The Musician

Her name was Prudence Destiny Blakefield.

This was an omen of the life she’d lead. She always thought her mother had been a little dazed from the experience of bringing a child into the world. That would certainly explain shackling her only child with an old-fashioned name designed to ensure an onslaught of bullying.

Prudence was a careful woman. She took no risks, lived well below her means, and considered buying a Starbucks coffee an extravagance. She’d also learned the wisdom of invisibility. The blessing of good looks and an outgoing personality skipped over her mother’s womb. So she existed in a state of the perpetual ugly duckling, flying low under the social radar of others who were all too willing to point out her flaws.

Prudence held the belief that the odd juxtaposition of her face was better served by the enormous glasses with thick lenses she wore to correct her poor vision. People had a habit of looking in the other direction when meeting the gaze of her Coke-bottle lenses. Without them, the world was a gorgeous Monet painting of blurred lines and colorful figures that emphasized how much she didn’t belong.

There was a persistent myth that mixed children always turned out beautiful, which Prudence detested. In her case, she’d inherited an odd arrangement of every strange feature her parents had. Bad teeth from her mother still required braces at 29. Prudence had her father’s wide nose paired with her mother’s triangular face liberally sprinkled with chocolate freckles. The wide mouth, owlish moss green eyes and long neck were additional mismatched gifts on a beanstalk figure with small breasts. To top it off, her dry hybrid hair seemed content to form a large halo of tight, wild curls that defied both styling products and a brush.

Her parents, Jim and Rachel Blakefield, were ridiculously in love baby boomer academics who remembered when marrying outside of your race was still illegal in many states. Jim was a black biology professor from Illinois. Rachel was a white classical literature professor from Florida. And she was their butterscotch love child left behind in Isella after both retired from the University of Virginia. Now her parents were out in Oregon living among other aging hippies and attending Rainbow Gatherings.

Prudence had always been at odds with her parents’ free spiritedness and intellectual artistry, partially because she’d spent much time being ostracized. “Giraffe” had been the call of bullies as they jostled her on the way to classes, knocked books off her desk during them, and claimed she ate shit each day as a recreational activity at gym.

To be seen with Prudence was to invite unwelcome attention. The handful of students who attempted friendship over the years were quickly dissuaded from the notion after enduring a vicious backlash from other students. To minimize this, she performed errands for various teachers during lunch to avoid the lunchroom and participated in no extracurricular activities aside from band. Few would dispute that Prudence was a gifted violinist, but most viewed her preference for an instrument over social conformity with suspicion.

For this reason, dating in her small town was simply out of the question. Roger Kennedy had been the sole attempt during her senior year. She stuttered her way through the asking only to be knocked out cold by another kid opening his locker behind her. She’d woke up in the emergency room with a concussion and no date. So there had been no invitations to dances or Proms.

But what Prudence lacked in sleepovers and playdates, her parents compensated for with trips abroad. In other countries, her exotic looks gathered friends who marveled at her unique features. The summer before her sophomore year of high school, she experienced her first kiss with a raven-haired Italian boy in Rome who spent two afternoons counting her freckles with careful fingers. Two summers later, she lost her virginity at 17 to a college freshman from London who joined them on a tour bus to explore a Buddhist temple in Cambodia. But in Isella, she was a mixed-race anomaly who’d skipped ahead two grades and fit in nowhere.

So Prudence had mostly been alone. This trend continued even through college, where she’d been devastated to learn other students could grow less mature as they aged. Shyness and bad experiences kept her from connecting with anyone. Her parents encouraged her to study abroad, but the thought of going to Europe solo terrified her. The only solace in Prudence’s life was her violin, a passion that drove her to play with traveling symphonies in her spare time while finishing a doctorate in Music by the age of 24.

Early November in Isella found Prudence shuffling to work at 6:00am on a Monday. She parked her tan Honda Civic in the parking lot of Diggs, Marshall, & Benson, an established legal firm with more than forty attorneys and associates specializing in corporate law and complex civil litigation cases. Located just off Bell Square, it was a ten minute drive from her apartment building on Lexington Street.

Since the weather outside was a bit chilly, Prudence wore a purple sweater over a white turtleneck and a plaid skirt down to her ankles. She waved timidly at the others working in the basement as she put her things away. Then she began sorting the daily mail, which she actually enjoyed. It was the one aspect of the job where she didn’t have to deal with people. Delivering the mail and retrieving legal files was another matter entirely. Those two tasks were the most stressful during any shift.

At noon, Prudence filled one of the large yellow carts with mail and pushed it onto the elevator. As it rose to the second floor, she adjusted her clothing, neatly tucked any stray frizzy curls behind her ears, and squared her shoulders. When the doors parted, she stepped into the lion’s den of admins and paralegals she prayed would be at lunch. As usual, she was not that fortunate.

This morning in particular, Betsy Cline, the executive assistant for Mr. Marshall, commented on the tiny pimple growing on Prudence’s chin. She raved about this excellent cream from Macy’s beauty counter that would “clear that right on up.”

Betsy was a tall, cool looking brunette with blue eyes two shades away from being completely colorless. Prudence thought this was because the woman had no soul. For today’s ensemble, Betsy wore a designer skirt suit in buttercream, adding flare to it with a colorful scarf and killer red shoes. Perfect.

It always amazed Prudence how some women could dress so beautifully yet have such carnage in them. It was no secret that Betsy enjoyed embarrassing her, but the harassment wasn’t about proving that Prudence was beneath all of them. Betsy was just a well-dressed vampire who dined on the mortification of others. Prudence wanted nothing to do with facades like that.

“Have you ever gone to a salon, Prudy?” Betsy asked. Since the pimple comment failed to get a rise out of Prudence, she decided to try another tactic.

“Not enough in my budget for that.”

The paralegals snickered at their desks. “Honey, there’s always a budget for shopping & a hair salon,” one of them admonished.

“So just what do you spend your money on? It’s obviously not clothes,” Betsy said.

Prudence paused halfway through passing out the mail from the cart. “I pay my travel expenses from performances with symphonies on the weekends. I play the violin.”

Jennifer Rojas lit up with a smile, a foxy Colombian with honey blond hair in a navy suit. “That’s wonderful, Prudence. I used to play when I was younger. It’s such a beautiful instrument, isn’t it?”

The other women gaped at this unknown dynamic in Jennifer, as if playing an instrument was something you could catch like the flu. Prudence watched the subtle shift in body language among the herd and chose to redirect the conversation.

“It’s probably a good thing you gave it up.” Prudence placed three envelopes and a priority package of requested legal files on Jennifer’s desk. “You might have ended up like me.”

“There are worse things.” Jennifer rolled her eyes in Betsy’s direction, watching the woman touch up her makeup while chatting with another paralegal.

Prudence smiled a bit. This was the most camaraderie she’d had with anyone on this floor, but she needed time to evaluate it before dipping her toe further in that pond.

“I’m all done, ladies. Enjoy your lunch,” Prudence said, retreating back to the elevator with the cart. Any additional comments Betsy might have tossed in her direction were drowned out as the doors whispered shut.

The third floor was only slightly better. Here was the bear cave of the firm’s top attorneys and the senior partners. Various cases and court strategies were discussed ad nauseum over cups of unlimited coffee. Some of the lawyers from the second floor would roll in just to mingle with the big shots, hopeful their presence would catch enough notice to warrant an opportunity for advancement.

The founder, Ms. Chastity Diggs, refused to base their operations in Columbia because she considered that venue overcrowded. Since Isella was only a twenty minute drive away, the location afforded them the luxury of having clients meet them in a quaint town with none of the traffic headaches.

As usual, conversation didn’t just halt when Prudence entered. It crashed, loudly bouncing on the floor as the din of voices fell silent. She blushed, despite biting the inside of her cheek to avoid doing it.

Unlike the second floor, which was modeled after a carpeted library with wall shelves full of files and rows of desks, the third floor was all polished tables, burgundy leather chairs and wood floors. Mammoth bookcases lined the walls up to the ceiling. Between each was a picture of a prominent person in the legal field or a portrait of a signer of the Declaration of Independence. A framed version of the Constitution hung between the doors along the back wall leading to the offices of the firm’s partners.

The men always greeted Prudence with frowns. The women typically snatched the mail from her blunt fingers before making a point of ignoring her. Only one person ever acknowledged her presence during the mailrun: Chastity Diggs.

Chastity was a respectable senior partner of fifty-three and founder of the law firm. Wearing an ebony pantsuit with an ivory blouse and a string of pearls, her black hair was done up in a French Twist. She’d just finished up a meeting with a client when she spotted Prudence.

“How are you, Prudence?” she asked, taking her mail.

“I’m very good today, Ms. Diggs. Thank you for asking.”

“When you finish here, I need to see you in my office.”

“I’m already done, actually.”

Chastity flashed a diplomatic smile. “This way, please. You can leave your cart where it is.”

She led Prudence through the second door on the right side of the back wall. The office took up the entire corner of the third floor. Frank Marshall and Edward Benson shared an office opposite hers. Yet despite this, Chastity was often asked by clients if she was either an administrative assistant or a junior partner. It always amused her to see the reaction when they learned otherwise. In truth, Chastity hired Benson and Marshall only because the amount of cases had been too much for her alone.

Her office was painted Venetian gold, a dignified pale yellow that complimented the black desk, couch and chairs. The walls were adorned with framed photos of her husband, three children and five grandchildren. Other frames held awards and degrees. In the far corner, a small stand held a 17th century French vase, a gift from a client after winning a multi-billion dollar lawsuit stemming from a tricky merger of two national construction companies.

Chastity sat in her black office chair and motioned Prudence to take a seat as well. “Have you given any thought to what I asked last week?” she said.

“I’m not interested in becoming a paralegal.”

“You and I both know you are smarter than half the people in this building put together. There’s no reason why you couldn’t do it.”

Prudence didn’t reply.

Chastity sighed. “Then I suppose there’s no way to make this easier to hear, so I’ll just say it. There’s been talk about having you fired based on your appearance. I’ve dismissed it as nonsense, telling them that you are eventually going to become a paralegal and blend. But now I’m a full year into the lie. Something has to give.”

“I work in the basement and deliver mail. What does my attire have to do with anything?”

“Yes, but you deliver mail on the rest of the floors. We’ve had four clients in the last week make negative comments about your attire during those delivery times. As crass as it sounds, you don’t have the right look to be at our law firm. You’re still here because Tom told me a few irrefutable facts: you never take sick days, show up on time, and you can remember all aspects of our payment and mail processing system without a computer. That’s impressive, but it’s not enough.”

Prudence stared down at her hands. “Who’s really behind this? Is it Betsy?”

Chastity sat back in her chair. “Would it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Betsy is one of your detractors, yes.”

“I see.”

“No, Prudence, you don’t. I’m also a woman, so it pains me to enforce idiocy based on sexism. But the truth is there will never be a complaint about a man in this office because of his looks. As women, this is the standard we’re measured by. You dress like an early 20th century spinster. We need you to upgrade your look by a few decades. That’s all I’m asking.”

Prudence wondered who Ms. Diggs was trying to kid. Having a woman who appeared distinguished even washing her hands say all this was more than a little insulting. Chastity didn’t look a day over 37, wore classic attire with ease, and was lethal in the courtroom. She was also white with straight hair and blemish-free alabaster skin. Another perfect woman.

In fact, none of the people in the building, irrespective of nationality, had an imperfection anywhere. As far as Prudence was concerned, they took their good fortune for granted. Not everyone could fit so well into the fashionable mold set by the cast of Law & Order.

Prudence was an ostrich among peacocks. She knew this, respected it. But she hadn’t known she could be fired for it regardless of how good she was at her job.

“I’ll do better,” she mumbled.

Then Prudence fled out of the office before Chastity could see the tears in her eyes. She collided with Mr. Benson on her way out, but kept going anyway.

___________________________________________________

“What just happened?” Edward asked, closing the door on the departing figure.

“I had the talk you suggested. That was the result.”

Edward settled onto the black leather couch under her enormous window. “It was necessary. You know that. She’s an embarrassment.”

“She’s just odd, Edward.”

“Odd isn’t the word. The woman is downright ugly. It’s okay to say it.”

Chastity’s back went up. “No, it isn’t. What that girl has is potential. I see it every time I look at her.”

Edward shrugged. “She has to break out of that damned shell she’s in before she’ll ever be anything better. You’re not her mother. This is a law firm, not a hen house.”

Chastity picked up a pen on her desk to avoid letting the irritation show on her face. Attitudes like Edward’s had led her to start a firm in the first place. The law was all too often seen as a male profession, as if men were the only ones capable of objectivity or drive. With those attitudes came the glass ceilings at various firms blocking females from proper advancement. She’d wanted to change the game. Now here she was blocking another female based on ideology she loathed. Full circle.

