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Amber, who had been flagrantly painting her nails, looked up from her makeshift manicure and held the tiny wand in midair. “Huh?”

“I’d like your thoughts on
The Scarlet Letter,
” he said. “Or Hester and Dimmesdale. Or anything non-manicure-related, perhaps.”

The class giggled, and Amber squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. “The book is so long,” she said. “And Hawthorne’s writing is, like, so wordy. I don’t mean to be rude, but it kind of seemed like a cheesy soap opera.”

“You know, Amber,” Gallagher said, “many critics agree with you, saying the book is no better than a Harlequin romance. But it deals with sexuality and sin in a way that was shocking to its nineteenth-century audience, and even to some modern ones. In fact, the book has been banned from school reading lists all over the country for being pornographic and obscene even though there’s no actual sex in it.”

“Too bad,” Amber said under her breath, provoking more laughter, especially from Chelsea, who seemed programmed to admire everything Amber did. I caught sight of Jess Barrister glaring at Amber with what seemed like a fierce hatred. The chilling stare was nothing new, but the object of Jess’s scorn was unexpected. I wondered if there had been trouble in Mean Girl Paradise.

Mr. Gallagher ran a hand through his thatch of dark hair, clearly disappointed by our lack of insight and enthusiasm. “Do Hester and Dimmesdale deserve the horrible fate that befalls them?”

“Well, what actually happens to them?” Amber said. “I mean, Hester has to wear a big letter
A
on her dress. Big deal. It doesn’t seem all that tragic to me.”

“Then you obviously haven’t finished the book,” Michelle said.

Amber and Chelsea turned around to give Michelle a brutal stare-down. “Michelle’s right,” Gallagher said. “The story gets more complex from here, and yet I think Hawthorne’s point has less to do with the outward punishments people endure for their mistakes than with the inward burdens they carry. The scarlet letter becomes so much a part of Hester that even when she removes it, she can still feel its weight on her breast.”

A few girls actually giggled when he said
breast
. It was going to be a long year.

Gallagher continued, undeterred. “So Hester is banished to the wilderness. Why is this important?”

The class stirred in their seats. Much as I hadn’t enjoyed the book, I did think it explored some interesting themes. Fed up with our class’s apathy, I decided to raise my hand. “The wilderness was associated with dark forces,” I said. “The Puritans believed the devil lurked in the woods and that he tried to claim people’s souls by making them sign his book. A mythology developed around these fears, and that’s why it’s significant that Hester is banished to the wilderness. She becomes the living embodiment of the dangers inherent when an individual breaks away from society’s rules and expectations.”

“Excellent,” Gallagher said. “Yes, that’s it exactly.”

Elise turned and glowered at me.

The bell rang abruptly, and we all began frantically gathering our books, keenly aware that our lunch break was just moments away. “Before you run out on me,” Gallagher said, raising his voice over the din, “auditions for
The Crucible
will be held next Monday at three-thirty in the assembly room of the Commons Building. The auditions are open, which means I’ve posted them at neighboring schools so we can solicit some young men to audition. If you know of anyone who might like to try out, please spread the word. I don’t want a repeat of 2008 when we had to do a production of
Twelve Angry Women
.”

A few of us laughed, but most of the girls were already out in the hallway. I followed the crowd and waited while Michelle picked up a script from Gallagher’s desk. Then we walked to the dining hall, making a beeline for the salad bar and grabbing a table by the windows where no one would bother us.

“So, you’re thinking of trying out for
The Crucible
?” I said.

“Yeah,” Michelle said. “I’ve always wanted to try acting. I think I might be good at it. What about you? You going to try out?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’ve really got to focus on academics this year. Money’s been tight, and my dad’s counting on me to get a scholarship. We can’t all be naturally brilliant like you.”

“Ha,” Michelle said. But she was being modest. Michelle was a math and science whiz, and I had no doubt she’d get a full ride to MIT. “Extracurriculars look good for scholarships, too,” she said. “That’s why I’m thinking of joining drama club. No one’s going to give me a scholarship for horseback riding.”

“Are you going to ride this year?” I said.

