this Will be Our little seCret.

teresa tOten

Sneak Peek

teresa tOten
teresa tOten
DELACORTE PRESS
DELACORTE PRESS

# BewareThatGirl

KEEP READING FOR A SNEAK PEEK. . . .

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of
the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living
or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright 2016 by Teresa Toten
Photographs courtesy of the author
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of
Random House Childrens Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Published simultaneously in hardcover by Doubleday Canada, an imprint of Penguin Random
House Canada Limited, Toronto, in 2016.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of
Penguin Random House LLC.
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The text of this book is set in 11.6-point Augustal.
Book design by Stephanie Moss
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First U.S. Edition
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ATTENTION, READER:
THIS IS AN UNCORRECTED ADVANCE EXCERPT.

_9780553507904_2p_all_r1.indd 4

12/15/15 12:11

Tuesday, MarCh 22

K ATE

AND

OL IVIA

Neither girl moved. The young blonde on the bed didnt move because she
couldnt, and the blonde in the chair didnt because, well, it seemed that
she couldnt either.
Two doctors, a nurse and an orderly barged in, disturbing their silence.
They lifted the body in the bed using a sheet, changed the bedding, checked
her pulse and heart rate, tapped, touched and shone lights into unseeing
eyes. This time they removed the long cylindrical tube that had been taped
to the girls mouth. The withdrawal of the tube was ugly.
The body seized, arced and then spasmed.
When they left, the girl in the chair resumed her vigil numbed by the
reek of ammonia and latex. The doctors never told her anything, so shed
stopped asking. The bedridden girl was attached to a tangled mess of tubes
and wires. They led from her battered body to several monitors and a single
pole that branched out like a steel tree blooming with bags of IV fluid.
Things beeped and hummed on a random timetable that neither girl heard.
In the forty-eight hours since their arrival, the girl in the chair rarely broke

her vigil to stretch, sleep or go to the bathroom. Her normally perfect blonde
hair clung to her scalp, greased darker now with sweat, mud and dried
blood.
She sat spellbound by the monitors, by the ever-changing colored dots,
the indecipherable graphs and especially the wavy green line. The green line
was important. She didnt waver, not in all those hoursnot until Detective
Akimoto cleared his throat in the doorway. She struggled to meet his eyes.
Im sorry, but Im going to need you to step outside for a moment.
The girl turned to her friend, whose mouth was red and angry from
where the tape had been ripped away.
The detective flipped open a small black notepad.
He clicked his pen several times.
Now, please.
Other men were outside, milling about the corridor. Cops.
We have a few questions about your friend, and also about a . . .
Mr. Marcus Redkin.
Mark.
She rose slowly. The room swayed in the effort. Yes, sir. She stole one
more glance at the wavy green line.
The girl on the bed was no longer inert, not entirely. But no one saw.
Words fell out of her mouth, silently slipping off the sheets and onto the
ground.
But no one heard.

Thursday, September 17

KAT E

Im not a pathological liar and I dont lie for fun. I only lie because
I have to. Thing is, Ive always lied, because Ive always had to. Im
comfortable with the weight of my lies. So Im good. Thats all there
is to it. Well, that and I want a better life. Wait, thats a lie. I want a
big life.
And another thingdogs and little kids love me, so there goes
that lame old saying. Demented rich girls love me too. I am that
friend, the how-did-I-live-without-you friend. The you-are-such-ariot friend. The friend with the shoulders that are soggy from your
tears. I am the lifeline friend, and lifelines come with a price. But I
digress. Love that word, digress. Its snotty and not as easy to work
into a sentence as youd think.
Id been watching her for days.
The first few days were all about the hunt, about not walking
into walls. There was that familiar head-spinning hell of where to
go, who was who, dont make an ass of yourself at the new school,