When she spoke, her voice held the brisk formality she was known for in the courtroom. “Is there something you needed, Edward?”

He stretched out on her couch as if he had all the time in the world. A fourth generation lawyer raised in an old Southern family, Edward dressed himself in suits from London designers. His hair was still a luxurious sable at 39, compliments of an impeccable stylist. He had the attitude of someone used to having what he wanted. Once, she’d explained his hubris with youth. In recent months, it finally dawned on Chastity that his arrogance was just natural.

“I wanted to discuss the Hubrett case before the court resumes in an hour.”

“All right,” she said, voicing none of her thoughts. “What’s on your mind?”

____________________________________________________

Prudence backed away from the office door. She’d returned immediately to apologize for bumping into Mr. Benson, raising her fist to knock. It was impossible not to hear the conversation inside. Other musicians often commented that her hearing was impeccable, capable of fine-tuning the minute aspects of pitch to create near perfect sound. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, yet she had nonetheless.

The conversation was a shock. Now she knew this wasn’t just about Betsy. One of the actual partners wanted her gone. Prudence often wondered why adults told their kids about the “real world” beyond high school. As far as she was concerned, adult life was the same as those four miserable years she’d spent at Isella High. And she still didn’t fit in.

____________________________________________________

From there, the rest of the day was shot to hell.

Still reeling from what she’d heard, Prudence tripped coming out of the elevator, landing flat on her face in front of most of the mailroom staff in the basement. The chorus of laughter was deafening.

She scrambled to her feet and ran to the bathroom. The fall caused her braces to scrape off some skin on the underside of her lips and cheeks. Prudence hadn’t opted for Invisalign braces. Now she was paying the price of that decision.

After cleaning up as best she could, Prudence shuffled back to her workstation to finish her tasks. She was the first one to her car and out of the parking lot when the office closed at 4pm. She drove home with her mind replaying the day’s humiliation. Ms. Diggs wanted her to upgrade her looks, but Prudence wanted to upgrade her life. She saw no way to properly do either.

Prudence parked in her usual spot in front of the neat brick building on Lexington Street. A sudden downpour had her rushing indoors, a purse in one hand and two paralegal texts in the other. Not that she’d need them. She figured she would probably be fired long before she ever decided to pursue it.

She fought the urge to cry at the thought, climbing the three flights of stairs to her apartment. As she fumbled with her keys in front of the door, Prudence registered the first licks of cigarette smoke tickling her nostrils.

“That really is a shitty outfit.”

The voice disturbed the silence of the hallway, startling Prudence bad enough that she dropped her keys.

“Who the hell asked you?” she said, whirling to cast her eyes up the stairwell leading to the fourth floor.

There was a girl sitting on the sixth step. A teenager. Her face certainly held the pissy attitude of one. Black hair dusted her shoulders in careless waves. She wore all black down to her sneakers, emphasizing her pale skin and hazel eyes. Prudence noted the metallic purple eyeshadow, the heavy eyeliner and dark lipstick.

An emo kid. Great.

“I asked myself,” the girl replied, blowing out a thin stream of smoke.

“I don’t think you should be smoking,” Prudence said with a huff.

The girl laughed at her.

Prudence snatched up her keys. “Your mother should come out here and beat the tar out of you. Maybe that would keep you from being a criminal, you little convict-in-training.”

It was the first time in her life that she had ever gotten rude with anyone. Immediately, she felt terrible. It wasn’t the girl’s fault that her day sucked.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Look, I’m sorry about that,” she said, trying not to cringe under the weight of the girl’s stony stare. “I just had a bad day.”

“Seems like your day would have been bad regardless. You went out of the house looking like that.” Her pert nose wrinkled up.

Prudence decided she’d earned the comment and let it go. “What are you doing out here smoking?”

“There’s nothing else to do.” Another puff of smoke filled the air.

“Sure, there is. You should be out with your friends.”

“I don’t have any friends.”

“I don’t believe that,” Prudence said as she unlocked her door. “A girl with your looks should have friends.”

“Looks aren’t everything.”

“They are when you don’t have them.” Going on impulse, Prudence held her door open. “Would you like to come in?”

“What for?” the girl asked. “How the hell do I know you aren’t some pervert who eats kids?”

Prudence opened her mouth to expose her braces. “You wouldn’t fit in my mouth. Come on in since you have nothing else to do.”

The girl hesitated for a full minute, listening for sounds upstairs. Satisfied that all was quiet, she followed Prudence inside.

____________________________________________________

“Nice pad,” Tory said.

The foyer had an antique wooden coat rack in it, adorned with various ugly coats and hats. But the walls were a bright melon that brought a smile to her face. She’d never seen an apartment painted in a shade of orange before.

The sofa set was a cool mint green paired with antique tables, quaint little things painted in an off-white. She noticed the borders were painted white as well. The large windows overlooking Lexington Street boasted wooden slate blinds she’d seen in magazines.

There were plants, too. Three enormous ferns hung from overhead from ceiling fixtures in the living room. A band of ivy curled itself around the living room windowsill, stretching toward the slivers of light slipping in through the blinds. A badass stereo system rested on a high stand nearby, high tech with gray gloss. She thought the flat screen television in front of the sofa set was on the small side, but it had a DVR, a Roku and a PlayStation 5.

All this shocked Tory. She honestly hadn't expected anything that modern in the woman’s apartment. Retro was obviously a term invented before anyone met this chick.

Her Nikes whispered over white and mint throw rugs while she studied the various artwork on the walls. Tory was fascinated by the paintings. Her favorite so far was an acrylic of a man riding a stallion through the woods. But up close, it was actually a pattern of overlapping multi-colored diamond shapes. A second painting was a still life of a butterfly. A third depicted a black rose against a golden background. Next to these was an intricate white frame with an older interracial couple Tory guessed were the woman’s parents.

Prudence watched her, intrigued. “Well, what do you think?”

“Your place is pretty interesting. Did you paint these?”

“Goodness, no. My mother gave them to me as housewarming gifts. The artist is named Noshe, I believe. Mom is sort of a hippie. The decorations were all her idea.”

“So what do you friends think of your artsy space?”

“I don’t have any friends.”

The girl smirked. “Pot, thou doth protest too much.”

Prudence snorted at the comment, amused by the philosophical response. “Okay, you’ve made your point. It’s introduction time. My name is Prudence Blakefield.”

The girl gaped at her in mock horror. “Your mother seriously named you Prudence? Wow.”

“My middle name is Destiny.”

“Then you should tell people that’s your name. Prudence sucks.”

“Destiny is a stripper name.”

“No one is going to mistake you for a stripper. Trust me.”

“Alright, alright. Enough about my name. What’s yours?”

“Tory Miller.”

“Is that short for Victoria?”

She scowled. “It’s short for Tory.”

“Victoria is a beautiful name, you know.”

“Not unless you’re married to David Beckham.”

Prudence nodded in understanding. “I used to get picked on in school because of my name.”

“I bet you still get picked on now.” She studied Prudence, contemplating. “It would take a lot to get you together, but it could be done.”

“What makes you think I need help?”

“People push you around a lot, right?” Tory clucked her tongue when Prudence dropped her gaze to the floor. “Yep, your middle name is actually ‘doormat.’ You’ve got to stop taking other people’s shit. The way to do that is to stop looking like taking other people’s shit is your job description.”

Embarrassed by the girls’ language, Prudence sat down on one of the sofas. “I’m a lost cause.”

Tory shoved her hands in her pockets. “I could help you, you know.”

Prudence scoffed at that. “You’re just a kid.”

Tory jerked a shoulder and strode for the door. “Fine. Be ugly forever. I don’t give a fuck.”

“Please, don’t go. I promise I won’t criticize you again.” Prudence was up now, twisting her hands in front of her nervously.

At that moment, Tory thought Prudence was the most pitiful adult she’d ever seen. The woman was so desperate to have a friend.

“You sure are a pushover. But if you want me to stay, you have to agree to let me see the rest of your clothes. The first step is admitting you have a problem.”

Biting her lip, Prudence consented.

____________________________________________________

An hour later, Tory was still inside Prudence’s closet. A stream of profanity followed each of the wads of clothing she tossed through the door.

“Where in the hell did you get these clothes?” she asked from inside. “They don’t even have clothes at Goodwill this bad. Shit, you couldn’t even give most of these things away.”

Prudence sat on her bed, absently running her hands over the peach comforter. “That’s very rude,” she replied, embarrassed.

Tory emerged from the closet with a plaid dress. The brown and yellow churned on the fabric as if the two were trying to get away from each other.

“Lesson number one.” Tory pointed to herself. “This is cool.” She twirled like a model on a runway, showcasing her black attire to its utmost. Then she pointed to the dress with a sneer. “And this is shit on a hanger.”

She threw the dress down, then plunged back into the closet. A barrage of clothes flew out in a steady stream.

“Ugly. Ugly. Damn, this, too. Nope, this goes. Jesus, you’ve got more 70’s clothes than Mrs. Cunningham on the first floor.”

Prudence had to scramble to catch them all. “Don’t throw my clothes like that, Tory.”

“These aren’t clothes,” Tory mumbled from the depths of the closet. “They’re the combustible remains of the disco era. Get rid of them.”

By the time Tory finished, most of the clothes in Prudence’s closet lay on the floor. Only a handful of items remained. She slapped her hands together, pleased with herself.

Prudence glared at her. “What am I supposed to wear to work?”

Tory marched back into the closet. She came out with tan slacks, a white blouse and a navy blazer.

“My cousin gave me those out of pity,” Prudence whined.

“You should send her a ‘thank you’ card. Now if I’m not mistaken, this trio fits the bill for business casual.”

“They’ll be too tight.”

“Have you ever tried them on?”

“No.”

“Coward.”

“I am not a coward!”

“If you don’t like my suggestions, then go shopping like a normal person. I’m sure you’ve got money stashed somewhere. And shave your legs. You don’t live in Italy.”

Prudence tugged at her hair in frustration. “I don’t need some high school dropout telling me to shave my legs!”

Tory just smirked again. “I’m on the fucking principal’s honor roll. I haven’t had less than a 4.0 since 1st grade.”

“You wouldn’t know it by the trash that comes out of your mouth.”

“Grownups always get all bent out of shape over a little swearing. Anyway, you should do something about your mouth, too. Get those braces out.”

“They aren’t supposed to come out for another year.” Prudence placed a hand over her mouth protectively.

“If you were meant to have good teeth, you would have been born with ‘em. How old are you anyway?”

“I’ll be 30 next week.”

“And you didn’t watch a single geek-to-babe makeover movie in all that time? Go rent “She’s Out of Control.” Tony Danza. It will give you some tips.”

Prudence looked up the movie on her phone. “This movie is really old. How do you know about it?”

“I used to watch it with my mom. I’m just passing on knowledge.”

Prudence caught the sadness in Tory’s voice. “You must love her very much.”

Tory didn’t hear the comment. She heard the sound of a door slamming upstairs and realized she’d been gone too long. “I’ve got to go.”

“But you’ve only been here an hour.” She followed Tory out to the foyer, her eyes round. “You’ll come back sometime, won’t you? I promise I won’t be nasty.”

“You weren’t nasty and stop fucking apologizing,” Tory said, her hand on the doorknob. It was hard to listen for her father if Prudence kept yacking. “I’ll be around.”

The door closed behind her, leaving Prudence alone with her thoughts.

____________________________________________________

The next morning, Prudence went to work as usual. Since Tory had been so adamant about throwing all her clothes out, she slipped into tan slacks, plain white blouse and navy blazer the girl suggested. On the way to work, she deposited two bags of clothes in donation bins in the Wal-Mart parking lot and told herself it was for the best.

She received curious stares in the mailroom and the subsequent floors during her regular delivery run. But all this undercurrent flowed by Prudence without notice. She was too focused on keeping a low profile after the previous day’s fiasco.

During her lunch break, Prudence called her orthodontist to have the braces removed. Dr. Lindwood was resistant to the idea, saying that she could have perfectly straight teeth in another year. She asked how her teeth would look if she had them taken off now. He grudgingly admitted there had been significant progress over the last two years, but she would still have a slight overbite.

Prudence said she could live with that and made an appointment for later that afternoon. After work, she showed up at Dr. Lindwood’s office as promised. She emerged an hour later without braces and minus $150.

The car stalled three times on the way home, but that didn’t dampen Prudence’s spirits. She just made a mental note to get Lenny at the garage to look at it later in the week and went inside.