Michelle stared down at the condensation pooling around her soda. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Really?” Last year, riding had been Michelle’s life. She had competed in the regional equestrian championship, coming in first place and beating out Elise. I couldn’t believe she was thinking of giving it up, just like that.

She shrugged. “I already proved my point. I’m not going to give Elise a chance to beat me.”

“Does Elise seem different to you this year?”

“Maybe a little,” Michelle said.

“And how about Jess? Did you see her?”

“Jess Barrister?”

“Yeah. I almost didn’t recognize her. She went from glam to goth in one summer.”

“I know. But Amber’s still in usual form,” she said.

“Amber’s an idiot. But I have to admit, I’m with her on
The Scarlet Letter
.”

“You don’t like it?”

“No, not really. It’s a good story, but I don’t like the characters. Chillingworth is vile. Pearl is freaky. And Dimmesdale is so weak. It drives me crazy that he just stands there on the scaffold and lets Hester take all the blame.”

“But he’s a minister. He would lose everything if he came forward. He wants to, but he knows he can’t, and that’s the tragedy of it.”

“I guess.”

“What about Hester?” she said. “You have to like Hester.”

“I do, but I can’t really relate to her. She’s such a strong woman, but she frustrates me. I want her to shout, ‘Hey, everyone, Dimmesdale is Pearl’s father! Now can you all please get a life so I can go back to living mine?’ I want her to ditch the preacher and leave that horrible, narrow-minded town for good.”

“Now you see why I can relate?” Michelle said, and I laughed. “Hester’s my girl.”

After lunch, we went our separate ways, Michelle to AP Chemistry and me to French. One of the many mysteries of being in a coma last year was that I’d emerged from it almost entirely fluent in French, allowing me to bypass French III and go straight into French IV.

For our first class, Madame Favier told us to get into pairs to translate some Victor Hugo poems in preparation for reading
The Hunchback of Notre-Dame
. After everyone else had chosen partners, I was left with Jess Barrister by default.

“Hey,” I said, opening our introductory proceedings with a bang. “You want to work together?”

“Fine,” she said, her eyes fierce beneath layers of kohl eyeliner.

The first poem we had to translate was called “Demain, dès l’aube” or “Tomorrow, at Dawn,” which Hugo had written after visiting the grave of his daughter, who had drowned in the Seine, pulled down by her own heavy skirts. I was translating the poem in my head when suddenly my throat constricted and my skin broke out in a sweat.

“Emma, ça va?” Madame Favier said, stopping by my desk.

“Oui, mais . . .” I was either going to faint or be sick. I lurched out of my seat and ran into the hallway, grabbing the wall to steady myself. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe.

Come on, Emma. Pull yourself together
.

I stumbled down the hallway toward the bathroom, but the walls seemed to be closing in on me. I felt like I was slipping down a slope instead of walking. Finally I reached the bathroom and locked myself in a stall, sitting on the toilet and pressing my hands to my temples. Sweat prickled along my neck. It was bad enough that I constantly had nightmares about my mother’s suicide. Now I had to relive it during my waking hours, too?

Feeling my heart rate slowly return to normal, I went to the sink and splashed some water on my face, catching sight of myself in the mirror. With each passing year, I looked more and more like my mother. Everyone said so. It was the reason my dad couldn’t look at me sometimes. He couldn’t help but see her, and in turn, see all the pain and anguish she’d caused him.

I splashed some more water on my face and opened my eyes. Through wet eyelashes, I saw my reflection ripple and change, so I was suddenly looking at myself as a little girl, the same little girl who had witnessed her mother walking into the ocean. The image only lasted a fraction of a second, but I staggered backward, feeling dizzy.

The next thing I remember was waking up with Jess Barrister’s face above mine.

“Emma? Are you okay?” she said.

I shifted my head and saw baby blue tiles, metal pipes, the bottom of a porcelain sink. I was on the bathroom floor. “What are you doing here?” I said.

“You were gone a long time, and Madame asked me to check on you. Are you all right?”

I tried to sit up, feeling a wave of vertigo. “I’m okay. Just a little light-headed.”

She rummaged around for something in her bag, then pulled out a piece of candy. “Jolly Rancher?”

