“Yeah, you didn’t punch a girl in the face. You’re on the right side of history. Come on, you guys, one of those kids had to have seen her do it.”

Kira shook her head. “I’m tired. I just want to go h—”

“I’ll take you,” Elliot said.

“—ome,” Kira finished, smiling weakly.

“Muir, can I give you a ride, too?”

I inhaled the fall air, saw the street buried in autumn leaves. “Thanks,” I said. “I think I’ll walk. Take care of this one.” I hugged Kira once more, watched Elliot open the car door for her, and waved as they passed. One happy thing for the day.

I walked to Salishwood, turning the Sean-and-Katrina mess over and over. Kira’s talent and confidence were so boldly on display at home, at Blackbird, everywhere but school, where Katiana were free to make her feel small. I directed some fury at the teachers and the school administration, grown-ass adults who let those yoga-pants-wearing, Lululemon-bag-carrying dumb-ass girls destroy Kira’s spirit again and again, right out in the open, with no consequences. I understood why Kira wouldn’t go to them for help; they never offered any.

I was told I carry with me a primal wound.

The house when I was twelve years old was a remodeled Victorian in the Madrona neighborhood, a few streets away from the house where Kurt Cobain died. Five bedrooms and six kids. I was set to have a top bunk with one other girl in a room with a window facing the water and looking toward Medina, at Bill Gates’s house. Madrona is beautiful, tons of trees and walking distance to school. Cozy library right near a cupcake shop.

The couple was a man and a woman, and the house was full of shelves and shelves of books. Which was exciting until I tipped my head sideways to read the titles and they turned out to be mostly nonfiction: psychology/meditation/how did my life turn out this way?/parenting/adult coloring mandala/self-help books. Every wall in the house featured art from a different country in Africa, every corner was full of drums and carved wooden masks, though the man and woman were white, the neighborhood was white, they invited their “dearest friends” to a party the night I arrived, and all those people were white. They wore sandals and batik clothing and served lentils and pita bread, and the other kids in the house were okay—bunch of hyper boys, but the girl sharing my room seemed good. I fell asleep after my traditional Joellen first-night phone call. “It’s going to be okay. I’m all right. I’ll call you next week.”

The next afternoon I walked back from school, and the man and woman called me into the living room and invited me to sit on the sofa, while they knelt on the shag area rug before me.