Charlotte had believed Mayor Reed about the reimbursements back then, but now Christmas was a few weeks away and Rosie’s family still hadn’t gotten their money back. But maybe it was just taking longer than they thought. “You just don’t get it,” Rosie had said, and Charlotte had stormed home and collapsed in a crying heap on her bed. At her age, Charlotte’s most important needs were having friends and fitting in, and if you weren’t a four-flusher, you had to work a little harder to get there.

Charlotte had recently been granted the honor of joining the Girls Athletic Association, which was a big deal for a sophomore; only four had achieved it this year. To qualify for the GAA you had to earn an established number of points by participating in extracurricular activities, and Charlotte had gone over-and-above to do it. Field hockey, swimming, softball, basketball, bowling. She was exhausted and extremely proud of herself. The successful members were announced over the school’s PA system by Miss Vickers, the gym teacher, and the smile that had cracked wide open across Charlotte’s face had remained plastered there until she’d walked through the front door of her house.

“So, you’re a joiner now, are you?” her mother had asked in the same tone of voice usually reserved for mocking the four-flushers, her hand fluttering to her heart.

Her dad had squeezed her shoulder affectionately, then ruffled her hair with a “Good for you, Lottie. Good for you.”

The GAA membership involved an initiation. One week where the girls had to do embarrassing things: approach boys in the hallway and sing songs to them, perform an Irish jig in front of a class, that sort of thing. During initiation week they couldn’t wear makeup to school. They had to wear crazy outfits: mismatched socks, plaids with stripes and florals, with crazy hairdos to match.

Charlotte’s mother had dropped her spatula on the kitchen floor at the sight of her daughter, crinolines worn over a plaid pencil skirt sticking out from her winter coat, pigtails sprouting all over one side of her head while the other side lay limp and un-hair-sprayed, and a face with no makeup, about to leave the house.

“Charlotte, get back in here right now.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes, but obediently stepped back inside the house and went to the kitchen.

“Where do you think you’re going, dressed like that?” Her mother was aghast as her gaze roved over the hairdo and the clothing.

“It’s part of the initiation.”

“You’re not leaving the house dressed like that.”

Normally Charlotte would have agreed with her. She looked like she was dressed up for Halloween, and a small part of her wanted to skip the whole thing and stay home. But there was a stronger feeling, one of pride pushing her in the other direction.

“I have to,” she countered. “It’s not optional.”

“Ohhh.” Her mother’s tone turned mocking. “It’s not optional. Optional? What it is, Charlotte, is ridiculous, and you’re not going anywhere in public looking like that!”