etc., etc. But I can focus like nobody else. A handful of girls were
examined and dismissed. Too regular, too normal, too together or
(the true kiss of death) not genuinely loaded, even though they
seemed to have all the trappings. I know the difference. Before
coming here, I spent most of high school out west in the very best
private girls schools. I was the scholarship kid, the boarder. The
girl you convinced your parents to bring home for weekends, for
holidays. Ive had plenty of practice.
See, I know how whack these girls are behind their armor of
Range Rovers and Louboutins. There had to be someone. My meal
ticket was in this senior class somewhere.
And then, at the beginning of week two, there she wasall born
blonde and rich and just messed up enough. Beautiful, no cliques
and reeking of Lexapro or Paxil or something. Mind you, that could
apply to half the school. But this girl was like an extra. There was
definitely something. Olivia Michelle Sumner: if that doesnt spell
money, I dont know what does. She was head-to-toe Barneys and
Bloomies, preppy with a price. The rest of the girls gave her a wide
berth even as they squealed, Welcome back, Olivia! Youre back!
Great to see you! Hey, wow! But they werent her people. That
was clear. Olivia kind of glided around on remote control. There
was a story there. Excellent. Olivia Sumner and I shared only one
class, AP English, but thats all it takes.
Watch me now.
Pay close attention.
Survival of the fittest, baby.

Friday, September 18

OL IV IA

Olivia cradled the phone, shaking her head. No, Dad, it was fine.
More than fine, really. Just like you said. She paced the length of
the sunken living room. When that was no longer calming, she
stepped up into the dining room, circling the stainless steel table,
then veered through the library and eventually invaded all four
bedrooms one by one. Olivia stayed out of the kitchen. Anka was
throwing pots around and cursing the Cuisinart. The whole week
was a nonevent, just like we thought. It was the right decision not
to transfer out.
She found herself back in the living room. No, the teachers
didnt make an obvious fuss, but they let me know they were
there for me in the very best Waverly fashion. Olivia hovered over
more than sat on the mohair chaise before getting up and pacing
again.
Well, as I suspected, AP English is going to be intense because
I got Ms. Hornbeck again. Thank God Ive already read the Albee

play and the Cormac McCarthy. But I may need a tutor to keep
me in solid merit-scholar range, okay? Where was that Cormac
McCarthy book? She drifted to her room, forgot why she went there
and drifted out again.
No, I can sleepwalk through math and physics, you know
that. Now she was in her fathers bedroom. Sleek burled oaks and
flannels in varying hues of gray and taupe embraced her. She let
them. Olivia loved his room. The soft buttery gold of the LED art
lights glowed against the Modigliani and Caravaggio sketches.
The art rested quietly against walls covered with charcoal fabric
that warmed the room, making it feel safe, making it feel like her
father. No, nowhere. Im buried in work already. Itll take me
all weekend to dig myself out. Yeah. She nodded. Just a little
rusty.
The rest of the penthouse featured impenetrable modern Brazilian art juxtaposed with ancient Chinese sculptures. It looked as if
it was curated, which of course it was. Wife number two. But here,
in his haven, was the closest her father came to the traditional, and
to himself.
No, just every other Wednesday now. I told you that yesterday.
She stifled a groan. Yeah, still five fifteen. Look, it was Dr. Tamblyns suggestion. Hes super positive. Olivia glimpsed herself in
his mirror and turned away. Of course I am. Check with Dr. Tamblyn whenever you want. I wont ever go off the meds again. Lesson
learned, big-time. She gripped the phone so tightly that it dug
a groove in the palm of her hand. I promise, never. Can we stop?
Im good, were good. Besides, Anka is here and shes a hawk. Hey,
you just tie up all those big international deals so that we can keep
the lights on in this place. She was smiling, but Olivia could feel
the weight of his worry pressing against her.
Well, you knowshe sat on and then got up off the manicured