It was an unexpected gesture coming from her, almost like a peace offering. I unwrapped the candy and popped it into my mouth, relishing the burst of sour apple on my tongue. The sugar gave me enough strength to stand and walk back to class with Jess’s assistance. Madame asked if I was okay, and I assured her I was fine. But I felt shaky and faint for the rest of the period.

PE was the last class of the day, but Madame Favier wrote me a note excusing me. As I walked back to my room, I clutched my mother’s dragonfly necklace, the only physical connection I still had to her. But it didn’t provide the comfort it once had.

I wished I could talk to someone, my father especially. But he’d only worry about me. Or worse, make an appointment with the psychiatrist.

Gray would talk me through it, reassure me that I wasn’t crazy. Automatically, I pulled out my cell phone, looking down at it like a drug addict staring at a fix. How had I forgotten? Gray was gone, and I couldn’t talk to him for eight weeks.

Even though I knew it was pathetic, I dialed his number anyway and waited for his voice mail to pick up.

“Hey, this is Gray. Leave a message.”

I waited for the beep and sat with the phone to my ear, wanting to say something just to feel like he was near. Feeling foolish, I tossed my phone on the bed and ripped a piece of paper from my notebook to write him a letter. I tried to tell him what had happened, but all that came out were mundane details about the first day of school—nothing real. I ended the letter with the most trite phrase of all:
I miss you
. It wasn’t nearly enough to convey the hollow place his absence had left me with.

C
HAPTER
3

T
he following Monday, Michelle convinced me to come with her to play auditions. We took the walking path to Old Campus, where the library, chapel, and Commons Building stood—all so strange to me now. It was here that I’d slipped into the fantasy world of
Jane Eyre
last year, where my brain had transformed our campus into the nineteenth-century estate of Thornfield. The giant oak tree in front of the Commons had been struck by lightning and was now split in two, twin branches struggling to grow in different directions from a burnt and scarred trunk. I wondered if the split would eventually kill it.

We entered the assembly room to see clusters of girls standing around reciting lines. Michelle froze, and I turned to see what had shaken her. Even with her back to us, there was no mistaking that enviable body and that perfect braid of hair, like a skein of corn silk down her back.

“God hates me,” Michelle said.

“I thought you didn’t believe in God,” I said.

“That’s why he hates me.”

“Maybe she won’t get a part,” I said, but Michelle knew I was just trying to make her feel better. If experience had taught us anything, it was that Elise Fairchild always got what she wanted.

Michelle sighed and uncrumpled her script, looking nervous. “I’m going to run my lines one more time,” she said irritably, crossing the room to rehearse in the corner.

I stood there aimlessly, my eyes falling on a guy sitting in front of an enormous sound system. He was pale with high cheekbones and almost black hair that hung over his eyes. Another guy came up behind him, and I smiled when I saw it was Owen. I felt a pang of guilt as I remembered what Michelle had told me. How could I look him in the eye and not say anything?

When Owen saw me, he jogged over and hugged me in that oddly formal way he did whenever Gray or Michelle were around. I understood why, but I wanted a real hug. When Owen hugged with abandon, there was nothing like it.

“I didn’t know you were trying out!” he said.

“I’m not. I’m here for Michelle. Moral support. What about you?”

“Michelle told me they were desperate for guys, so I thought I might give it a try. How are you? I didn’t see you much this summer.”

“Yeah, well . . . you know.”

“Yes, I know. You and Gray were attached at the hip.”

“Like you can talk,” I said, gesturing toward Michelle.

“Actually Michelle was busy with classes, and I spent a lot of time with the band, so we didn’t see each other as much as I would have liked,” he said. I willed my face to remain impassive. “Hey, speaking of the band, I want you to meet our lead singer.”

He grabbed my hand and dragged me to the sound system, where the pale guy turned around and flipped the hair off his forehead, revealing piercing blue eyes lined in black eyeliner. I had actually met him once before, last year at the Braeburn bonfire. Up close, he was strikingly good-looking—almost pretty—but he seemed like he was trying his hardest to hide the fact.

“Emma, this is Flynn Markham. Flynn, this is my good friend, Emma Townsend.” I extended my hand, and Flynn raised his absently. “Flynn’s doing the music for the play,” Owen said.