“Serena,” says Rack, “for someone who’s so smart—”

“Don’t say it,” says Grimshaw.

Angel finishes Rack’s sentence. “You sure are—”

“I said don’t say it,” Grimshaw says again.

“Well, I’m not rich,” I say again. “The more land Scot buys, the poorer we get. Anyway, I always thought Rack was rich.”

“Us, rich?” Rack hoots. “You know how my dad says grace every night? He thanks the bank for letting us eat one more meal.”

“Here’s how I figure it,” says Grimshaw. “The class system is mostly about people pretending to be what they’re not. Rich people pretend that they’re normal, normal people pretend that they’re rich, and poor people … just give up. They might be the only honest ones.”

I stare at her. I never knew she had opinions about this stuff. “So what’s the answer, then?” I ask her.

“There isn’t one.” She stands up on the Helmers and starts stretching. “We should go soon,” she says. “Or we’ll be late.”

“Well,” Rack proclaims, “my dad is definitely—what did you call it again?”

“Upwardly mobile.”

“Right. In a big way.” Rack knows all about it. “He grew up in a shack. He had ringworm, and nobody would talk to him. It makes your hair fall out in patches. They had a game they played, like cooties. Somebody would shove somebody against him, and then that kid would have to touch somebody else to get rid of it.” He spent his childhood chasing other kids on the playground and having them scream and run away from him. She tells us her dad worked on their farm, married her mom, and inherited the farm when it was about a tenth the size it is now and mortgaged to the hilt.

“It’s still mortgaged to the hilt,” comments Angel.

“I know”—Rack laughs—“but now it’s, like, mortgaged on a higher plane.” She doesn’t know anything about previous generations of her family and doesn’t care. The future is what counts, not the past. Angel doesn’t care, either. Ditto for Grimshaw. So that’s a start.