“There you are!” Her lips tighten and her eyes narrow as she notices my attire. I’m not in the safe navy blue with flutter sleeves, but my own bright-green sundress from Target. Mom and I picked it out on one of our last shopping trips before she got sick. It’s like I’m carrying a piece of her with me, armor for the fray. “Not exactly seasonably or situationally appropriate,” Maura says, “but the color looks gorgeous on you. Let me introduce you to the who’s who of this town, senior edition.”

And she does. Her good friend Elaine Harville, who owns Hotel Seaview. Councilperson Hardy, lumber mill owner and Caleb’s mom. Grabel’s Books owner Jane Aspen. And my friends’ illustrious parents: newspaperwoman Laura Escano, Sheriff Kyle Morrow, Alder University president Lucia Rinaldi, and her wine-baron husband Mark Rinaldi, Mayor Bergen and his wife, Dr. Shelby, and the notable grandparent of the bunch, grocery store and diner owner Frank Quinn. Amber’s mom is absent, and I note there’s no wedding ring on her dad’s finger. Divorced?

I hover near a conversation cluster with the mayor and Maura at the center.

“We don’t allow Natalie to work after school or on weekends,” Mayor Bergen says, his wife nodding along. “Her academics come first. She’s applying Stanford Early Action of course. Her old dad’s alma mater.”

There are murmurs of agreement. Then Bronte’s mom pipes up.

“That’s stunningly classist, Mayor Bergen. Many students don’t have a choice in having to work on top of going to school. Their families either need that extra income to make ends meet, or an after-school job or two is the only way those students can afford extras that your child might take for granted. Yearbook fees, class trip expenses, football dues, or cheerleading boosters. Not to mention saving for college.”

“Ah, yes,” the mayor says. “That is your youngest over there refreshing wineglasses, isn’t it?” I follow the mayor’s head tip over to Gabriel. I realize he’s the waiter I almost talked to moments ago. He hoists a tray of empties onto his shoulder, arm muscles rippling under the weight. I avert my eyes.

The mayor isn’t done. “If some parents can’t afford those necessities, then maybe they should have chosen more lucrative careers.”

It’s brave to insult the woman who runs the local paper. Either he has great faith in her journalistic ethics, or the relationship long ago soured and he doesn’t care.

Maybe it’s a good old-fashioned microaggression. It has not escaped my notice that Mrs. Escano is the only person of color in the room, aside from her son. But she’s no pushover.

“Next thing, you’ll tell me I should have asked my husband not to die, leaving me a single parent. What a failure of bootstrapping.”