bedthey were fine. What time was it? Her stomach began to
foam. No longer soothed by the Modigliani and all that gray flannel, Olivia was on the move again. Back to the living room, back
to the floor-to-ceiling windows stretching the length of the penthouse. She became mesmerized by the art outside the windows,
the whole expanse of Central Park and the beckoning lights from
the Dakota. Having New York at her feet cushioned her soul.
I dont really know the girls, Dad. Remember, they were juniors
last year, a full year younger, and last year, well, was last year. But
theyve been fine. Have they? There must be gossip. Did it matter?
Come on, its Waverly, Dad. Anyone whos anyone has their shrink
on speed dial. The sky had slipped out of its silky purple dress into
a basic black. Im sure Ill find a friend. And if not, its only a year,
right?
She liked the inky-black sky best, always had. It was soothing.
No, I didnt mean that. Of course Ill find friends. Hey, do you
have to stay in Chicago before you head out to Singapore? She had
to stay focused. On Sunday? Thats great, Dad! Does Anka know?
Okay, Ill tell her. No, Id rather just go to our bistro. Ill call.
Olivia walked back to the chaise. Is seven thirty okay? The
foam in her stomach bubbled. She had once described the foam
as a pink thing, a mixture of warm blood and spit. Yes. No, thatll
be great, Dad. Cant wait. Dr. Tamblyn had said the medication
would eventually take care of that too. Hed also said that she had
to be religious about taking it exactly on time.
Sure. Stopyou know Ill be fine. I love you too. Olivia put the
phone down. She sat on the chaise with her full weight this time.
And waited.
Olivia? You off za phone wit Mr. Sumner? Anka strode in, wiping her hands on her apron. The housekeeper had a formidable
collection of aprons. Is not your time for za medications tablet? Is

six thirty oclock. Should be at six oclock, no? You want me to get
your waters? Olivia?
She was going to have to talk to Anka about backing off. Olivia
knew the schedule.
Instead, she nodded, sighed and then waited to feel something. Anything.

MOnday, September 21

KAT E

I pretty much live in a sewer.

Making the leap from sewer to the prize of Yale is starting to
shake my focus, and believe me, thats saying something.
I deserve better. Way better.
Im this years Waverly Scholar, and that baby comes with a
decent stipend. I also put in mornings at the school admin office
and Im working my ass off at the market with two ten-hour shifts
every weekendand still this rathole is the best I can do. My home
for the past few months has been a converted storage room in the
basement of Chens Chinese Market and Apothecary. Im broke.
Grooming costs are a killer, even in Chinatown; hair, makeup, nails
it adds up. Dont get me started on accessories. Thank God for
uniforms.
Waverly, of course, doesnt know about Chens. They think Im
living with my nonexistent aunt. I was a boarder at all the other
private schools, but Waverly doesnt have boarders. What it does

have is the best record in the country of getting its students into
their first-choice college picks. Thing is, they had to be assured that
my accommodation was locked down before I got the package.
I needed an address. Hence the sewer. Like I said, I only lie when I
have to, and I have to a lot.
I havent unpacked. I wont. This is temporary. Besides, Im
freaked that the slime thats weeping down the walls will marry up
with the stink of the decaying cabbage and infect my brand-new
secondhand uniforms. Ive got an iron bed topped with shredded
Spider-Man bedding, a small round table, one aluminum chair, a
decent mirror, a TV tray that I use as a night table, a sink scarred
by rust and a floor cabinet with a Coleman-like stove propped on
it. Ive lived in worse, like those times in between foster nightmares
and boarding, but its harder now. I know whats out there and I
want some.
Alarmingly, Mrs. Chen does not appear to like me. I dont like
not being liked. It makes me nervous. Being liked is the biggest
arrow in my quiver. Exhibit A in the not liked column is that despite the fact I am strictly front of the house material, Mrs. Chen
usually has me in the alley unloading the bok choy and mango
shipments. My charm offensive landed with a thud on Mrs. Chens
tiny slippered feet, and Mr. Chen seems to live in fear of her. So I
take my cues from him and stick to hauling boxes, prepping and
pricing the veg, and staying invisible. I know Im not the first student to partake of the Chens indentured-dungeon opportunity,
but its a sure bet that Im their first Waverly student and their first
white chickor gweilo, as Ive heard them call me. I think it means
ghost girl or foreigner or something. Either is perfect. On the
bright side, I eat really well, although its mainly vegetables and
fruit. Ive become pretty handy with a wok, and my skin has never
looked better.
Id kill for a steak.
10

