“Oh?” I leaned forward, reaching for my notebook, momentarily creating a crevice between my breasts and shirt. My English teacher glanced down into the space, quickly raising his eyes to meet mine as he became aware of where he was looking. “I want you to write ‘language’ ten times for me.”

I leaned back slightly. “Now?”

Flipping to a blank page, he slid it toward me. “Yes, now.”

I picked up a pencil. Pressing the tip onto the paper, I wrote in cursive:

Language

Language

Language

Language

Language

Language

Language

Language

Language

Language

“Good work,” he said, examining the words. “Now you’ll never misspell it again.”

I nodded.

“You know that you’re very talented, don’t you, Grace?”

“You think so?” I tugged at my blouse.

“I do.” Leaning forward, he placed his hand on my knee. “You’re going to be very successful.”

I shot up abruptly, my chair sliding backwards.

“Thank you.” I fumbled for my book. “I should go.”

My English teacher lowered his gaze, straightening a pen on his desk so it was perpendicular to the stack of paper. “Okay, keep up the great work. Will I see you at practice this weekend?”

“Of course.” I was halfway gone. “See you.”

My eyes burned as I exited the classroom, a sob welling like a wave retreating, preparing to crash forward. Hurrying down the empty corridor, I accidentally passed my locker; turning around, I fumbled with the lock before pulling out my bookbag. I tore through my notebook, locating the page lined with language—I ripped it from the coil and crumpled it before stuffing my notebook into my bag. I swung it onto my back, buttoned my shirt all the way up to my neck, and tossed the ball of paper into a trashcan.

Chapter 39

“What do you do, Grace?” an overweight man in an ill-fitting striped button-up asked. Pockets of fat peeked through the gaping holes along the button line. He stuffed a triangular sandwich into his mouth and spit crumbs in my direction as he spoke.

I glanced to the door as a woman with intricately lined eyes and a sharp bobbed haircut entered. We were at the home of one of Jack’s colleagues for the annual party hosted by the Arts Bureau that aimed to connect artists with philanthropists. I always dreaded these events. They were filled with self-important people bragging about their menial accomplishments, sucking up to rich people, blabbering about why their particular type of genius was deserving of funding. It made me feel like a whore.

Jack said it was important we attend because he needed their money. He called them funders. I called them fuckers.

“It’s all part of the show, babe,” Jack reminded me before we went in. He lit a joint, took a puff, and handed it to me. “You need to play the part if you want the life.”

I remembered when I was a child, and William and I would venture through the stream up the road from our home. Making our way to the top, hopping from rock to rock with soaking wet feet, we would sit there for hours listening to the water gush, splashing on the rocks, shrieking with laughter.