I know what her school is up to. I know, because the counter on her thin wrist says the number 3.

My daughter has been silent all day.

Chapter Twenty

TWENTY

I was right; it is a contest.

The letter Patrick opens and reads to me announces with great pleasure the launch of a monthly competition for all students enrolled at PGS 523—the PGS stands for Pure Girls’ School. Obviously, the boys attend PBS, Steven at the high school, Sam and Leo in another for grades five through eight. They don’t divide the girls this way, possibly as a method of fulfilling yet another pledge from the manifesto—that older women provide teaching and training to younger women—possibly because they don’t want to double up on the number of digital sewing machines and garden equipment.

“They’re doing daily contests first,” Patrick says, settling onto the barstool across from me after grabbing a beer from the fridge. It’s early for him, but I don’t say anything. “Ice cream for the girl in each grade with the lowest”—he takes a rather large swig from the bottle—“with the lowest number on her counter.”

So it was exactly as I expected.

He continues. “At the end of the month, they’ll tally all the counts, and—”

“Words,” I interrupt. The black band on my left wrist pulses once.

“Right. Words. There’s a grade prize of what they’re calling an age-appropriate gift. A doll for the younger girls, games for the middle graders, makeup for the over-sixteens.”

Super. Trading voices for crap.

The worst part is that Patrick is smiling.

“Enough of this,” he says. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Like hell it doesn’t.” The contraption circling my wrist pings four times and I watch the number tick up from 46 to 50. Then it emits a sound like a diseased frog, and the 50 becomes 60. Okay. “Hell” is now out of my vocabulary. So much for George Carlin’s list of seven dirty words. I wish I knew why Patrick was beaming at me.

As if he’s read my mind, he leaves the kitchen, retrieves his briefcase from the front hall, and sets it on the counter dividing us. “Present from the president, babe,” he says as he removes an envelope from the leather case. In the upper-right-hand corner is the presidential seal. In the left, where the return address would normally go, is a silver embossed capital P, the model for Steven’s new pin.

And speak of the devil: the boys are home.

Leo and Sam bound into the kitchen first, kiss me hello, and make a beeline for the snack drawer. Steven, more composed than even he usually is, goes for the fridge after a curt “Hi, Dad. Hi, Mom.”

He’ll be looking for milk, which of course I forgot to buy.