In comparison, the Waverly office gig is like a day at Canyon

Ranch. Waverlys classrooms and lecture theaters are wireless and
outfitted with the latest Smart Boards and apps, but their filing system is right out of Hogwarts. They brought in a consultant last
year, and Im helping with the grunt work of transitioning all their
paper archives onto servers braced by clouds. They need me.
And I need access to that system.
Im always the first one in, at 6:55 a.m. Mr. Jefferson, Waverlys
building services manageror head janitor, in other wordsopens
up for me. Even Ms. Draper, the registrar and Olympic-caliber
workaholic, doesnt get in until 7:05. My likeability quotient is
through the roof with her and pretty well everyone else in Admin,
including the head, Ms. Goodlace; Mr. Rolph, head of the Upper
School; Ms. Kelly, head of the Lower School; Dr. Kruger, the guidance teacher/school shrink; and most important, the administrative
assistants, Miss Shwepper and Mrs. Colson. Every school has a
Miss Shwepper or a Mrs. Colson. Both ladies are older than God,
and they hold the real keys to power because they know where all
the bodies are buried. Student crap and staff crap, its all colorcoded and kept safe under their over-processed hair.
Waverlys staff and directors are still awaiting the muchanticipated arrival of some hotshot cyber-savvy fund-raiser to be the
head of advancement. But Mr. Rolph will have to swim alone in
Waverlys estrogen pool a while longer, because Mr. Mark Redkin
was immediately swept into a northeast conference on the future of
independent school endowments.
When Draper charged in today, she doubled back toward me.
Youre showing admirable initiative, Kate. Youve beat me in every
day so far. She perched on the edge of Shweppers desk, which I
used as a staging area for my files. Draper had a whippet-lean body
that hardened her looks some. Shed missed the memo on picking face or figure after forty. I dissected her scent. The top note
11

was Jo Malones Orange Blossom. The whole school was into Jo

Malone. They might as well have issued it along with the eggplant
jackets and gray pleated skirts. Under the Orange Blossom was a
hint of expensive shampoo, the kind you buy at the Vidal Sassoon
salon. Sharp architectural haircuts to match her sharp architectural
suits. You could cut yourself on the woman. Struggling under those
scents was a hint of black coffee, a breath mint and the unmistakable stink of Camels. My old man smoked Camels.
Our registrar was a secret smoker.
Draper seemed to be waiting for me to speak. I hadnt acknowledged the compliment. That was sloppy.
Just trying to make myself indispensable here, maam.
And youve accomplished that in record time, my dear. This
office is going kicking and screaming into the modern world with
your help. And when Mr. Redkin gets here . . . She paused, lost herself for a second. Well, I just want you to know that were pleased.
I tried blushing. It usually worked.
Thank you, maam.
Draper nodded before striding into her office, which contained
the all-important registrars computer. Thats where I was headed
tomorrow. I had to get here by 6:30 a.m. Everything I needed to
know would be in that computer. Somebody at Waverly could use a
roommate to fill her existential void. Hopefully, that somebody was
Olivia Sumner. I could see it straight ahead. The good life. A clear
path to the prize.
Nothing gets in my way.

