard for me to admit you’re growing up, that you might really leave me for good someday, and not just for Paris.”

“Dad, you know I’ll always come back.”

But when I looked at his face, I could tell what he was thinking. People didn’t always come back.

“You know,” he said, “I was always so scared of you inheriting your mother’s disease. I think I thought that if I kept you home all the time, I could somehow keep you safe. But look at you. You’re all grown up, driving my car. You’re visiting colleges and making plans to go to Paris on your own. I never would have had the courage to do that when I was your age. In fact, the farthest I’ve ever strayed from home is Georges Bank during fishing season.”

“That’s why you’re going to come visit me in Paris,” I said.

He smiled. “You’re so much like your mother. And not just your looks—I know you’re tired of hearing that, even though she was beautiful. But she was beautiful inside as well. You inherited her strength and passion, her kind and generous spirit. She’d be so proud of you right now.” I was trying to remain stoic and not cry. “I’m proud of you, too. And I know you won’t need it next year because you’re going to be in Paris”—he rolled his eyes—“but I want you to take the Volvo back to school with you.”

“Really?” I said. “But what are you going to drive?”

“Jim Deikman’s giving me his old Ford. A truck’s better for deliveries anyway. The station wagon just holds all the smells. As you’re well aware.”

“Dad, I don’t care about the smell,” I said. “Thank you. This is amazing!”

As a way of thanking my dad for being so understanding, I offered to cook everyone a French dinner. Not being the world’s best chef, I made quiche and a Niçoise salad, and Barbara picked up a chocolate mousse cake at the bakery for dessert.

On Sunday, we all went to Easter services together. I hadn’t been to church since Christmas, and I felt a little guilty about it. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in God, more that I questioned what kind of God he was. Anyone who’s lost a parent must go through this crisis of faith, asking,
How could a merciful God take my mother away?

Michelle and I had talked about this last year, since she’d lost her mother, too. Michelle claimed to be an atheist, with science her only religion. She often scoffed at Darlene’s voodoo beliefs, but deep down, I think Michelle had some faith of her own, even if it didn’t conform to any church or institution’s view of the cosmos.

I wasn’t quite sure what I believed. I was still working it all out. It had been a long time since I’d prayed, but church seemed as good a place as any to try. So I closed my eyes and asked for guidance, for someone to show me the way through these next few harrowing months at school.

There was no greater feeling than driving back to school myself on Monday, cruising along those winding roads with the windows down, the sun streaming in, and Arcade Fire blasting from the radio.

Michelle couldn’t believe it when I brought her to the parking lot to show her my new wheels. Later that night hanging out in our room, I told her about my spring break—the college visits and my dad’s support of me going to Paris. Then she told me some revelations of her own. Over spring break, she had told Darlene about her relationship with Jess.

“It was so funny watching her face,” Michelle said. “At first, she thought I was going to tell her I was pregnant.” I put a hand over my mouth and tried not to laugh. “But when I told her, she was so cool about it. She got all serious and sat me down and said”—Michelle went into her best Darlene impression—“ ‘Baby child, love is love. And hurt is hurt. It makes no difference to me who you give your heart to, girl or boy, so long as they give it back to you.’ ”

“Darlene said that?”

“Yeah. She told me the most important thing in life is to be happy. And I haven’t been very happy lately.”

“I can’t disagree with you there,” I said. “So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Darlene helped me open the door a little. I’m not ready to burst through it, guns blazing, but I might be ready to take a look and see what’s on the other side.”

She gave a shy smile, one full of tempered excitement and hope.

It was a beginning.

C
HAPTER
21

I
n Biology, Ms. Brewster told us we were starting our final and most dreaded lab of the year: the cat dissection. Amber and Chelsea had opted out of the dissection due to “ethical reasons” and were doing a related research project at the library instead. It was nice having at least one period of the day that was cruelty-free.

“I’m afraid we don’t have enough cats for each set of lab partners,” Ms. Brewster said, “so you’re going to have to pair up with another group. Just join the people at the lab table next to yours.”

