“Let her finish her thought, Lacrishia,” our teacher snaps. Lacrishia, Marcos, and Darcy exchange frightened winces while Drew tsk-tsks his head in the lounge chair, totally unconcerned. I’d like to smash his teeth in for being so blasé, but I can’t look away from Molly, her chest heaving with each breath. Her fury with the program cannot be dampened, not even by her growing realization at how badly she’s stepped out of line.

“I used to fight dogs in my darker days,” Miss Manners says, fiddling with the ruby-encrusted ring on her finger. She spins the gems so they face inward. “A baby pit-terrier couldn’t hurt a lamb. Sweetest puddings on planet Earth. They gotta be taught to attack you or another animal. They must be taught, and it’s best teaching them young.”

Her fingers bend into a fist…

Pins and needles flood my chest as she lunges for Molly. Before anyone can move, Ramona vaults over the coffee table and snares my friend’s cheek between red-painted talons. Frozen solid, Molly can’t make a sound. “I will teach you girls how to be a wife, and I’m gonna teach you young.” When Miss Manners finally releases Molly’s cheek, her claws leave behind a long, crimson gash. “Your lesbian trouble…is not knowing when you’re wrong.”

“You cut my face,” Molly says, slapping a hand to her wound.

“Say you were wrong.”

“You’re craz—”

“You were wrong. Say it.”

No one moves as Ramona stalks away, past the coffee table, her sinewy arms tensing with barely caged rage. Her gnarled fists open and close, as if calculating who to snatch next. I’m trapped in this lounge chair, my feet filled with numbing concrete.

GET. UP. CONNOR.

At last, she closes her claws around a potted ficus and with one single grunt, yanks the plant out at the root, cascading soil across the floor. Blood returns to my legs, and I beeline out of my chair toward Molly, where the other campers are rapidly congregating away from our wild teacher. Drew presses himself flat to the wall, while Marcos and Lacrishia hold their arms over their heads like threatened armadillos.

“You okay?” I ask Molly, but her eyes stare past me, transfixed by our teacher.

Miss Manners drags the small tree across the rug—its dirt-caked base crumbling as she swishes it around like a filthy broom. This bizarre act is performed casually, purposefully, like she suddenly remembered that she’d been meaning to take care of this all day. A second later, apparently satisfied, she drops the tree, and hope seeps back into the room that the storm might be over. After a clarifying moment, Miss Manners walks to us calmly.

“Don’t,” I say, but she pushes past me to Molly.