I take a short breath and move slowly. My instinct is to run and claim the seat, but I can’t appear too eager for their company. I may not be the ‘diamond’ daughter of a Christian marriage but I’m their equal when it comes to pretty dresses and pocket money and canned goods to trade. I am no beggar. I wander over and slide my plate down onto the table like I have nothing but time.

“How is it?” The greeting is meant for all four girls, but I speak directly to Natalie van der Sell, who is pretty but stupid and who I’ve let copy off my tests for years. “Were the holidays good?”

Natalie is also a boaster, so there’s no way she’ll ignore the question or fail to embellish all the wonderful things that happened to her over the four-week break.

“We stayed home, but guess what?” Her brown eyes bug out. She’s got big news.

“What?” I say, and spoon up some potatoes. The cuts on my hands sting, but I ignore the pain and act as if this morning’s punishment didn’t happen.

“Daddy says that this coming Christmas, he’s going to take us to Mozambique for sure. I’ll get to see the ocean and play on the sand, and Daddy says we might even take a boat to an island.”

“You should definitely come to Maputo,” Sandi Cardoza says before I get a chance to answer Natalie. “We have a big house there, right on the beach, and sometimes we see dolphins in the water. You three should stay over during the holidays. There’s room for everyone, and my father likes visitors.”

Delia and Natalie and Peaches ooh and aah at being invited to stay in rich Mr. Cardoza’s house, where the sand outside the door glitters with gold, and dolphins play in the waves.

“I’ll have to get a new bathing suit,” Peaches squeaks. “Maybe a bikini.”

“If your daddy lets you,” Delia says, and they all laugh at the joke, which is mildly funny but not that funny. I smile to let them know that I, too, am amused. And though Sandi left me out of the invitation list, I push on.

“Right on the beach?” I ask in the breathy voice that Mother uses when she talks to Father on the telephone. “You can smell the ocean?”

“We’re like this far from the water . . .” Sandi reaches her arm across the table to indicate the distance between her father’s big house and the much-dreamed-of Indian Ocean. “You can hear the waves day and night.”

More oohs and aahs from the others, and I spoon the potatoes into my mouth. If my mouth is full, then I can’t point out how ridiculous Sandi’s calculations are. No house is that close to the water unless it is a houseboat. Next, she’ll say that the dolphins eat from her hand. I chew, and force the food down my throat and into my stomach. I have to be honey. I have to smile and stay sweet, even though I hate Sandi and her rich Portuguese father.