Jess and I watched as pairs made alliances, leaving us to partner with . . . who else? Michelle and Elise. Jess looked annoyed and defensive, and Michelle looked cagey and uncomfortable. A noxious odor pervaded the classroom as we all released our formaldehyde-soaked felines from their bags and laid them in their trays. Even though it was pretty lame of Chelsea and Amber to wimp out on the lab, I had to admit it was pretty gruesome to stare down at a dead, wet cat that seemed to be baring his teeth at us.

“Is it bad luck to skin a black cat?” Elise said.

“Only if it gets up out of the tray and crosses your path,” I said.

Elise gave me a look of mock amusement, then said, “Who wants to take the first slice?”

All of us were silent.

“I’ll do it.” We looked up, startled that Michelle had spoken. She was staring down at the lab instructions with this very intense expression on her face. “Scalpel, please,” she said, holding her hand out like a surgeon.

“Yes, Doctor, right away,” joked Elise, handing Michelle the scalpel.

Tensions were running high, but Michelle calmly turned the cat over onto its stomach and made a one-inch incision in its neck.

“You’re supposed to switch to scissors now,” Jess said, reading the instructions.

“I know,” Michelle said irritably.

“Okay, okay,” Jess said, “I didn’t realize you already had them memorized.”

Elise and I raised an eyebrow at each other, and then Elise passed Michelle the scissors.

“That’s a fine incision there, Michelle,” Elise said. “Isn’t that a fine incision, Jess?”

“It’s just lovely,” Jess said. “Perfection itself.”

I glanced at Michelle, whose mouth was curling up ever so slightly. Once she had reached the tail, Jess told her to stop cutting.

“What?” Michelle said.

“It clearly states that the skin should not be removed from the anus,” Jess said. “I bet you didn’t know that.”

Michelle looked straight at Jess, and with a deadpan expression, said, “I wouldn’t touch this cat’s anus with a ten-foot pole.”

Elise and I couldn’t help but giggle, and once we’d started, it grew contagious. Now Jess was laughing, too, but Michelle was doing her best to play it straight. She continued cutting the skin on all four legs down to the ankles. “Okay,” Michelle said. “Now you’ve all got to help me pull off the skin.”

Jess continued reading the instructions, which advised us to grasp a section of skin and pull it slowly away from the muscle, using our fingers to break through connective tissue fibers and cutaneous nerves. “This is so gross,” Elise said as she peeled off a layer.

The poor cat lay there prostate and half-naked until we turned him over and peeled the skin off the other side. Jess continued reading. “Now inspect your skinned cat, being sure to remove as much fat as possible from the muscles to facilitate identification.”

“That is one ugly cat,” Elise said.

“You’d be pretty ugly without skin too,” I said.

Jess laughed under her breath. “Okay, now we’re supposed to wrap the cat back up in its skin to help keep the muscles preserved.”

“Oh, nasty,” Elise said.

We put the skin back on the cat like a coat and placed him faceup in the pan. With those little fangs protruding and the black skin hanging off him like a cape, he looked like a tiny vampire.

“Let’s call him Edward,” Elise said.

This time, even Michelle laughed. By the time class was over, we were all punchy on fumes, making sick dead cat jokes. Unwittingly, poor Edward had brought us all together.

Amber and Chelsea were on their best behavior in History and English, probably because Overbrook and Gallagher had gone into high gear to try to finish the curricula in time for the AP exams in mid-May. It was nice for the four of us—Jess, Michelle, Elise, and me—to be able to walk to the dining hall together without worrying about high school politics for once.

When we walked in, a few senior girls from student council were sitting at a long table by the entrance selling prom tickets. Since Lockwood was such a small school, junior and senior proms were combined so the school had justification to rent out a fancy country club for the night. This year’s theme, painted on a banner that hung above the table, was “Star-Crossed Lovers.”

“Oh God, is it that time of year already?” Elise asked.

“Unfortunately,” I said.

