Delia bites her tongue. Mrs. Thomas won’t make the report this week or next week or the week after, because she’s afraid to admit her failures to a white man. She’ll write the items into the lost-property book, knowing full well that what’s lost at Keziah is never found.

“Get washed and dressed for chapel and take your mind off earthly things,” Mrs. Thomas says. “We have much to be thankful for this morning.”

She drifts out of the dorm and back to her house, where she’ll take the plastic rollers from her hair and style it into the elaborate victory rolls that were popular during WWII, but are way out of style in 1965.

Delia sucks air through her teeth to let us know what she thinks of Mrs. Thomas’s handling of the situation, and I shut the door to Dead Lorraine’s room in her face. It’s no use talking. In Delia’s mind, Lottie and I are liars and thieves. She’s got the wrong girls.

Somebody stole Sandi’s necklace. Not us.

19

Praise Be

After breakfast, we march from the dining hall to the chapel for a special Monday morning “give thanks” service. Boys sit on the right side of the aisle, and girls on the left. Senior teachers take the row closest to the pulpit, and junior teachers sit at the end of the student rows to make sure we behave. Mrs. Thomas, the Elephant, and Mr. Moses, the dorm master, sit in the very back row, where they get a good view of who passes notes and who whispers through the sermon.

Mr. Vincent takes the pulpit. “Let us pray,” he says, and we bow our heads and thank the Lord for the branches that beat the flames and the water that doused the embers. We thank Him for our salvation. We thank Him for our lives.

Then Mr. Vincent says, “We are God’s instruments, and last night God worked a miracle through Adele Joubert and Lottie Diamond, two girls who embody the fighting spirt of Keziah Christian Academy. Together, they faced the fire and, with the Lord at their side, saved the school shop from burning down.”

Heads turn in our direction, fingers point, and voices whisper, “That one’s Adele, and that one’s Lottie.”

We are the center of attention, and I’ve imagined this moment a hundred times in my daydreams: me with windblown hair and glowing skin, every detail of my face made beautiful by the heat of envious glances. Instead, my heart lurches in my chest. I feel exposed. One of Mother’s favorite expressions is “The higher a monkey climbs up the tree, the more you can see of its bum.” I am that monkey. The more the others stare, the more I’m certain they can read my thoughts and see the sins of envy and greed written across my forehead.