12

Tuesday, September 22

KAT E

6:34 am
The near-comatose computer was taking forever to sputter to life.
I knew that Miss Shwepper and Mrs. Colson were attached to their
museum pieces, patiently waiting for the whole digital fad to blow
over, but what was Draper doing with this behemoth? The entire
front office looked like it was being prepped for a 1993 Microsoft
commercial.
Okay, okay, come to Mama. Come on. All right! Waverly student
records . . . Finally! The script rolled in on lazy paragraphs, but
there they were. The student records were organized alphabetically according to graduating year. What would mine contain?
No time. Okay, okay. I hadnt even turned the lights on for fear
that Mr. Jefferson might come to check. Every creak in the old oak
floors caused my stomach to pitch. I typed in Olivia Michelle
Sumner and held my breath while the screen took its customary three to five years to load. Who works like this? With this?
Loading, loading . . .

13

Got ya!
It was a standard bare-bones registration, but it also had a onepage report appended.
STUDENT RECORDS PROFILE
SOCIAL WORK REPORT

STUDENTS NAME:

Olivia Michelle Sumner

STUDENT NUMBER:

624501

DOB:

2 September 1997
Female
The Waverly School
Mr. Geoffrey Sumner
Mrs. Elizabeth Sumner
(ne Whitaker)Deceased
Dr. Virginia Kruger,
Dr. Russell Tamblyn,
Mr. Geoffrey Sumner

GENDER:
SCHOOL:
FATHER:
MOTHER:

PRESENT AT MEETING:

BACKGROUND INFORMATION: Student spent ten weeks as an

inpatient and six as an outpatient at Houston Medical.

ASSESSMENT OF CURRENT FUNCTIONING: The presenting

psychological issues are fully resolved as per the readmittance

policy and according to Houstons assessment documents, provided
by Dr. Tamblyn.
GOAL/INTERVENTION: None required.
SUMMARY AND RECOMMENDATIONS: Dr. Tamblyn and

Mr. Sumner requested that the students Readmittance and

Assessment Summary remain sealed. All applications for the
release of confidential information would as of this date be

14

denied. Dr. Armstrong concurred and assured Mr. Sumner that

Ms. Goodlace, Head of School, also concurred.
Dr. E. Armstrong

4 September

Sealed? What was sealed? That had to be good. Hmm, mother deceased . . . I got lost in that one until I realized it was 6:46 and I
had to start the laborious process of logging out. Okay, so there
was good stuff there, although I didnt know what exactly. Olivia
was hospitalized? Why? I mean, that in itself wasnt remarkable.
Anorexia and substance abuse were the go-to issues at private
schools, but anxiety disorders and depression were fast closing in
on the top spots. Was it one of those? Something else?
I was safely lugging out boxes of file folders to presort when I
heard Ms. Goodlaces unmistakable footsteps. I didnt have to turn
around. The head of school had a solid, serious footfall like the seriously solid person she was. All she wore day in and day out were
two-inch Stuart Weitzman pumps that had to be older than I was.
But the thing was, they were different each day. I notice things like
that. Goodlace must have stockpiled like a hundred pairs when they
were in vogue fifty years ago and had them in heavy rotation ever
since. It was early for her. Draper wasnt even here yet.
Good morning, Kate. My, youre in early.
I could say the same about you, maam.
Touch. She almost smiled, but she looked too preoccupied
to see it through. Our much-heralded director of advancement is
finally arriving, and I want to get a jump on my notes for our meeting at nine. Our board, and certainly this office, isshe cleared her
throatgreatly anticipating his arrival.
Well, fund-raising is the lifeblood of a school like this. I learned
that at all my other schools.

15

Did you? Yes, yes, it is. She paused. And I am sure Mr. Redkin
will be a tremendous asset. So you know why Im here. Why are you
here so early?
Theres a lot to do, even in the presort. The file cabinets are a
bit of a mess. Actually, the files are kind of unbelievable. I glared
at the boxes for effect.
Kate, youre the Waverly Scholar, not the Waverly slave. She
joined me in box glaring. I cant have people concerned about
your welfare, after all.
I think we both know that no one would be all that concerned,
maam.
Not true, Kate. Not true, she said as she walked away. I would
be concerned.
Goodlace was as decent as these types come, so who knows,
maybe she did give a fart. But it wasnt enough. I knew from before.
I needed way more to get through the year, to get to where I was
going. I needed an Olivia to care.
Yes, maam. Thank you, maam, I said to her back.