Tory was waiting on her when she reached the third floor landing. The girl sat in the same place as yesterday, with her dark hair pulled up into a messy ponytail. Today, she had on a gray men’s sweater with sleeves falling all the way to her palms. She blew out smoke casually, stretching her skinny jean-clad legs as Prudence stepped up to unlock her door. It was the kind of look Prudence called “lazy pretty,” the ability to just throw on whatever and have it look fashionable.

“You seem better today,” she said.

Prudence glanced up at her with a smile. “I didn’t think I would see you. I made apple pie last night if you want some.”

Tory tugged smoke from her cigarette in a dramatic pull. “Are you sure you can cook?”

Prudence merely grinned. “Is grass green?”

“Very funny,” Tory said, crushing her cigarette out on the stairs near the railing. She stood up, stretched with her arms over her head, then started down the stairs. “Maybe I’ll have some of that pie. I hope I don’t croak after tasting it.”

____________________________________________________

“So the geek can cook,” Tory remarked, tearing into a bowl of apple pie while sitting on the living room couch.

“If you keep calling me that, I’ll ban you from my apartment.”

“You’ll be sorry if you do,” the girl replied. “I’m one of the best dressers in this building.”

Prudence sat back with her own bowl, eyeing her carefully. “Just how old are you, anyway?”

“Fifteen,” she said with a mouthful of pie. “A mature fifteen.”

“Oh, I can see that. You live with your parents?”

“Just my father.”

“Where’s your mother?”

“She died.”

Prudence gasped. “I’m sorry, Tory. If I had known, I wouldn’t have said what I did yesterday.”

The girl shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. She’s gone. Nobody can do anything about that.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Silence reigned for a few moments, which was enough time for Tory to feel guilty about snapping. Prudence had asked a few reasonable questions, not her life’s story.

“Look,” she said after a time, “I’m sorry for ripping you. My mom is just a touchy subject.”

“It’s okay. I’m not sure I would have known how to cope with my parents dying at your age.”

“Why?”

“They were all I had, really. I didn’t have any friends, and never went out. Mom and Dad used to take me on these trips all the time. Italy. Greece. Australia. We traveled whenever they weren’t teaching. It gave me a break from all the nonsense in Isella. Otherwise, I might not have made it through high school. I was depressed a lot.”

Tory ate another spoonful of pie. “What kind of depression are we talking about? You went in-patient or something?”

“Goodness, no. My parents are hippies. They believe a good adventure is the answer to all your problems. If you’re sad, go on vacation until you aren’t.”

“That’s one way to look at it. Me, I just don’t give a fuck. When you have that attitude, problems leave on their own.”

“So you have no friends by choice.”

“Of course. Why do I need a bunch of people pressuring me to fit in with their bullshit? I’m better off alone.”

“Friends are a good thing to have sometimes.”

“Yeah? So what have friends ever done for you except make you miserable?”

Prudence didn’t have an answer for that, so she took their empty bowls into the kitchen. When she returned, Tory was just lifting off the cover on her music stand by the front window. Her violin rested on the top half, sheet music on the second. When Prudence played, she sat on the little stool next to it so her vision was level with the pages.

“Whoa, I didn’t know you played violin.” Tory stroked the instrument with a careful finger. “Can you play something for me?”

“Sure.” Prudence went over and began setting up. “Anything in particular you’d like to hear?”

“Just play one of your favorites,” Tory said from the couch.

Prudence sat down, closed her eyes and began to play from memory. Notes rose and fell in the air with a somber melody. She lost herself to the melancholy of sound that echoed the despair she so often felt.

Tory was surprised to feel a lump growing in her throat as she listened. It was the first time she’d ever heard anyone play the violin with so much emotion. The music was alive, mesmerizing. Prudence became almost ethereal as she played. And then it was over.

Normal again, Prudence rested the instrument on her lap. “How was that?”

“How was that? You’re funny, Prudence.” Tory swiped at her eyes. “Where do you work again?”

“In the mailroom of a law firm downtown.”

Tory wrinkled up her nose. “Why the hell would you work in a mailroom when you can play like that?”

“I play with traveling symphonies who tour as official Classical Movements orchestras. I’m also affiliated with the orchestra for the University of South Carolina. I only ended up working at the law firm because the economy since the 2008 recession just devastated the arts and academia. My parents were lucky they didn’t lose their jobs or the house when university funding dried up. Plus they were paying for me to go to private school, then college.” Prudence smiled at the memories. “My parents really believed music was my destiny. They helped me out when tour dates were hard to come by. But venues were still closing even after everybody said the recession was officially over. I struggled for a while before I finally admitted I needed more income. The mailroom job looked like something easy I could do without too much fuss. I traveled with symphonies on the weekends.”

“Okay, that’s the reason you went there. What’s the reason why you stayed?”

“I’m honestly not sure.”

“So quit.”

“I don’t earn enough playing music to justify quitting.” Prudence put her violin back on the stand and covered it again. “But I don’t have the ‘right ‘look’ to work in a law firm either. They’re all so well dressed and proper. I’m frumpy and ugly.”

Tory stood and put her hands on her hips. “You need a job where you can play music. It makes you happy. I can see it on your face.”

“When you’re in school like you are now, anything seems possible. But once you graduate and get out here, it’s not always like that. I wanted to make a living with my music. It’s not possible. Admitting that is better than being broke all the time.”

“If I could play like that, I’d be rich by now and living in Bel Air.”

Tory’s words dripped with such certainty it made Prudence laugh.“You’re so sure of yourself. I wasn’t like that at all when I was your age.”

“’When I was your age,’” Tory mimicked. “You were barely 15 when I was born. That doesn’t make you any wiser than I am.”

Deciding not to take the comment personally, Prudence said, “Okay, wise one. What do you propose I do about my job?”

“We have to look for some proper employment venues. But for now, go shopping. And for the love of humanity, get your hair done.”

Frowning, Prudence touched her wild curls self-consciously. “My hair has never behaved.”

“Probably because you don’t know what the hell you’re doing. What do you use for shampoo?”

Prudence told her.

“No wonder!” she exclaimed. “Guess what? If you use cheap shit on your hair, it will look like you used cheap shit on your hair.”

“Tory, really.”

But the girl was on a roll. “Get some real clothes. Get some contacts. And get those damn braces out.”

Prudence smiled and pointed at her mouth.

Tory clapped her hands together. “Hallelujah! She’s on her way, ladies and gentleman. She’s on her motherfucking way!”

She almost blushed at Prudence’s stern look.

“Sorry about the language. Old habits die hard.” Tory sat back down and propped her sneakers on the coffee table. “You should swear a little. It’s good for the soul.”

“And what idiot at school told you that?” Prudence plopped down on the couch beside her.

“The Tooth Fairy. Look, repeat after me: damn.”

“Dame,” Prudence said.

Tory rolled her eyes. “You can’t even swear right. It’s damn,” she said, annunciating the word harshly.

“Dame.”

Tory punched her. Hard.

“Damnit!” she cried. “What’d you do that for?”

“Now you’ve got it!” Tory said happily. “Try this one: muthafucka.”

“Motherfucker.”

“No, too proper. Mutha-fuck-a.”

“Muthafucka.”

“Good!”

The tutoring session went on for about half an hour. By the time Tory was done, not only could Prudence swear fluidly, she’d invented a few swear words of her own.

Although Tory left as abruptly as she had the day before, Prudence was certain she had a new friend. And even though she was only fifteen, she was absolutely the coolest person Prudence had ever met.

Inspired by the day, she went into the bathroom and pulled out the box of contacts from her medicine cabinet that she’d never opened. Six months ago, her mother dragged her to LensCrafters during a visit and forced her to go through with a contact lens exam. Rebecca was all about Prudence maintaining her natural hair as part of her heritage, but she absolutely despised her glasses.

For an hour, she practiced wearing them. It took her another four to convince herself to wear them to work.

__________________________________________________

It was Friday.

And what a week it had been, Prudence reflected as she gathered up the mail for her deliveries. For work, she’d donned a pair of slightly big gray slacks and a black patterned sweater. It was an outfit she’d grabbed off the clearance rack in T.J. Max on her lunch break Wednesday afternoon. She also added some Burt’s Bees lip gloss with just a hint of plum color and a bit of mascara. Without the glasses, Prudence looked fresh-faced and young.

She stopped on the first floor first, dropping off some letters at the receptionist desk. Both receptionists gaped at her, but Prudence was already shoving her cart towards the elevator.

On the second floor, she was greeted by the cool, amused stares of the admins and paralegals. Most of the attorneys were in court since Fridays were always hectic. So she was spared an additional round of heckling.

Bridget Hickson was the first to comment. “I do believe Prudence has a new lease on life, ladies.”

Prudence thought Bridget was too skinny. She had a boyish, angular figure that made clothing hang on her like curtains, but the other woman always raved about Bridget’s dieting success. It was rather bizarre.

“Thank you, Bridget. Here’s your mail,” she replied, moving on to the next desk.

“You’re right,” Betsy said slyly. “I do see a change in Prudence. She actually has on two different colors other than brown today!”

There was a chorus of laughter as Prudence flushed to the roots of her hair.

“You finally got a man, Prudy?” Betsy mused. “I’m sure he appreciates you trying.”

For the first time, Prudence got angry enough to slam the mail onto Betsy’s desk. “You know, you could try being nice for a change.”

“I tell it like it is,” Betsy returned, checking her purple haze manicure. “Not all of us were born at the bottom of the gene pool. I’m just reminding you of where you stand.”

“Why didn’t you try to be a lawyer, Betsy?” Prudence asked. “Was it easier to be a legal assistant or you just lacked the brains to try?”

There was a moment of stunned silence in the office. All of them gawked at Prudence as if she’d morphed into something otherworldly.

Then Betsy swung into action. She rose from her desk, model perfect in a soft green suit and marched on pinprick heels until she was inches from Prudence’s face.

“I’m not about to let some social reject dictate what my capabilities are. You don’t belong here, Prudence. You never did. You’re lazy, stupid, and the only reason why you’re still here is because Diggs likes to keep you as a pet. So take that and choke on it, you ugly bitch. ” Betsy’s voice was full of venom, her eyes smug and triumphant.

As the words rained over Prudence, she felt her eyes fill with tears. She glanced at the faces of the other women while her own crumpled with hurt and embarrassment. Then she fled from the room all together, abandoning her cart for the elevator with a hand clamped over her mouth to stifle the sobs ready to burst from her throat.

The other women watched her leave in silence.

“That was horrible, Betsy,” Jennifer said. “You didn’t have to say that to her.”

Betsy patted her coiffure with one hand and smoothed down her skirt. “I’m not about to be talked down to by a nitwit who can’t even find clothes in her own size.”

Jennifer refused to let it go. “You made the poor girl run out of here in tears.” That wasn’t necessary and you know it. How would you feel if you were Prudence?”

“I’m not her,” came the haughty reply, “and neither are any of you.”

____________________________________________________

Prudence went back to the mailroom, fetched her things and left. She spoke to no one as she made her way to her car. A glance in the rearview mirror showed large black rings under her eyes. She pulled a few tissues out of the glove compartment to wipe off the mascara. As she did, the thought crossed her mind to invest in a waterproof brand.

“Like mascara is going to solve anything,” she muttered to herself.

It was stupid to even think about it now. Crumbling the tissues into a ball, she tossed them on the floor and cranked up her ancient Honda civic. The vehicle coughed and sputtered to life, but it cut off once in the parking lot before reluctantly starting again. So instead of going home, Prudence drove to the mechanic halfway across town.

A short while later, Lester Price stuck his head out from underneath the hood.

“Seems to me like your carburetor is busted, Prudy,” Lester told her.

He was a scrawny man with ash blonde hair and a sharp, hawkish face. And right now, all he was seeing was dollar signs. Prudence didn’t know dick about cars.

“You’re low on coolant and the oil filter is shot to hell. The transmission is about to go, too. Shoulda put this baby to rest years ago.”

“I know, I know,” Prudence sighed, fretting. “How much is this going to cost?

“About $700 for the minor stuff, but that transmission is going to be at least $1,000 or more.” His muddy eyes gleamed.

She squeezed her eyes shut and wished this God-awful day would end. “Keep the car. I’ll pay you Monday if you can get it done over the weekend. Do you have the parts?”

“Yep, I have ‘em. Do you need a ride home?”

She warred with herself for a full minute before she said yes. After the confrontation at the office, Prudence thought that facing a busload of strangers on the ride home was too much for her.

She got into Lester’s fire red Mustang, which he called his “one true love,” and rattled off her address. After a brief fifteen minute ride, he pulled in front of her building.

“Here you go,” he said with a flourish.

