“I miss you,” he says. “I can’t wait to see you.”

His words ignite a rush of passion in me, an emotion as strong and fresh as the first time I felt it. “Same here,” I say, smiling.

* * *

Carrying a thick manila envelope, Molly comes out of the dorm, talking to a woman with a clipboard. The woman is about my age, early forties, but she wears her hair in a sleekly careless ponytail and sports an ethnic-print skirt, a trendy blouse and a tooled silver thumb ring. Molly looks enchanted with her.

Acutely aware of my lap-creased jeans and the mustard stain on my sweatshirt, I chastise myself again for not wearing a selection from my new clothes. Then I put on my best smile, walk over to the sandstone steps and introduce myself.

“Linda,” the woman says. “I’m Ceci Gamble. The residential facilitator.” She has a slightly nasal voice and a distinctive, East Coast boarding-school accent.

The theme music of the Wicked Witch of the West buzzes in my head. Who is this exotic new mentor, poised to supplant me? “Nice to meet you. So is Molly all set to move in?”

“Absolutely. Everything’s in the information packet. Let me know if you need anything, anything at all.”

I smile in gratitude, quashing the sudden resentment, but Ceci Gamble is already turning away, her glossy ponytail flying. She greets another mother who is busy unloading a Mercedes station wagon with a Choate sticker on the back. They crow at each other, embrace, old chums from prep school or the country club. Girls stream past in groups, all talking, the autumn sun strong on their silky, straight hair as they mount the stairs to the freshman dorm.

For a fraction of a second, Molly looks uncertain, her full lower lip soft and vulnerable. She scrunches a hand into her hair. The beautiful corkscrew curls have been the bane of her existence for years, no matter how much her friends claim to covet them. She wishes for straight hair. Prep school hair. East Coast hair.

She’s the outsider here, after fitting in so comfortably in high school, playing varsity sports, winning music competitions, laughing on the phone, never at a loss for a friend or a date. She looks lost in the moment now, uncertain. Hesitation is written in her stance, though I’m the only one who can see it. I see the tiny girl afraid to take off her training wheels, jump into a pool, recite a poem for the class, endure her first piano recital, taste an oyster for the first time.