16

MOnday, September 28

OL IV IA

It looked as if the contents of Olivias closet had barfed on her

bed. Five maroon school jacketsranging from extremely fitted to
boyfriend-style and from sparkly new to charmingly distressed
wrestled with eleven crisply laundered white shirts that hailed from
Barneys rather than the school tuck shop. Struggling under that
pile were four short to very short gray flannel kilts with mandatory
silver kilt pins from Tiffanys, as well as a rats nest of maroon-andgray-striped school ties. There was a small mountain of tights in
various hues and textures, all unopened and likely to remain that
way. A senior wouldnt be caught dead in tights in the middle of
a blizzard, let alone on a fall day. Seniors wore kneesocks with the
elastic appropriately stretched out, making it imperative to keep
yanking them up. There were uniforms within uniformsalways
had been and always would be.
Olivia scrunched up one of the pristine shirts and sat on it for
good measure as she slipped on her baggy kneesocks. Those steps

17

complete, she tucked the freshly wrinkled shirt into her secondshortest skirt and reached for her most fitted jacket. It was her third
pass at the complete outfit and it was the correct one, the right
blend of caring and not giving a damn.
This is how the routine had always played out. After a full thirtyfive minutes under a searing shower, she would sort through and
discard the contents of her closet with an ever-increasing burden
of urgency. With a choice finally made, Olivia would race back
into her bathroom suite to begin the thirty-seven-minute routine
of hair and makeup, emerging dewy and seemingly fresh-faced.
With moments to spare, shed gulp down her morning meds with
the green smoothie that Anka had whipped up. Breakfast over, the
housekeeper would shuffle to Olivias room to begin the process of
re-engorging the closet, while Olivia shoved her feet into one-sizetoo-small, just-so-scuffed Doc Martens and grabbed her black Prada
backpack. She was perfect. Not that it mattered. Its just the way
things were done.
Before she left, Olivia always called out: Okay, Im off. Later,
Anka! You have a great day! And Anka, buried deep in the walk-in
closet, always called back: Good luck, Miss Olivia. God blessing
you all za day. Neither heard the others actual words, but both
were certain that they had been wished a day of miracles.
Waverly was a handsome old stone mansion just up the street
on Fifth. Olivia always used that walking time to prepare herself.
This year, she even prayed a couple of times. That was new. Prayer
was not any part of the cognitive behavioral therapy that had been
doled out at the Houston hospital last year, but it was big with
her roommate, Jackie, who was in for near-crippling OCD and cutting. Jackie maintained that it helped the traps in her head, and
besides, what could it hurt? Concluding that the logic was sound,
Olivia took up occasional praying with indifferent enthusiasm.

18

She glided through the heavily carved Waverly doors, past her
locker and straight to Ms. Hornbecks AP English. Olivia nodded,
smiled and heyed at all the correct girls. She even feigned interest
when Madison Benner panted hysterically about the dreamy new
director of advancement. Wait til you see him! OH, MY GOD!
And I mean it. No one that hot has walked through these halls in a
hundred years!
So I keep hearing. Cant wait to get a peek! Olivia delivered
this with dripping envy, which she was sure was the emotion called
for. A small victory, but worth noting.
She steeled herself for AP English and Sylvia Plath. Olivia didnt
get Plath, but she knew she should and that just made the abstruseness of her poetry all the more galling. They were going to
dissect Lady Lazarus. She could speak to it analytically, but that
was never enough for Hornbeck, who wanted her students to engage with the material on some gut-wrenching emotional level.
Olivia would have to hire help, and soon.
Fasten your seat belt for another mental car wreck.
It was the scholarship kid, new from out west or somewhere. Olivia
had already noticed how the other seniors had been weighing, judging and, in the end, vying for her. The girl started rummaging in her
baglast years Chlo, but still a Chlo. She was supposed to be some
kind of genius, noticeable even in a school choking on them.
You think? If it is, its beyond my mental capacity, said Olivia.
Me and Plath are an epic nonstarter.
The scholarship kid had excellent hair. A Bergdorf Blonde like
most of the school, but it was styled all loose and beachy-likea bit
messy, a bit stiff. Superb. Olivia got annoyed all over again about
Plath.
The scholarship kid rolled her eyes in sympathy. She was pretty
even in the eye rolling.