“Thank you. I appreciate everything you’ve done regarding the car.”

“Just how appreciative are you?” he asked, sliding his hand over to touch her thigh.

“Lester, remove your hand,” she said sharply.

“Now, Prudy, if you do a few things for me, I could take the price down a bit for the repairs.” Lester grinned, revealing a mouth full of bad teeth.

Prudence didn’t even bother replying. Instead, she grabbed the first two fingers on his hand and pulled them backwards. Lester let out a strained yelp, which gave her the opportunity to get out unmolested.

“Fuck you, Lester,” she shouted from the sidewalk.

In response, he flipped her off and gunned down the street, no doubt nursing his pride as well as his throbbing fingers.

But those pesky little tears were back to haunt her. She struggled to get up the blurry staircases to her apartment as they fell. At her door, she searched through an endless array of junk trying to find her keys in her purse.

“Running a little late,” Tory remarked from the stairs, exhaling smoke.

“I don’t want to talk today.” Her voice cracked, betraying her. Prudence threw her purse down in frustration and began sobbing.

Alarmed, Tory put out her cigarette. “Hey, Prudence, what’s the matter?” When she didn’t answer, Tory came down the stairs and touched her arm. “Come on, tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m too old to be confessing my problems to a kid.”

The words stung, but Tory forced herself to ignore it. “I’m your friend, Prudence. I’m just trying to help you, dumbass.”

The last bit did the trick. Prudence laughed. “Dumbass, huh?” she said, sniffing loudly. “Some friend you are.”

“Come on,” Tory said, picking up the keys that had fallen out of Prudence’s purse. “I think the neighbors have seen enough.”

She nodded her head towards the cracked door of Mrs. Lansings apartment, a busybody who kept reporting Tory’s smoking to the super. The woman huffed at their stares and slammed the door in irritation.

Tory’s face took on its usual smirk. “That lady can’t stand me.” She unlocked the door and went inside.

“You act just like a little sister,” she said, picking up her purse from the floor.

“Don’t start that shit. Now tell me what the hell happened to make you start blubbering.” Tory sat down on the couch and waited, twirling a strand of her black hair around her finger.

Prudence thought about how adorable she was sitting there in her plain black sweater and jeans. It really was like having a kid sister. But since she’d been raised as an only child, she had no idea about what was appropriate to discuss with a fifteen year old. She walked into the kitchen to fetch chocolate ice cream for them both while she mulled it over.

In the end, she spilled it all.

“And you told him ‘fuck you?’” Tory laughed so hard, her stomach ached. “Oh, man! He deserved it, the bastard. And those bitches! You were right. If they had any brains, they would have been lawyers. I want to kick them in their stylish asses.”

Prudence almost choked on her ice cream. “You’re so violent, Tory.”

“And you’re smarter than them.”

“No, I’m not.”

Tory waved a hand towards the violin on its covered stand. “You think any of them can do that? Hell no. All they have is looks. You’re better than all of them.”

“Well, I’m probably fired. I walked out without telling anyone. And now my car is in the shop with this asshole I don’t want to deal with.” Prudence put her ice cream on the coffee table and buried her face in her hands. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“I know.” Tory pulled a folded sheet of paper out of her back pocket and spread it out on the table. “This is the answer.”

It was an announcement saying Mrs. Delacroix was retiring early this semester due to family circumstances. The text went on to say that Isella High School would miss the talent and care she’d used with her students for the past seventeen years.

Confused, Prudence just stared at Tory. “What does this even mean?”

“It means there’s an immediate opening at the high school for a music teacher. I nabbed this from the teacher’s lounge. I go in there sometimes to ditch class when it’s too boring.”

“It’s a nice thought, Tory, but—”

“But what? Are you going to tell me you don’t have a college degree?”

“I have a doctorate in musical arts.”

Tory’s mouth dropped open. “You have a doctorate and you’ve been letting these second-rate bitches give you a hard time? For fuck’s sake...you can apply for this. Have you ever done marching band or any of that?”

“Yes, of course.”

“The high school band plays at the football and basketball games. You’ll have a learning curve, but I’m sure you can do this.”

“Tory, be reasonable.”

“This is reasonable.” She jumped up from the couch to start pacing across the room. “Okay, tomorrow I’m going to bring a friend over. She knows more about what’s required than I do. Plus she owes me a favor anyway.”

“Is this friend as foul-mouthed as you?”

“Nobody’s as foul-mouthed as me. Anyway, we’ll take you out shopping, too. We can make a day of it.”

It was appealing, Prudence admitted to herself. “But your father is going to worry.”

“You let me worry about my father. You just be up and dressed by noon,” Tory said. “And you’re taking me to the movies Sunday as compensation for helping you.”

“Who’s this friend of yours?”

“I call her ‘’Blade Runner.’”

“What’s a Bladerunner?”

“You’re a geek, but you don’t know ‘Blade Runner?’” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “God help me.”

Prudence hit her in the face with one of the pillows on the couch. “Okay, smart ass. Go home. I’ll be ready tomorrow.”

“Your vocabulary is improving tremendously. I’m so proud,” Tory replied as she sailed out the door, narrowly avoiding the second pillow Prudence threw at her.

Alone again, Prudence searched for “Bladerunner” on Google.

____________________________________________________

When the knock came promptly at noon, Prudence was prepared. She’d spent the morning fussing with her remaining clothes. In the end, she chose the black sweater from T. J. Maxx, navy slacks and her black penny loafers. Afterwards, she baked chocolate chip cookies and sweetbread for her guests. The desserts were casually spread on the coffee table with an assortment of napkins and small plates.

Smile ready, she opened the door. Tory stood there beaming next to a small woman with long dark blonde hair and unusual features. The word “striking” came to mind. Her face was heart-shaped with gray eyes and a long aquiline nose. She wore a blue-jean skirt over black leggings and a patterned green sweater, yet managed to look regal. Something about her seemed familiar, but Prudence couldn’t recall ever meeting her before.

“Come in,” she urged, stepping back.

Tory came inside and headed directly for the couch. The woman, on the other hand, went straight for the artwork.

“These are Noshe, right?” the woman asked.

“Yes. My mother is a fan.”

“Is your mother Native American?”

Prudence motioned towards the picture of her parents on the wall. “No, she’s just a regular hippie like my father.”

“Hippies are great,” the woman replied. “I’m Sonya, by the way. Tory has told me quite a bit about you.”

“Has she now?” Prudence shot Tory a look, but the girl was already devouring the cookies. “She told me I needed to see ‘Blade Runner.’ I had to Google it to know what she was talking about. You don’t look like a Bladerunner or a robot to me.”

Sonya grinned, flashing teeth Prudence had always wanted. “My students call me that because my last name is Blade. And this one over here managed to see my back tattoo when I was out running one day. I have a tattoo across my upper back that reads, ‘All those moments will be lost in time like tears in rain.’ She knew the reference right off. Tory’s a smart kid.”

“The smartest,” Tory said through a mouthful of cookies. “These are awesome, Prudence.”

“Thanks.” She started twisting her hands together as she often did when she was nervous. “Tory said you’d help me.”

Sonya cocked her head to the side and gave Prudence a once over. “Well, you’re certainly a native daughter of the melting pot,” she said eventually.

“What is that exactly?”

“We’re the result of the American experiment, you and I. Our little melting pot of a country produced generations of mixed people who can only identify as American. We don’t fit in anywhere else. We’re pieces that exist outside the cultural puzzle, confused and alone.”

Prudence stared at her with wide eyes, wondering if this woman had influenced Tory’s unexpected philosophical statements. “How can you describe it so well?

“Because I used to be like you. Always hiding, easily intimidated. It’s like your existence is some sort of weird hex.” Sonya shook her head at the thought. “My father is Irish and my mother is Cherokee. My dad’s family disowned him for marrying my mother, so my mom’s side is all I know. Nobody prepares you for what happens when you look like a white girl, but your relatives don’t. People try to force you to choose one side over the other, usually based on their own comfort level. Or else you get to watch the people you love suffer everyday indignities just because they happen to be darker than you. Being spared hardship for being lighter is it’s own kind of hell.”

Prudence considered this. “I guess you’re right. I mean, I could make friends easily in other countries on vacation with my folks. But here...it’s like you are either black, white or Hispanic. Everybody else is ignored or ridiculed. I guess that’s why most of my online friends are Asian. Ostracized people tend to find each other somehow.”

“Yeah, I was the white girl in every group I tried to hang with,” Sonya replied. “Didn’t matter how much slang I used or how I dressed. I was the white girl pretending to be something she wasn’t. Then I just stopped caring.”

“That’s the problem with both of you,” Tory said. “You cared in the first place. My parents are Puerto Rican. Both sides of the family pretend to be white. Most of them act like speaking Spanish is a mortal sin. But being Puerto Rican is suddenly okay when our extended family gets hit by a hurricane in Puerto Rico so they can get paid from money they never deserved. Shit like that is why we stopped dealing with them a long time ago.” Her fingers itched to grab a cigarette just talking about it. “So I can either get shit on for being an American citizen from a place the government keeps forgetting is a part of this country or I can get shit on for being looking like a colonizing oppressor. I opted out of that bullshit a long time ago. I just don’t give a fuck. That’s my nationality.”

“Tory, your language,” Prudence admonished with a laugh. She motioned for Sonya to take a seat on the sofa as she settled into an armchair.

Tory just rolled her eyes. “Prudence, go play the song you played the other day.”

“Why?”

“Just go do it.” Tory met Sonya’s eye, shook her head. “Trust me on this.”

Prudence shrugged, then went to get her violin. A few minutes later, the same haunting melody filled with air. She forgot herself as she played. For five minutes, there was only music. Then the flow ran dry. She came back to herself and the room. On the couch, her audience sat with their mouths open in awe.

“I see what you mean now,” Sonya whispered to Tory.

“I hope I didn't bore you. Classical is not everybody’s preference.”

“You have a gift, Prudence. Do you play other instruments?”

“Yes, I am familiar with most instruments except for piccolo and oboe. I also don’t have the correct embouchure for brass instruments, although I can carry a tune decent enough.”

“Have you ever thought about teaching?”

“Occasionally, but I thought nobody would bother listening to anything I have to say. I’m boring.”

Sonya nibbled on a cookie. “You have that funky vibe the Creoles have, hip and beautifully strange all at once. I can see you teaching. I think Tory was right to give you the flyer.”

“But I’m not Creole. I’m just weird.”

“No, you’re beautiful. You just don’t know it yet. God, these are good.” Sonya took another cookie before Tory could devour the last two. “I want to ask you something, but I hope you don’t get offended.”

“Go ahead.”

“What’s the deal with your hair?”

Prudence patted her curls with one hand self-consciously. “My mother says natural hair is something to be proud of as part of my heritage. She was always against texturizers and relaxers. I mostly keep it this way so she won’t nag.”

Sonya scoffed. “Honey, your mother is a white woman. Trust me on this: white people don’t know a thing about black hair. I’m surprised your father never stepped in to teach you a few things.”

“My father has an allergic reaction to all things female.”

“Why don’t we get going and discuss it while we’re out? I have a couple of places I would like to take you.”

Prudence replaced the violin on the stand, covering it. “I’m game if you both are.”

Tory stuffed the last crumbs of her sweet bread into her mouth. “I’m down. Just let me use the bathroom first.”

She dashed out of the room while Sonya stacked up the plates on the table. But it wasn’t until she’d gone into the kitchen to place them in the sink that Prudence remembered where she’d seen Sonya before. That same face had been in the local paper over the summer several times for a very bad reason.

When Sonya came back into the living room, she noticed Prudence seemed suddenly tense. “Is something wrong? Let me guess, I have a booger or something.”

The joke sailed over Prudence’s head. “You’re the teacher from the paper.”

Sonya rolled her shoulders and gave Prudence a sunny smile she didn’t feel. “You know, there are times when I wish I was famous for something else.”

“I’m sorry I mentioned it. Tory didn’t say anything to me. I just…” She started wringing her hands again. “I’ve messed this up, haven’t I? I always mess things up.”

“Hey, look at me.” Sonya snapped her fingers loudly in a move she used to get her students back on task. “Just breathe. I’m fine. You’re fine. Everything is okay.”

“I told you she was a nervous wreck,” Tory said from the kitchen doorway.

Sonya shot her a glare. “Give your mouth a rest for a minute.”

“No, she’s right.” Prudence grabbed her purse from one of the high tables, slung it over one shoulder. “Nervousness just comes naturally to me, I guess.”

“That didn’t come to you naturally,” Sonya replied. “All this is the result of not feeling good in your own skin. Hopefully, we’ll change a bit of that today.” She checked her watch. “I know just the place to get started.”

