On my way back to the main building, I considered throwing the flower into the grass. I was thinking of Nisha’s face when she saw my assignment, and the way Harriet had dug her nails into my arm. I was thinking of the bright red of the door of the garden shed, which had obviously been freshly painted, days or weeks ago, though the rest of the wood was weathered and gray. It was vulgar, that shining apple red. It was alluring. There was something wrong with me. But in the end, I couldn’t bear to give the flower up. As I approached the lawn, I pressed it for a moment between my palms and slid it into my pocket, so no one would see.

After rota, we had some free time before dinner, which was typically followed by another period of meditation or an evening activity, and then lights-out. When I got back to the lawn that first day, I looked for Harriet and Nisha. Surely they would want a report, I thought, considering, but I couldn’t find them anywhere. They weren’t waiting for me. I sat alone on one of the large white rocks and watched the other girls mill around and sunbathe, talking or reading magazines in the grass. One of them kept taking off her top, exposing her breasts to the sun. Each time, a staffer would hurry over and tell her to cover up, but whenever the staffer looked away, the girl would pull her shirt back over her head. Every time she was chastised, she looked surprised. Her breasts were high and round and lovely, nothing like mine. I could understand why she wanted to show them.

Toward the end of the free period, I saw Janet and Laurel emerge from the woods. Laurel wore a bright pink caftan that floated behind her like a sail as they walked toward the main building. She was tall, but she walked with a slight hunch, a kind of hollowing. Janet stomped by her side in ripped black jeans and a black t-shirt. Serena was not with them.

“They’re so weird,” said someone close by. I didn’t turn my head. “Always skulking around in the woods. Last year they disappeared for like a week. When they finally came back, they were completely covered in these small scratches, and no one said a word. I don’t understand how they get away with it.”

“Laurel’s all right,” said another.

“You’re just saying that because you want to fuck her.”

“Well,” the girl said, and then she made a humming sound, or maybe an eating sound, and the two of them laughed and wandered away, but not before Laurel turned her head and looked right at them—at us—her eyes narrowed, as if, though she was much too far away, she had heard her name, heard herself be desired.