19

Plath is a way easy ride for me. Maybe you have to be crazy to
really get her.
She knew how to wear her blazer too. Secondhand maybe, but
boyfriend-style. The girls were still milling about the seats near the
back of the small lecture room.
My name is Olivia.
I know. The scholarship girl smiled. I remember from our
first class. Youre kind of noticeable. She turned toward Olivia.
Im Kate.
So, Kate . . . poetryPlath, you really get her?
Sure. Kate shrugged. I did my entrance essay on Plath, and
apparently it was enough to get me into this place. Its physics thats
going to get me tossed out.
And right then, Olivia, who had not made an impulsive decision since her return to Waverly, decided it was time to do just
that. There was no weighing and measuring of outcomes, no deliberating about implications and consequences. Physics? she said.
Physics is a breeze. I have a feeling we can work something out.
Olivia sat and patted the seat next to her.

20

Friday, OCtOber 2

KAT E

Step one, contacttotal success. Step two, meeting in the library re:
AP Physicseven better. It was a bit of a challenge to pretend to be
unable to follow Olivia. Theres a fine line between slight confusion
and hopeless stupidity, a shorter road than youd think. Id made
Olivia feel like she was an award-winning tutor by the end of the
session. She asked me over to her place on Sunday night so I could
return the favor with Lady Lazarus. So big win all around. Atta girl.
Yet.
I couldnt hold on to Atta girl. I was sitting in the dark on the
Spider-Man sheets on my cot, trying to think about other things
about Olivia, about the prize, about, well, just about anything else.
White-knuckling it. Impending change does that to me. A lot of
stuff does that to me. It just happens. I dont want to get sucked
back, but back I go, over and over again. I could hear the rain pinging off the sheet-metal roof on the back shed. I should study. I
should touch up my nails. I should . . . but I couldnt. I pushed it

21

away, but it pushed backthe evidence, the memory. See, I was a

liar even then, even when I was ten.

The peeling wood-framed windows were eight feet tall. They had that old
wavy kind of glass that was useless against the cold but made the sunshine
extra pretty. Class hadnt even started and already chalk dust was swirling
and somersaulting in long skinny beams of captured sun. I got hypnotized
by stuff like that. Not this time, though. This time I stood at attention in
front of the teachers desk. Chalk, erasers, a box of HB pencils and paper
clips were in the first drawer on the left. A strap was all by itself in the
second one, and a Bible and pink crystal rosary beads were in the bottom.
But see, the thing is . . . the nuns are always the worst! I shifted from
one foot to the other. No offense or anything.
None taken. Sister Rose smiled. And just why is that, Katie?
Well, you know, they . . . you all make such a big deal about it, especially, especially on the Friday before Fathers Day. Everyone feels all sorry
for me and gives me these fake sad looks.
This would have been enough for Mrs. Cotter, my grade four teacher
back at St. Davids. Sister raised one pretty eyebrow.
But lying is a sin, Katie.
Sister Rose was tougher than she looked.
But, Sister, it isnt a lie. Not really. All Im asking is that I be allowed
to do what I do every year. You said it was real touching and everything
when I told you about it a while ago. Remember?
Sister nodded.
I still make my Fathers Day card, just like the rest of the class. Then,
after school, I walk over to Prospect Park, which used to be Dads favorite,
and then, then I bury the card in the flower bed in the corner. And then I
wish him a happy Fathers Day! I gave her the smile Id been practicing
since 6:20 a.m.