____________________________________________________

A short drive later, the trio arrived at Beauty Secrets Salon over on Alberton Street. The owner, Tanisha Swinton, had been Sonya’s friend since college. She was a petite woman with dark chocolate skin, a curvy figure and the sultry laugh of a jazz singer. These days she sported a layered haircut with honey blond highlights. In another month, she’d probably switch it to red or purple.

It still amused Sonya that Tanisha dropped out the pre-law program sophomore year to follow a passion for hair, which enraged her parents. Though it had been her first and only act of defiance, they cut her off financially with a ruthlessness that astounded all of their friends. Since Sonya was the only one not living on campus, she took Tanisha in as a roommate. They’d been best friends ever since. Now years later, Tanisha was the most successful hairdresser in Isella with clients traveling more than 40 miles to see her. Even Xavier was a fan. He had a standing appointment once a week to have his dreads washed and oiled.

At Tory’s suggestion, Sonya called the salon first thing that morning. So Tanisha already had a chair waiting for Prudence when they arrived. And for the next two hours, she schooled them all on the art of natural hair care.

First, Prudence’s frizzy curls were thoroughly washed with a moisturizing shampoo. Next, a detangling deep conditioner was applied, followed by fifteen minutes sitting under a professional dryer in a hair cap. Tanisha rinsed out the conditioner, then massaged jojoba and coconut oil liberally throughout the hair. As she did, Tanisha explained the necessity of purchasing a hooded dryer for hair care at home. Lastly, she applied a foaming mousse to give the curls shape without stiffness before putting Prudence back under the dryer with moderate heat for twenty-five minutes.

Her hair now semi-dry, Prudence watched in the mirror as Tanisha applied a beeswax pomade to all her edges, giving them a straight look that framed her face nicely. It also provided a contrast to the explosion of healthy full-formed curls rioting around her head with a glorious sheen. Tanisha finished up by using a blow dryer on low heat on any lingering damp spots in her hair.

Retha, one of Tanisha’s other stylists, winked at Prudence while she snipped at the split ends of her elderly client. “We got Tracee Ellis Ross in here with us, ladies.”

The other women in the salon clapped and hooted in agreement. It was the first time Prudence as an adult that she didn’t feel like an outsider for her lack of knowledge. No one in the salon made fun of her when she explained that her mother hadn’t known what to do with her hair as a child and her father’s family were mostly deceased. In fact, the elderly woman piped up with her own story of having to teach her mixed-race granddaughter how to braid her hair properly.

“This didn’t happen when I was young,” Vera told them. “Segregation was so strong down here blacks weren’t allowed to even have a business in some areas, especially with the Klan. We got by doing hair in the kitchen and the back porch. Everybody had an aunt or a grandma who could braid, you hear me? Wasn’t even a hundred products for our type of hair back then. Maybe five if you were lucky. And even that came from the relatives you had in the city. So you had to learn. My son married a white gal. I have no problems with mixed marriages, but Lord, the hair on the girls if the parents don’t teach ‘em. I had to teach that baby how to braid before her hair swallowed her whole head.”

Vera waved her hands in the hair like she had the Holy Spirit, causing the ladies to erupt in laughter.

“It was no better on the reservations,” Sonya said. “There was mixing back then the same as everywhere else. So you’d have Indian kids running around with afro puffs without knowing what to do and hybrid hair with no products for it. My mother doesn’t have straight hair either. She uses relaxers every three months. More than that, it breaks off.”

Vera eyed Tory’s hair. “You are blessed, girl. Women all over the world are trying to get hair like yours and going bald for the trouble.”

“Oh, I know. My mom used to cut and donate our hair for wigs twice a year when I was little. She said it was in high demand.”

“Bless her heart. Where’s she at now?”

“She passed away when I was ten. Cancer. I moved here with my dad after that.”

This brought murmurs of sympathy from the women.

“So young to lose a mom,” Retha said. “I lost mine in a car accident when I was still in high school. That’s hard, honey.”

Tory shrugged. “I know some kids who have both parents and are still screwed up.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Vera said, “But I bet your father is happy to have you with him still.”

The cloud that fell over Tory’s face was lost in the chorus of enthusiasm from the women when Carmen, Tanisha’s makeup artist, asked Prudence if she wanted her eyebrows done. She exchanged chairs with a grin, telling them all she wanted as much help as she could get.

They left a half hour later with a glowing Prudence who was barely recognizable from her former self. Before leaving, Prudence gladly paid the $95 for the hair and eyebrow sessions, plus another $50 for bottles of every product Tanisha used. Laughing, they piled into Sonya’s red SUV and headed for the mall.

____________________________________________________

Just shy of 6 o’clock, they returned to Prudence’s apartment carrying bags of clothing and makeup. Tory carried the pizza Sonya picked up from Anthony’s Pizza & Subs on the Square into the kitchen and took plates out of Prudence’s neat white cabinets. They chatted as they ate, exclaiming over the rude woman at the Macy’s makeup counter who insisted that magenta red was the only color that looked good on her.

“I don’t think any color would look good on her,” Sonya said. “She had a mouth like a dried prune.”

Prudence snorted. “Did you notice the way she kept going on about how much her jewelry cost?”

“If she was that loaded, she wouldn’t have been bitching about the 10% discount on the perfume.”

“Tory, language!” Sonya scolded, but she couldn’t stop her own chuckle. “Well, I guess we had ourselves an adventure today, girls. You really look amazing, Prudence.”

Prudence smiled with lips painted primrose. “I’m learning, I guess. Too bad you guys weren’t around in my early 20s. Could have saved me some heartache.”

“Nah,” Tory replied, grabbing the last slice of pizza. “Some of those experiences enhanced your character. At least that’s what a certain drama teacher told me once.”

Sonya rolled her eyes. “The Teenage Philosopher strikes again.”

Tory laughed, rising from the table with the slice. “That’s me. I’ve got to go now. I told my dad I’d be back before 7.” She put her plate in the sink, then saluted them both. “Catch you later.”

“Not so fast.” Prudence rounded the table and swept the girl up in a big hug, not surprised to feel tears threatening. “Thanks for being my friend, Tory.”

Embarrassed, Tory shrugged out of the embrace. “Now don’t ruin a good thing by getting sentimental. Your mascara will run.”

“You’re a good kid,” Prudence said. “I’m glad you’re in my life. Now scoot before I really do start crying.”

“You old people and your emotions. Good grief.” Even so, Tory flashed a smile at them both as she left.

Sonya rose to clear the plates. “I guess that’s my cue to leave, too. Xavier should be on his way home from work anyway.”

“He works on Sundays?”

“Yeah, he got a job over at Horizon Contractors doing demolition work. He’s happy as a clam wrecking stuff all day and goes in whenever they ask. But if you ask me, I think he’s trying to avoid wedding planning.”

“That must be so exciting. When is the wedding?”

“April 12th. We have the venue already, but there’s still so much to do. The flowers, invitations, the dress fittings. It's a craziness I’d avoid if I could.”

Prudence shook her head. “Well, it all sounds romantic to me. I suck at this stuff, but I could go with you for moral support anytime.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Sonya started digging in her purse. “As a matter a fact, I’ve got this thing going on this week—”

The scream from upstairs had them both staring at the ceiling. There was no mistaking Tory’s voice. They were out of the apartment and running up the stairs before it ended.

Prudence got to the door first and found it locked. She banged on it hard enough to hurt her hands. “Tory! Honey, you’ve got to open the door! Tory, can you hear us?”

Nothing.

“To hell with this,” Sonya said.

She moved Prudence out of the way and began kicking the door. Prudence started ramming her shoulder into it at the same time. When they hit it together for the fourth time, the frame busted just enough for them to get the door all the way open.

The white-walled living room was neat, sparsely furnished and deserted. They spread out, calling Tory’s name. Prudence found the kitchen beyond it just as bare and empty. Sonya reached the bathroom through the first door on the right in the hallway, flicking the light on impatiently. Clean with a couple of towels.

No people.

Prudence met her in the doorway. There were two remaining doors. The silence in the apartment was deafening. Sonya took the door at the end of the hall. Prudence took the one on the left, which ended up being Tory’s bedroom. Nothing. She came back out of the room, then spied Sonya at the end of the hall.

“It’s all right now, Tory,” Sonya said, lowering herself into a crouch.

The tone let Prudence know that whatever was in the room was bad. Very bad. She took a deep breath, then went through the door as Sonya crept Tory. The girl was rocking herself on the floor in shock.

Tomas Miller lay sprawled across the mattress, a thin man with long hair the same coal black as his daughter’s. In rumpled jeans and a pale blue shirt, his brown eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling. The heroin needle was still in his arm.

Though she knew it was pointless, Prudence forced herself to take his pulse while Sonya tried to get Tory out of the room.

“He promised me,” Tory whispered. “He promised he would stop.”

“I know, honey.” Sonya reached out to hug her.

Tory shrank back. “Don’t fucking touch me! They all die. Everybody dies. I’m toxic. It’s me. It’s always been me.”

Going with instinct, Prudence stepped around Sonya and grabbed Tory off the floor by the front of her shirt. The girl started swinging, catching her in the jaw with a fist. Prudence took the hit without flinching, knowing this was Tory’s version of hysteria.

“You’re in shock,” she said, giving her a shake. “That’s why I’m going to let that bullshit go. But you know this isn’t your fault.”

Appalled, Sonya tried to intervene. “Prudence, you should let her go.”

Prudence cut her off. “No, we have to end this right here before this place is crawling with people.” She kept her eyes on Tory’s and her fist locked on the shirt. “You can hit me again, Tory, but it’s not going to change this. I was too involved with my own shit to notice everything you couldn’t say, but I hear it now. Your father would have died whether you went out today or not. It was just a matter of time.”

She heard Sonya’s sharp intake of breath even as Tory screamed, “You didn’t even know him!”

“No, I didn’t,” Prudence continued. “But there’s no trace of him anywhere in this apartment. Not one picture. No personal items. It’s all white and bare, except your room. There’s life in there, bright purple walls with posters and artwork. He was gone a long time ago. How long were you keeping this secret?”

“Fuck you!” Tears ran down Tory’s face in rivers.

Prudence gave the shirt another shake. “You can’t fight this with attitude, Tory. How long was he doing this?”

She watched Tory’s eyes go back to the bed and flinch away.

“He started after my mom died. That’s why we moved here. He used up all our money on drugs and couldn’t keep a job.”

“What about the rest of your family?”

“My mom’s family all bailed when she was dying. Didn’t want to help pay for her treatments. His folks didn’t give a shit that he was using and wrote him off a long time ago. We speak Spanish. We’re too ghetto for all of them. I don’t have any fucking family.”

Prudence let go of her shirt and took Tory’s face in her hands. “I’m your family. You hear me? You’re my sister. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Something bad will happen to you if you stay around me.” There was something bubbling in her chest, demanding to be set free.

“That’s nonsense, Tory.”

“Bad things happen to people I care about. It’s true. My parents are dead. Ms. Danvers died of cancer two months ago. Ms. Blade was kidnapped. If something happened to you…” her breath hitched. “I can’t.”

Sonya stood beside Prudence crying tears of her own. “Honey, the whole state was looking for that truck because of what you did. You’re my hero.”

“I-If I’d been fast enough to catch the truck...if I had stayed home today, none of it would have happened. None of it.” Tory closed her eyes and let out a sob so deep it hurt her chest.

She struggled to breathe, but she couldn’t pull in air. There was only pain to fill that nothingness trying to swallow her whole. She wanted to curl up with her father on the bed, feel his arm around her, have him call her Tortellini while he talked about the days when he toured with his band.

Tory needed to hear him laugh over the time he performed in a club called Nightingale’s and saw her mother in the crowd wearing a sunflower dress like a rainbow after a storm. He said once that he never felt alive until the moment he hopped down from the stage to sweep her mother up in a kiss because he’d been waiting for her his whole life.

But he was cold now.

The ice of his skin still lingered on her fingertips from where she’d tried to shake him awake. There would be no more stories on how he charmed a pretty little nurse named Gretchel into marrying a mechanic who played in clubs on weekends. It had been years since her mother chimed in on those tales to comment that Tomas was a bad boy on stage, but had a heart of gold everywhere else.

They’d all been happy once.

That tiny house in Charleston had been heaven and earth to her. Tory remembered happy. And it was a long, long way from where she was right now.

The finality of it took the strength out of her body. Tory sagged against Prudence, too devastated to do anything but cry. She didn’t feel the arms around her or the bedroom anymore. The entire world was pain.

“Sonya, call the police,” Prudence said quietly. “I’ve got her.”

