When she reached their street, Violet stopped and bent over, hands on knees, chest burning, legs rubbery. Her breathing slowed and she resumed her trek home, though slower now. She imagined what her mom might say when she saw the grade on her biology test.

“I knew you could do it.”

“I’m so proud of you.”

“Beauty is one thing, but what you have is better.”

Her heart stuttered a little over that one. Her sister, Trudy, was beautiful, but it wasn’t her fault. She’d been born with the best parts of both their parents, resulting in angelic blonde hair, light blue eyes, perky pink lips, and, even at fourteen, a voluptuous body.

Violet, on the other hand, had gotten the cast-off genes: mud-brown eyes, brown hair that was neither straight nor curly, and a frame that seemed to be more bones than anything else. She was gangly and awkward, while Trudy was a soft cloud, a velvet-petaled rose, a dream.

Violet had her grades, though, and that was the one thing that could catapult her out of this tiny town where nothing ever changed except the Friendly’s Ice Cream girl-of-the-month. Her mom had told her that—quietly, when her father wasn’t around—and now Ms. Cox had said it, too, so it must be true. Violet Figg was going places.

She flung open the front door, not worrying about making too much noise because her dad was eight hours into a long haul to Nebraska and wouldn’t be home for four more days. “Mom?” The word pitched up at the end, coated in excitement. She dropped her bag by the door and ran to the den, then down the carpeted hallway that led to her parents’ bedroom. “Mom! Where are you?”

The air in the house was thick and warm. Stale, as if no one had been there in days, which was crazy since the house had been buzzing with activity just that morning, as Violet spooned Cheerios into her mouth while reading through her biology notes, Trudy ironed her hair in the bathroom at the end of the hall, and her father stood in front of the pantry, complaining that her mom had “forgotten” to buy the six-pack of Michelob he liked to take with him in the truck.

When Violet saw that the back porch was just as empty as the rest of the house, her footsteps slowed. Her mom was always there when the girls got home from school. But today—Violet crossed the kitchen and opened the back door to confirm her suspicion—her mom’s little red Datsun was gone.

She closed the door and pressed her back against it. Cleaning the kitchen was usually Violet’s job. Her mom tried, but most days she ended up back in bed long before she cleaned up from breakfast. Violet didn’t mind. Even as a child, she’d seen the toll it took on her mom to be chained to a hard man like her father. She usually tackled the cleaning after school, before she pulled out her homework or notes to study. Today, though, the kitchen was spotless—the sink empty, the counters wiped clean, the floor sparkling in the afternoon sun.