22

Sister raised her eyebrow again.

After Ive prayed for the deliverance of his immortal soul.
I checked the clock: 8:25. The bell would ring at 8:30.
So all Im sayingI mean, askingis that since this is a new school
for me, couldnt we please, just this once, not tell the whole class that poor
Katies father is dead? And, and then make everyone count their blessings
by saying fifteen rosary rounds at recess? I dont want them to feel sorry
for me, and I really dont want them to hate my guts because of the stupid
rosary rounds. No offense. Sorry, Sister.
None taken, Katie. She patted my hand.
Sister Rose had soft, cool hands all the time, no matter what. All nuns
have soft, cool hands. Its like a holy thing.
So you see? Were not lying, not really. Not even with that by omission thing, because its not like anyones asking. See? We just dont have
to advertise it.
Sister Rose looked down at her hands. Her lashes seemed to shade half
her face.
And, and . . . Ive been praying on it for weeksreal hard, likeand,
well, and I bet that Jesus would be okay with all of this.
Sister bit her lower lip and frowned. She did this whenever she was trying to stop herself from laughing.
You are impossible, Katie.
Thats what my mom says, Sister.
She shook her head.
I had her.
The bell rang.
Okay, Katie, she sighed. We wont make an announcement about
your deceased father. No rosary novenas. She put her soft, cool hand on
mine again. This will be our little secret, Katie. Not a lie, a secret.
You had to hand it to me.
I was good.

23

We got to the card-making right after religious studies. Mary-Catherine

and I worked on ours together. Mary-Catherine had a deeply superior
artistic soul. Just like me. So wed been best friends since practically my
first week at St. Raymonds. Mary-Catherine knew about it all. Well, except for the part where I really wanted Mr. SutherlandMary-Catherines
fatherto be my father.
Sometimes I wanted it so much I felt sick.
He was such a nice dad.
Mr. Sutherland was an important businessman. He had four different
suits and a dark brown briefcase with worn handles. He worked in an office
with a door in one of those big towers on Wall Street. His office was on
the thirty-fourth floor! When school was over, Mary-Catherine and I were
going to meet him in his personal office and then we were going to go out
for lunch.
He said.
Mr. Sutherland called me slugger because I was on the Christie
Pirates softball team. I was deeply artistic and athletic. Its a rare combination, Mr. Sutherland said. Sometimes, when he got home early, he would
get the three of us big tall glasses of Coca-Cola with lots of ice and then
ask us about school or our friends or just stuff. He asked me too, not just
Mary-Catherine.
I hated Coca-Cola.
But I drank it right down and I always said, Thanks, Mr. Sutherland!
And he always winked at me and said, Well, youre welcome, slugger.
Anyway, Mary-Catherine and I were hands down making the most
fancy cards in the whole class. Father Bob said that God is in the details.
Our stuff was always bursting with God. My card said You Are My
Hero on the front and Happy Fathers Day to the BEST Dad in the
World over a pop-up striped tie on the inside.
I headed straight to the park after school.
I looked all sad.

24

You never know. Sister Rose could go right by in the school van or
something.
There was a spot of bare earth behind the orangey roses and just in
front of the yellow bushes. I dug a hole with my ruler, then I folded up my
card and buried it. I made a sign of the cross. Not a little fast one in the
middle of your chest but a big onejust in case.
I prayed.
Not for my father.
For Mary-Catherines.
I prayed that God in his infinite wisdom would figure out how to make
Mr. Sutherland my father. And that he would do this without hurting Mrs.
Sutherland, whos nice enough, or Mary-Catherine, whos my very best
friend, or my mother, who has been hurt bad already. Thank you very
much. Amen.

I prayed a lot when I was ten. I have not prayed since.

25

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