Michelle scoffed in that aloof way that only made it more apparent how much she wanted to go. “The prom was created as an excuse for a bunch of debutantes to march around a room flaunting their assets so some rich guys might agree to marry them. It’s antifeminist and elitist.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” I said. “I mean, we could subvert the system. Wear Converse with our cocktail dresses.”

“Listen to you, Miss Rebel,” Michelle said.

Then Jess shocked us all into silence, saying, “I think we should go.”

That’s when we heard Amber clear her throat behind us. “You can’t be serious, Jess.” Chelsea stood by her side, laughing nervously. “I’m not paying two hundred dollars for a lobster dinner only to hurl it all up on prom night when I see two girls dancing together.”

“Oh, like it would be your money anyway,” Elise said.

“Besides, what difference could it possibly make to you who dances with who?” I said.

“It’s disgusting,” Amber said.

“Why is it disgusting?” Jess said.

“Yes, what exactly is disgusting about it?” Michelle added.

Amber made an exaggerated gagging noise. “If I have to explain it to you, then you must be a lesbian yourself.”

Michelle stiffened for a moment. Then she said, “So what if I am?”

We all turned to look at Michelle. “Then it would explain your terrible fashion sense,” Amber said.

Michelle didn’t back down. “See, I can buy new clothes,” she said. “But you can’t buy yourself a new personality. You can’t buy intelligence or integrity. And you can’t buy your friendships back once you’ve lost them.” I was beginning to think this seemingly spontaneous speech had been months in the making.

Amber looked offended. “You’ll never have enough money to buy your way into being cool.”

“No,” Michelle said. “But I have enough money to buy a prom ticket.” She got her wallet out of her purse and began pulling out twenties.

“You can’t just buy a ticket,” Amber said. “The theme is star-crossed lovers. You need to go with a date.”

The senior at the table nodded and said, “She’s right. It’s a couples dance. You need to enter which star-crossed couple you’re coming as so we don’t get three dozen Romeo and Juliets.”

“See?” Amber said.

But then the senior added, “There’s nothing that says the couple can’t be two girls.” And she gave Amber a victorious smirk.

Michelle started laughing, then she looked at Jess, her face utterly resolute. “Jess, do you want to go? Together?”

Jess looked at the ground, suddenly shy. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I am.”

Jess smiled and blushed. “I’d love to.”

“Oh, gag,” Amber said.

But Elise and I couldn’t stop smiling.

Elise turned to me and said, “Emma, as much as I want to make a statement in front of these morons, I can’t go to the prom with you.”

I laughed. “For once in my life, Elise, I’m in complete agreement with you.”

Jess and Michelle began brainstorming about which couple they would go as. “Oh, this is too much,” Amber said. “We’ll see what Overbrook has to say about this. We’re already working on getting him to ban lesbians from taking gym class with us. I’m sure he would do the same for prom.” Then she blinked three times with those chemically enhanced eyelashes and walked away, tugging Chelsea behind her.

My stomach clenched at the thought of Overbrook getting involved. Elise felt pretty confident that even Overbrook wouldn’t go so far as to ban Jess and Michelle from the prom. But I wasn’t so sure. Michelle and I didn’t have a great track record when it came to him. The thought of him interfering with prom put a damper on our enthusiasm, and we left the dining hall without buying any tickets.

The next day, the news about Michelle and Jess going to prom together was all over campus. By week’s end, Amber and Chelsea were perpetuating the rumor that Overbrook was indeed planning to put the ban into effect. The four of us decided to meet in the lounge after school to come up with a game plan.

“I can’t believe the bastard went through with it,” Jess said.

“I know why,” Elise said. “A few influential students got their mommies and daddies involved. Some have threatened to pull their daughters from Lockwood if the ban isn’t put in place.”

“But it’s discrimination,” I said.

Elise nodded. “My dad told me that since this is a private school, Overbrook can do whatever he likes. A private school doesn’t have to obey the state’s antidiscrimination laws.”