____________________________________________________

As predicted, the apartment swarmed with people over the next two hours. They waited downstairs in Prudence’s living room while the coroner examined and removed the body.

Tory remained sullen through the repetitive interviews with various police and emergency personnel. A search turned up a large stash of heroin and 4 unmarked prescription bottles of Percocet pills in her father’s bedroom closet. After that, they wanted to know if both of them used and whether her father had been a dealer.

She answered no on both counts, barely restraining herself from cursing them out. The warning looks from Prudence and Sonya’s fiance, Xavier, discouraged her from doing so. He’d arrived just after the coroner. Xavier was a tall black man with dreads dressed in jeans, boots and a beige sweater. In the course of those two hours, he told Tory about his own addict parents and their abandonment.

It seemed silly, but the disclosure made her feel better. Shitty things happened to people all the time, he explained. What mattered was what kind of person you decided to become despite all of it.

The words reminded her of what Ms. Danvers said the day Sonya had been kidnapped.

“We go on being good despite them,” Tammy whispered in her mind.

Tory leaned back against the mint green cushions of the living room couch, trying to pretend she couldn’t hear the conversation escalating into an argument in the kitchen between Prudence and the social worker.

Xavier rolled his eyes in her direction. “You remember what I told you earlier, right? They’re going to take you tonight. Same thing happened to me, but it won’t be forever.”

“He’s right,” Sonya added, “but we’ll visit you. You’re going to be okay.”

Tory fought back tears and nodded.

____________________________________________________

“What the hell do you mean she can’t stay here?” Prudence snapped. “How is it better to take a 15-year-old girl and put her with strangers instead of someone she knows?”

The social worker, a pert woman named Jacqueline Narváez with long mahogany hair and smart black glasses, sighed. “Ms. Blakefield, the state has a set of rules in place for a reason. It’s for the child’s safety.” She ticked off points on her fingers. “One, you aren’t a blood relative. Two, we have to notify the next of kin, which are the first people in line for custody. And three, drug paraphernalia was found on the scene. That means we have to determine if Tory is a user herself.”

The word “user” had Prudence seeing red.

“Her drama teacher is right in the next room vouching that she’s not!” Prudence snapped. So am I. Tory already told you her family isn’t interested. And even if they were, staying here is going to be a lot less traumatic than putting her in a house full of people looking at her like she’s got a problem.”

“That’s not the way foster care works, Ms. Blakefield.”

Prudence crossed her arms and leaned back against the counter. “Oh, really? I saw a news segment about a 5 year old one of your foster parents beat to death last week. Is that how it works?”

“I’m not your enemy, you know. We’re actually on the same side.” Ms. Narváez extracted a short stack of papers from her laptop bag and placed it on the table. “Look, both of us have Tory’s best interests at heart. This is information on our foster care program. If you fill out the top sheet and have it in my office tomorrow morning, I can arrange for you to begin taking fostering classes this week. You’ll have to pass a drug test and a full background check. Maybe you’re right about Tory’s family, Ms. Blakefield, but you have to be certified as a foster parent before the state will ever consider placing her with you. Even then, we still require permission from her living relatives. It’s going to take time.”

“How much time?”

“Realistically? Six weeks to three months.”

Prudence rubbed her forehead to soothe the headache brewing there. Xavier had already said they’d take Tory no matter what. If she gave in to her anger now, it would only be a mark against her in terms of getting custody. From the moment she’d seen the body on that mattress, she knew Tory was going to live with her. It had never even been a question.

“What about visitation?”

“If your background check and drug test come back clear, we can arrange it. Keep in mind, however, the next of kin must also agree. This is, of course, with the understanding that Tory must comply with the rules of her current residence once she’s placed. Her temporary foster placement can and will report it to us if your visits become problematic.”

“And the funeral arrangements?”

“That is also up to the next of kin. If they aren’t willing to do anything, the state will arrange a burial,” she replied, hefting the laptop bag onto her shoulder. “I have to take her now, Ms. Blakefield. I’d like to make this as painless as possible.”

Prudence arched an eyebrow, wondering how any child could ever be reassured by this woman’s clipped, matter-of-fact tone. “You’re joking right? How long have you been doing this?”

“Ten years.” Ms. Narváez held up a hand before Prudence could respond flippantly. “I actually like you, but none of this is up to me. It’s a matter for the courts now. You just need to cool off and get that form to my office as soon as you can.”

Prudence shook her head, then shoved her own inside the pockets of her pants to avoid punching her. She’d never been so angry in her life. None of this was right. None of it.

Ms. Narváez cleared her throat as she entered the living room. “Tory, I’m going to escort you upstairs, okay? You’ll need to pack a bag with a few necessities for now. We’ll come back later for the rest of your things.”

“Why can’t I stay with Prudence?” Her voice was tiny and raw.

“Until we notify your next of kin, we have to put you in foster care temporarily.”

Despite knowing it was unavoidable, Tory shook her head. “No. I want to stay with Prudence.”

“That’s not possible. I need you to come with me to get your things.”

Tory opened her mouth to protest, but Xavier went over to the couch and hunched down in front of her. “I know this is hard. I’ve been through it. But Sonya told me you’re the toughest girl she knows. We’ll figure out a way to get you back here. I promise.”

His face blurred through her tears. “Doesn’t it matter what I think?”

Xavier took her small hand in his own. “Yes, but if you don’t go with them now, they’re going to be less likely to listen to what you have to say later.”

Tory contemplated this for a minute. Then she rose from the couch, swiping at the tears on her face. “All right, fuck it. Let’s get this over with.”

She left with Ms. Narváez to go back upstairs, escorted by one of the officers lingering in the stairwell. The silence after her departure was thick with frustration.

Prudence was too agitated to sit down. “She told me I have to turn in a form in the morning and take a drug test, then I can start foster care classes.”

Sonya studied her hard. “I didn’t say anything during all this, but you shouldn’t make promises like this to Tory. Kids in these situations can’t afford broken ones.”

Her temper flared. “And just what makes you think I’d lie to her?”

Xavier held up his hand. “Whoa, Prudence. Just take a minute, all right? It’s one thing to hang out with a kid for a few days a week. It’s another thing entirely to raise one.”

Prudence waved a hand around her apartment in irritation. “Does it look like I’m doing anything else with my life right now? She helped me. There’s no way I’m just going to just turn my back on her after what happened today.”

Sonya and Xavier exchanged glances. When he only shrugged, Sonya addressed the elephant in the room. “Even if you do these classes and her family doesn’t want her, you still might not get custody.”

Brows knit, she blinked at Sonya without comprehension. “Why on earth not?”

“She looks white, Prudence. We live in the South, remember? The court might decide she’s better off with a white or Hispanic family instead of a mixed-race single woman.”

Prudence shook her head. “I don’t give a fuck about any of that. If I have Isella’s only kidnapping survivor testifying about the best interests of the girl who identified her perpetrator’s truck, what court is going to rule against me?”

Xavier stroked the stubble on his jaw. “She’s got a point, Sonya. Your celebrity is a point in her favor. Even so, her surviving family might want her.”

“I think Tory was telling the truth. If they cared, I would have seen them. I’ve been living here for years. Nobody goes upstairs except for Sandy Jenkin’s asshole boyfriend who still won’t marry her after seven years.”

“Good grief, you even sound like her now,” Sonya remarked.

“I learned from the best. So the next step is you filling me in on what I need to start teaching. High school music teacher looks better than law office clerk.”

Sonya searched her face. “You’re absolutely sure about this?”

Tory came back through the front door with her bookbag on her back and a duffle in one hand to say goodbye. Standing in the foyer with Ms. Narváez, the sheer devastation and grief on her face cut Prudence in half.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she replied.

____________________________________________________

On Monday morning, Prudence woke up early and dressed for work with care using what Sonya described as power colors. She’d avoided color for much of her life, steering towards muted patterns, dull gray-toned neutrals and the occasional purple. Today, she wore tan slacks with an orange turtleneck sweater topped off by a brand new peacoat in emerald that Tory said looked spectacular.

After spritzing her hair light with water and massaging in oils to recreate the bouncing curls from her salon visit, she watched a Youtube video to help her finish her makeup with espresso and mink shimmer eyeshadow, mascara and cat-eye liner to emphasize her odd, enormous eyes. She dotted a few acne scars with concealer, used a cream powder to blend it into her natural skin tone without detracting from her freckles, and topped off the look with a shiny lip gloss.

Studying herself in the mirror, Prudence was amazed at the change. The juxtaposition of features on her face were striking now instead of awkward. Feeling beautiful, she added dangling gold hoops, a few gold-plated bangles on her right wrist and the Oxford watch her mother gave her last Christmas.

Since Saturday night, Prudence had spent a long time assessing her life and how to change it. Every time her mind and body tried to revolt into panic mode, she remembered Tory rocking herself on the floor beside her father’s body. Fear had no place in her life anymore. If a fifteen-year-old girl like Tory could survive losing a mother to cancer and a father to drugs, she had zero excuses as to why her own life didn’t work. It was time to take responsibility for hiding in her own skin as a doormat, afraid of everyone and everything.

Prudence considered that maybe she’d allowed fear to dominate her life because she’d never had an actual reason to do otherwise. Yes, she’d been alone all her life. But her foundation had been forged by parents who loved each other and had extremely successful careers. As a child of academics, Prudence also had the advantage of international travel and being surrounded by intellectuals all her life. Her grandparents on both sides and a small number of surviving extended family consisted of doctors, lawyers and a handful of entrepreneurs.

Prudence had never known actual poverty. She was going to make sure Tory never did either. The girl was the smartest kid she’d ever met. When she’d explained this fact in a video chat with her parents Sunday morning, they merely asked her if she needed any help. It made her smile thinking about it. Her parents believed in a world where light and love made things possible for everyone. They didn’t say she was crazy for taking a chance on a girl they’d never met. Instead, they said how proud they were of her decision to help someone in need.

Prudence polished off her coffee as she filled out the foster parent form and reviewed the criteria necessary to become one. She’d spent her entire life wondering without aim or purpose. Before, it had been enough just to get through the day. Now she wanted more.

It had only been a week, but Tory made her feel like she mattered. Even better, she inspired Prudence to accept herself as she was rather than how the world expected her to be. She’d never had that kind of unconditional love from anyone except her parents.

After hearing all Tory told the police, Prudence believed the girl had experienced so much heartache that it would only take one more push to make her give up on everything. In her heart, she knew that push would be finishing her teenage years in institutional foster care among strangers. Her mother had been unable to fight the cancer. Her father had lost his war with drugs. This time Tory needed someone to fight for her.

Prudence had no intention of losing a battle with the system. What the hell good was a job in a law office anyway if you couldn’t get good legal advice? She took the bus into work to find out.

____________________________________________________

Tory’s English teacher Mr. Olsen was a large Nordic man with gorilla hands. He was also funny and charming, which endeared him to all his tenth grade students. Yet even he could not redeem Ethan Frome to any of them. She watched her classmates tear apart the doomed romance and resulting hilarity in a state of detachment.

Mrs. Epstein had dropped her off at school only an hour earlier. Tory could have stayed out, but last night dissuaded her of the notion that any additional time spent in the Epstein household would be enjoyable. The social worker arrived at the house just after 10pm with Tory in tow, thanking the couple again for opening their doors for crisis placement. Mrs. Narváez explained that this would not be her permanent foster home. People like Mr. & Mrs. Epstein house kids in crisis situations anywhere from 24 hours to three weeks until more concrete arrangements could be made.

Thirty minutes later, she found herself alone with the couple and subject to a lengthy speech about expectations, rewards and punishments. Mrs. Epstein referred to her father as a drug addict no less than six times, remarking that children from “such people” usually lack the necessary moral training to achieve a successful life. So there would be no “bad language, whoring with boys, drug use or ditching school” on their watch. The couple also searched her bags for weapons, stating that any threat against them would be taken seriously. A list of chores would be assigned daily. And her curfew was 7pm sharp even on weekends.

Tory imagined the speech would have been far longer had they known about the cigarettes in her jeans. She understood right off that they considered her to be a white trash orphan. Thankfully, they weren’t too keen on body searches. Instead, they left her alone in a generic taupe room with white furniture and a bed hard enough to qualify as a floor.

She waited until the entire house was still to climb out of the single window and scramble onto the roof. There, she smoked three cigarettes under indifferent stars, wondering if her new friend would really fight for custody.

That day in the stairwell had been the crisis point for Prudence, but it had been one of resignation for Tory.

