“I didn’t tell them anything,” she said. “I’m still trying to get my head around the idea that my daughter is failing in school.”

“How did this foolish notion come about?”

“Let’s have Julie explain,” Camille suggested.

Julie arrived a few minutes later, practically crashing her bike on the walkway in front of her grandfather’s house. “Papi,” she called, then apparently read the expression on Camille’s face. “So, she’s telling you about my terrible day.”

“In fact, I was suggesting that you tell Papi yourself. Because I certainly can’t explain it.”

Julie sighed. “It was during morning soccer. Jana Jacobs was being rude, so I drop-kicked her fancy purse. I didn’t think it would get ruined. It probably isn’t. She just wanted to get me in trouble.”

“Do you know what it feels like to get a call from school saying my daughter is behaving like a vandal?” Camille asked in frustration.

“Actually, I don’t,” Julie said sullenly. “I’m sorry. I said I was sorry to Jana. I’m going to work at Grammy’s shop until I earn enough to replace it. I don’t know what else to do.”

“Mon dieu, why would you do such a thing?” Henry demanded.

She hesitated. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I challenge you. Make me understand.”

“I’m a loser,” Julie said, her eyes narrowing in anger. “A big fat loser with four eyes and headgear. That’s all anybody sees when they look at me.”

Henry regarded her with a steel-steady stare. “How long has this bullying been going on?”

Julie stared back at him. “I don’t know that word—rudoyer.”

Camille switched to speaking English. “It means ‘bullying.’ But who said anything about bullying?”

“No one,” her father replied. “But I know what bullying is like, and I can see that this has happened to Julie.”

“You mean Julie’s a bully?”

“I mean she’s being bullied.”

“Is this true?” Camille demanded, turning to her daughter. Julie had never complained, had never mentioned being pushed around. If someone was harassing her, she would have spoken up. Wouldn’t she?

Camille felt a flicker of doubt. “How can this be true?”

“It’s not true,” Julie said, her gaze shifting away. “Papi, that’s ridiculous.” Her cheeks turned an angry red.

Camille felt a cold prickle of dread. It was the gut sense she sometimes felt when she knew her daughter wasn’t telling her everything. “Julie—”

“Papi doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I don’t want to discuss it, okay?” Julie lashed back.

Now Camille was worried. Why was Julie suddenly a pariah? She could no longer ignore the fact that Julie’s year had not gone well, but she had attributed it to the normal bumpy ride of adolescence. In the past, Julie had had plenty of friends. She was invited places—to birthdays, playdates, bike rides. Lately, the invitations had dwindled. When Camille would suggest calling someone, having a sleepover, going up to Rehoboth for the rides and games at Funland, Julie would decline, swiftly and unequivocally. These were symptoms, Camille realized. Dear God, how had she missed them? Why hadn’t she realized? She thought she knew everything about her daughter, but now it seemed she had a giant blind spot.