During the interviews with the police, Tory explained she’d been scheduling her father's days for the last two and a half years after he finished his afternoon shift at the gas station to keep him from using. She kept his attention with board and trivia games from 5pm to 6:30pm. After that, they watched the cooking channel while experimenting with recipes in the kitchen. Clean up came next, followed by rehearsing scripts from movies she printed out from online to improve her acting skills until he tired. At 6am, she woke him promptly every morning and cooked breakfast while he showered. They piled into his silver Dodge Wrangler at 7:20 am. He dropped her off at school and headed to work. On weekends, she scheduled recreational or cultural events to attend, shopping trips, or car maintenance.

There was not a single aspect of their routine Tory didn’t know about or plan. She searched the apartment routinely for drugs and currently only slept two hours at a time to check on him in his bedroom.

In the past year, her father waited until she slept to use it. Four times, Tory found him on his bedroom floor in a drugged stupor. She would get him on his feet and relocate him to the living room. She cleaned up the drool slipping down his chin when he spaced out for ten-minute intervals. And she plied him with coffee until the worst of it wore off.

Once, she discovered him slumped over on the living room couch high after shooting up while she finished up an unexpected biology assignment. Tory always completed her homework before he came home. And she was always home by that time, even if it meant running the nine blocks from school to their apartment. But her guilt over the incident had been so enormous that she stopped eating lunch at school and forged a note for gym class so homework never interrupted their day again.

Yet despite taking every precaution, Tory had been in the stairwell that fateful afternoon she met Prudence because her father had already been doped up when she arrived home from school. A phone call to his job informed her that he’d also lied about a family emergency to get off early. Casey, the store manager, asked whether the punk harassing her had been dealt with by the school. Since the woman had a couple of kids also attending Isella High, her concern about the situation had been genuine.

She knew Casey’s kids, Bryan and Joy. Like her, they had also lost a parent. Their father had been driven off the road by a drunk driver the same year her mother died of cancer. Yet their mother was functional, dependable, and sober. They never had to worry about finding a parent passed out on the floor when they arrived home.

In that instant, she hated him for it.

Tory lied smoothly that afternoon, explaining that her father was still talking to the principal. She also apologized for taking her father away from work to deal with the whole mess. She asked if he needed to make up the shift. Casey told her not to worry. Mike could just return the favor whenever she had a school headache of her own.

Slipping her phone into her back pocket, Tory stood in the living room and studied her father. In his stupor, he’d pissed himself again. The smell of it had knocked her backwards when she entered the foyer. By her calculation, he’d been on the floor for about two hours.

For once, she left him that way and walked right back out.

Tory fished her cigarettes out of her other pocket, settled on the stairs and lit up. And sitting there, she spied a disheveled Prudence having a breakdown in front of her apartment door. The woman had seemed broken and edging towards hysteria. Used to her father’s bouts of drug-induced paranoia, she knew sarcasm and sharpness snapped people out of moods like that. So she told Prudence her outfit was shit. It worked.

But the moment she decided to enter Prudence's apartment, she’d resigned herself to the fact that her father’s drug abuse would escalate no matter what she did. He was trying to kill himself. She just hadn’t thought it would happen so soon.

The bell rang, jarring Tory out of her thoughts. She began gathering her things to head to Geometry class. Distracted, she didn’t notice Mr. Olsen standing next to her desk until she turned and ran right into him.

“Sorry, Mr. Olsen,” she said, shuffling past him.

He put a hand on her shoulder to stop her. “Are you all right, Tory? I noticed you didn’t have any of the usual smart alec remarks today.”

She opened her mouth to lie, but burst into tears instead. Her embarrassment only made her cry harder. Mr. Olsen closed the door to the classroom and fetched a box of tissues.

“This is my planning period,” he told her as he handed her the box. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me what’s the matter? I’ll write you an excuse for your next class.”

Tory sat back down in her desk chair. “My father died last night.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that, Tory.” He settled his large frame onto the desktop across from her. “Why did you come to school today? You probably should have stayed home.”

“They put me in a foster home. I don’t want to be there right now.”

“I see.” He tugged on the silver ring he wore on a chain around his neck. “Nothing I can say is going to make what you’re going through any easier, but I will say this: you are my favorite student.”

“You’re saying that to make me feel better. That’s lame as shit.”

To her surprise, he laughed. “No, it’s actually the truth. I think you’re smarter than any student I’ve ever taught, Tory. So I know you’re smart enough to get yourself through this. Your father would want you to succeed.”

“My father is a drug addict who overdosed,” she said bitterly.

“And my father was an alcoholic who drank himself to death,” he replied. “I was a class clown to cover my hurts. You’re a smart-mouthed cynic to hide yours. None of us get the lives we want, Tory. Not you. Not me. Not even poor Ethan Frome. But we do have a choice about whether our stories are beautiful or tragic.”

“I’m not planning on sledding into any trees, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I think you're planning to give up. I know you were close to Ms. Delaney. The only other time I’ve seen you close to this state was just after she passed away.”

Tory looked down. “I didn’t go to her funeral. My father had been using that morning. I was scared to leave him alone.”

Mr. Olsen nodded. “Tammy would have understood that. She told me a lot about how much you helped her and how secretive you were about it all. So I never mentioned it.”

“Why would she tell you anything?”

“I dated Tammy for three years. Even asked her to marry me.” He held up the sapphire ring for Tory to inspect. “She gave me back the ring and moved out after she was diagnosed. Said she didn’t want me to watch her die, but I stuck around anyway. I loved her very much.”

“She never talked about you.”

“Yeah, well, all she talked about was you. For a little while, you gave her the daughter she wasn’t able to have. So figure out how to make the best of this situation for her sake. God knows that’s what I’ve been doing now that she’s gone.”

Tory studied the ring for a moment, smirked. “Why the hell didn’t you get her a diamond? You know that sapphire crap didn’t even work for Kate Winslet in Titanic.”

“There’s my girl,” Mr. Olsen said with a wink.

____________________________________________________

The first thing Prudence did once she reached her desk was schedule an appointment with Ms. Diggs upstairs. Maybe she would have some legal insights regarding Tory’s case. Her assistant managed to squeeze Prudence in at noon for a half hour between meetings. Next, she finished up a handful of phone calls regarding missing and delayed packages. Then she was off to sort the mail.

Her coworkers were unnaturally quiet all morning. Occasional whispers stumbled in her direction. Prudence paid them no mind. Recalling the various humiliations all of them had laughed at over the years made ignoring them quite easy.

The reactions over her new look told her that none of them thought of her as an actual person. Not one of her coworkers made a positive comment or even said hello. She realized she’d been a placeholder for ridicule and scorn, a vehicle used to make them feel more powerful in their dead-end careers. They all believed they each belonged to the firm despite being mice trapped in a basement riding desks into a crumb of a pension. Now that she’d changed so radically, their reaction was fear instead of support.

Yes, she’d been hiding long enough.

As she entered the elevator with her mail cart, Prudence discovered that she wasn’t even angry about any of it. It actually made her feel sorry for them.

When she entered the lion’s den on the second floor, she had her answer. Nervous shock may have permeated the atmosphere in the basement, but there was outright animosity. The faces of the other women morphed into venomous sneers and malicious snickers as soon as the doors opened. Male employees gave her coldly amused double-takes and derisive raised eyebrows. But underneath it all was fear.

As she calmly placed mail on each desk, Prudence recognized that the entire office ran on fear through competition. The employees all wanted to be trendsetters and people to know. But the pursuit of those things had made them into horrible people.

Living on the cutting edge also meant eventually becoming a blade. Biting sarcasm, stabbing comments, and cutthroat wit were staples, things they deemed necessary to succeed. Her job in the basement had actually been training to make her like one of these soulless individuals.

No one said anything to Prudence as she carried on with her tasks. This, too, was a change. Her transformation made them unsure of where they stood.

All except Betsy.

Prudence felt the woman’s eyes on her the entire time, burning with a hatred so red she could actually feel the heat of it on her skin. She wondered why it never occurred to her that Betsy had stopped being human a long time ago. It was obvious that she fed on the misery of everyone in the building. Her venom was actually how she kept herself beautiful. As far as Prudence could recall, the days Betsy looked the most magnificent were also the days when she was the most callous to everyone.

With this understanding, she saved Betsy’s desk for last.

As she placed a stack of mail on the corner of her desk, Prudence watched Betsy’s face change into an ode to malice. She was no longer beautiful. Having been upstaged and booted out of the center of attention, the ugliness of her spirit pushed to the forefront.

“So the ugly duckling has a new look,” Betsy spat, chuckling without humor. “If we’d known you were going to try to look like a real person, we might have invited you to Siesta’s for drinks Saturday night. Most of us were there except you.” She took a long minute to examine her manicure, satisfied that the entire room was enthralled. “So how many nitwit Youtube videos did you binge-watch that night to put this outfit together, Prudy?”

Betsy’s words did not have the intended effect. Prudence had an instant flash of her actual Saturday night: Tory crying in the doorway clutching her backpack while the social worker said she’d be in touch about visitation. Instead of evoking mortification and embarrassment, Prudence felt anger ignite in her chest. She looked around, further infuriated by the other employees gleefully waiting for her to cry and flee.

This wasn’t a lion’s den. It was a psychic vampire cave.

“You know, I spent my vacation last summer in Indonesia because my parents invited me to explore historic ruins with one of their archaeologist friends,” Prudence said. “Last month, I played in a symphony performing in Radio City Music Hall with several Congressional leaders present. I also have a Doctorate in music. Betsy, being in this building has always been a side-gig for me, but this is actually your whole life.” Saying the truth of it out loud shifted her anger into pity. “So what went so wrong in your world that you have to make us all suffer for it?”

For a full thirty seconds, no one moved. Time slowed. Prudence watched her words ripple across Betsy’s face with all the impact of an earthquake. Cracks appeared in her expensive makeup as her features twisted into rage. Suddenly, Jennifer sprang up from her chair to yank Betsy backward just before her manicured nails raked across Prudence’s face.

“You little shit!’ Betsy screamed, spittle flying in all directions. “You think anybody gives here a fuck about you? We knew what you were from the day you started working here: a pathetic black bitch with—”

“That’s enough.”

The quiet voice cut through the room like a rifle shot.

All eyes turned to see Chastity Diggs standing next to a junior lawyer, Timothy Chen. Both of them had just emerged from his office alongside Dr. Elliot Parrish, president of Morningside Hospital. All three had been in a consultation regarding whether the firm would handle a bogus suit filed against the hospital by an E.R. surgeon who had been let go due to a track record of showing up intoxicated at work.

Diversity had never been a problem in Chastity’s firm. As a white female in a white-male dominated field, she took a great deal of pride in bringing on legal talent impacted by the same glass ceiling that had blocked her own advancement. She’d taken on clients other firms blocked from representation to keep the good ol’ boy network of the South going. Her success was due to this very fact.

But as she watched the spectacle unfolding in front of her, Chastity felt ill. All her planning and success had been made by utilizing the same types of people that she’d sought to avoid her entire career. The fact that not a single employee in the room except Jennifer had felt the need to intervene spoke volumes to the type of work environment she’d cultivated by happenstance.

Betsy’s face drained of color. She snatched away from Jennifer, smoothing her hair and skirt with nervous hands. “Ms. Diggs, I—” she began.

“You’re fired, Ms. Klein,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Remove yourself from my building in the next five minutes or I will have security personally escort you out.” In a softer tone, she said, “Prudence, I personally apologize to you on behalf of my firm. I can see from your expression that it won’t be enough, but I’m asking you to wait in my office while I finish this meeting. Give me a chance to speak with you before you make a decision.”

Prudence glanced around her at the faces frozen in various stages of chagrin and embarrassment. “I have no intention of spending any more time in this building. If it’s all right, I’d rather call you this afternoon.”

Chastity nodded, then swept the room with a look so scathing several employees flinched. “As for the rest of you, every person present will report to Conference Room A tomorrow morning at 5:30 a.m. so we can discuss exactly why a room full of Ivy League professionals cannot dismantle conflict before it becomes personal. This is a mandatory meeting. Failure to attend will be seen as a sign of your resignation. Now get back to work.”

Employees scrambled like roaches as Prudence walked to the elevator. She didn’t bother to grab the mail cart. Without a word, she exited the second floor for the last time.

____________________________________________________

While Chastity dealt with the spectacle, Elliot Parish walked back into Timothy Duy’s office. He settled into one of the burgundy leather office chairs and unbuttoned his suit jacket. Timothy followed him, looking lost with his hands in his pockets.

“Tim, tell me that’s decent scotch in that decanter,” Elliot said.

Timothy arched an eyebrow. “I’m a little insulted by that after you scored that bottle of Laphroaig 27 off me after last week’s poker game. I was saving that for a rainy day.”

Elliot laughed. “It’s raining now, son. Pour me a glass, will you? And you have one yourself before you have a stroke. Everything’s fine.”

Timothy grinned back, feeling the tension fall from his shoulders. He literally ran into Elliot six months ago during his father’s triple bypass surgery. Rushing from court to soothe his frantic mother, Timothy turned a corner on the 6th floor and nearly knocked Elliot off his feet. To his credit, Elliot had merely asked the status of his relative. Upon finding out his father was the legendary Richard Duy, owner of the Vietnamese restaurant Blue Lotus, Elliot personally escorted Timothy to his room. Over the days that followed, Timothy found out that Elliot ran the poker club his father had attended once a week for the last decade.

“I met your father when he first opened Blue Lotus,” Elliot explained after badgering Timothy into getting coffee in the hospital cafeteria the following Friday. “He hosted my wedding reception. Your grandfather, Quang, also attended. After a while, they got tired of me hanging out at their house and asking for free food. So I started a poker club and asked them to bring free food there instead.” He laughed good-naturedly. “We’ve missed your father these last weeks.”

Timothy smiled. “He loves being there. I think he mentioned that a couple of you lost all your money the last time he played. I would have loved to see that.”

“Your father’s doing great. They’ll release him early next week. But until he’s back at the table with us, why don’t you fill in for him? Any good at poker?”

“Who’s my father again? He taught me how to play when I was 9. We used to fleece all our relatives with the ‘he’s just learning this’ scam.”

“We’ll see, young buck. We’ll see. We play at my house every Saturday night. I’ll text you the address.”

Timothy attended the next night and had a great time. He lost $200, but considered it worth it. Months later, his father rejoined the group. Now it was their regular father-son outing that both his wife and his mother rolled their eyes over. So his offer to handle the malpractice case was a way of thanking Elliot for years of friendship.

What he had not expected was to see one of his coworkers starting a fight and making racist comments on the same day he brought the first African-American president of Morningside Hospital through the doors. It wasn’t just that it was an embarrassment. It put an appalling smear on the entire firm and made him reassess his place there yet again.

It was true that Diggs, Myers & Benson was diverse. But it was sheer illusion to believe there wasn’t a hierarchy within its walls. It had become routine for less talented lawyers to drop their busywork on his desk every Friday as if it was his job to be their weekend gopher. He watched many of them go to trendy parties in town without ever getting an invite. It was also a common assumption that he was an immigrant who got his place at the firm through special incentives.

The truth was that Timothy had been born in the United States. His grandfather immigrated with his family after the fall of Saigon in 1975 when his father was fourteen years old. Timothy was born a decade later after his father married his mother Leng, a second generation Japanese-American. Leng’s grandparents had arrived childless in the United States at the height of World War II only to be surprised by her mother's birth while they were in their 40s. To say the families clashed was an understatement. They all hated each other in the beginning, running on cultural stereotypes from their homelands.

Eventually, Richard and Leng won them all over. Their love was strong enough to unite two families torn apart by two very different wars. It was the kind of story that only existed in America. Timothy was proud of his mixed heritage and the hope within it.

What he disliked was the constant derision from other citizens who wanted to lay claim to the American Dream as if it only belonged to them. As far as Timothy was concerned, the United States was a nation of immigrants founded by immigrants who laid siege to it from natives. It meant that every American had been a product of someone else’s tragedy, either here or abroad. He felt this truth shouldn’t be a dirty little secret in forgotten history books. It should just be common knowledge.

Timothy joined the firm because he believed Chastity Diggs believed this as well. He thought she wanted to reflect the melting pot of America in a better way than her predecessors. What he’d seen that morning confirmed his suspicion that a lot of it was superficial. He still supported Chastity’s vision, but not the implementation. If he stayed, changes would have to be made and some problematic people would have to go.

To his mind, Benson was at the top of the list. In fact, Betsy and anybody else he’d ever had an issue with at the firm had been hired by Benson. He surrounded himself with casually rich people who were just as shallow as he was.

Contemplating this, he handed Elliot his drink just as Chastity re-entered his office.

“Elliot, I can’t begin to express my horror over all this. That’s not what my firm is about. I can assure you—”

Elliot waved a hand. “Chastity, sit down and have a scotch. I’m not going anywhere.”

Chastity motioned for Timothy to pour one for her as well. “So you are still considering having us handle your case?”

“Of course. She’s fired. The whole building is on notice that change is coming. What more are you supposed to do? This is the same scenario that happened when I fired Capannoni. I had half a dozen other problematic employees coming to the E.R. and O.R. after drinking binges or visible hangovers. They thought I wasn’t paying attention. Firing Capannoni put them all on notice that intoxication and laziness will not be tolerated. So now he’s saying his termination is reverse racism instead of the fact that our patients deserve better than a drunk surgeon. I need a firm that understands what I’m dealing with. I took the day off to hire you and maneuver my way into pilfering Timothy’s scotch before I take an Uber back home.” He lifted his glass in salute, then took a casual sip of his drink. “I assume you’ll be cleaning house tomorrow?”

Chastity took a sip of her own scotch. “Dismantling and rebuilding is more like it. Too many people in that room were waiting for Prudence to cry so they could enjoy it. I appreciate the skill of sharks in the courtroom, but I don’t want them in my office.”

“I’m actually relieved to hear you say that,” Timothy said. “I’d been thinking about leaving for a while, actually,” Timothy said.

Chastity looked stricken. “Please tell me you’re not leaving now. You’re one of our best.”

“I’ll stay on through this case. Perhaps we should discuss this later,” he replied, shifting his eyes towards Elliot.

“Don’t look at me, son,” Elliot said with a chuckle. “Speak your mind. With as much money as the hospital is going to bring to this firm, I’m here solely for the entertainment factor right now.”

Chastity sat back, considered. “You really have been thinking about this. What’s your top complaint?”

Timothy’s stomach nearly heaved at the question. It wasn’t his way to be direct like this, but he gathered up his courage and spoke. “I know I could be fired on the spot for this, but Benson is the core of the problem. The people he hires are just like him: self-absorbed and looking for the lifestyle of a lawyer without being any good at law.”

Her lips twitched despite herself at his wording. “Ouch. Benson has always had a solid success rate.”

Timothy squared his shoulders. “True, but success at what? Technicalities? How many cases has he actually won on merit rather than highlighting the blunders of opposing counsel? That’s his whole play in court. It’s ugly business to watch. I’ve seen him reduce seasoned lawyers to tears for the sport of it. He’s a Benson from "The Bensons." So he must be good. That kind of thing is how Betsy got in here. I never would have hired her. She files her nails more than paperwork, but her family owns the Eisenhower Estate Country Club. She knows the right people. I started working here to practice law, not rub shoulders with the entitled.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before, Tim?”

“Because I’m not one of the entitled. I don’t have the connections necessary to say any of this without repercussions.” Timothy shrugged. “That’s just the way it’s always been.”

Chastity smiled, contemplating the sound of Diggs, Myers & Duy. “Not anymore.”

____________________________________________________

Jacqueline Narváez sat at a table in the guidance counselor's office of Isella High School. She scribbled notes on two other case files while she waited for Tory to arrive. The obnoxiously loud wall clock ticked down the final minutes towards the last bell of the day. She occasionally scowled at it.

This wasn’t the end of the day for her whatsoever.

Isella was a small city with moderately-sized hells created by the drug and gun trafficking outsourced to their community by Richmond and D.C. players. Within those hells, Isella’s children were very much at risk on a daily basis. Child poverty was double the national average. Drug use and overdoses rated triple. Since the motto in even illegal industries was to recruit young, Isella also had larger than normal juvenile and alternative education facilities.

Being honest, Jacqueline was surprised Tory had never been in one of them. It was rare to meet a teen who had such an innate sense of responsibility for an addict parent without falling prey to drug abuse or self harm themselves. Tory just had a smart mouth. Even that was tame by some of the things she’d seen.

It was also rare for a temporary foster family to request a longer stay for any youth. These types of foster parents typically wanted to help only during the crisis period, often as a way of indirectly thanking those who had helped them as youth as well.

Mr. & Mrs. Epstein had become quite enamored with Tory. It had taken only a couple of days for one of the neighbors to inform them they’d taken in the student who helped save Isella’s beloved drama teacher, Sonya Blade. A Google search later told them Tory was an honor roll student who had never been in trouble and had a 1475 on the SATs she’d taken early. To their minds, they’d hit the foster care lottery. Suddenly, Jaqueline found herself on the receiving end of unsolicited progress reports and daily updates on the status of Tory’s family interest.

Sadly, the girl’s family wanted nothing to do with her. It made no difference how many relatives Jaqueline called. They all behaved as if Tomas Miller had been dead already for years instead of a month. “Not my problem” was the response every time. Her mother’s side of the family was even worse. Their interest in Tory’s current situation was polite disinterest. No one wanted to “take on trouble.” With a family like that, it was no wonder her father had ended up overdosing on a mattress. Talking to them made her fingers itch for cigarettes though she’d stopped smoking more than three years ago.

Jaqueline knew that Tory’s situation should have been squared away two when her foster family made a bid for custody. But no one had counted on the determination of Prudence Blakefield or her assortment of well-connected friends. Prudence finished a six-week foster care program in two and half weeks by driving between three counties to complete them in record time. She’d passed the background check and drug screening. Her educational background and symphony tours guaranteed Tory would be exposed to a broader range of opportunities than her current foster parents could provide. Prudence also had two retired university professors, a lawyer with her own firm, Isella’s kidnapping survivor and Jay Monts vouching for her.

The day the mayor called her office asking about Tory Miller’s case surprised everyone except Jaqueline. Everything from Isella’s foster care system to the town’s reputation was on the hot seat with her case. There were too many high-profile people involved if it was handled the wrong way. So the legal proceedings had been done faster than the ink could dry. Now all that was left was informing Tory of where she would go. She’d called Prudence a few minutes ago to meet them at the school as a surprise and arranged for Tory to leave early as well.

The girl in question entered the room just as Jaqualine finished up her notes on the placement of a 6-month old across town whose mother had committed suicide. She glanced up from her paperwork and did a double-take.

Tory was not Tory.

Jaqualine had expected the usual black-purple-gray ensemble and sneakers Tory typically wore with dark makeup and wild waves of hair. Instead, Tory entered with a neat pony-tail, makeup free, and dressed in tan chinos with a striped sweater. She set a brand-new beige backpack down beside a chair in front of the table. Once she sat down, Tory clasped her hands in her lap and continued to stare at them intently as if they held the mysteries of the universe.

She looked more miserable than Jaqualine had ever seen her.

“Tory, are you all right?” she asked.

When Tory did not give her usual flippant response, Jaqualine tried again. “Is everything all right with your foster placement?” She’d learned weeks ago that calling them her “foster family” would only anger the girl.

“Why am I here?” Tory replied quietly.

Jaqualine became alarmed. “This is not like you. The Tory I know would have a better comeback than that. Where did you get this outfit?”

Tory’s breath hitched though she tried to stop it. “She threw away all my clothes and my books while I was sleeping. She said I need to dress and behave like a member of their family.”

“Oh, Tory. I’m so sorry.”

“My father bought me that backpack when we visited Cape Cod last summer,” she said, struggling not to sob. “We stayed at the beach for a week. She threw it away like it was nothing.”

Tory wondered why there were tears now. There had been none two days ago when she’d woken to find most of her belongings gone. Mrs. Epstein sailed into the room just after 6:30am with the announcement that Tory was embarking on a new life. She brought in piles of clothes, shoes and accessories. She’d fawned over each item like she was displaying it one of those Home Shopping Channels old people loved. And the entire time Tory had been so angry that no words could even come out of her mouth.

Her books were gone. All 60 of them. She’d bought all of them with her father. He’d even written her name in a few. The backpack she loved was in the garbage. Her notebooks of sketch art would never be returned. The broken charm bracelet she’d had on the dresser that her mother gave her when she was 5 was also discarded. Everything had been tossed except the items she’d hidden under the loose boards of the closet.

It never occurred to Mrs. Epstein that what she’d done was wrong. She carried the same air of self-righteousness she had when Tory asked once why her room was routinely searched while she was at school. So that morning Tory endured yet another half-hour lecture on how ungrateful she was for not showing more enthusiasm for God’s intervention.

“But my father gave me those things,” she’d said.

“Your father was a drug addict and a no-account,” Mrs. Epstein snapped. “The sooner you forget him, the better off you’ll be. He may be the reason why you ended up with us, but you won’t follow him into the gutter. We’re going to save you from yourself and retrain you for a better life.”

Her training had begun in earnest that very afternoon with an etiquette lesson Mrs. Hatley at the Isella Repertory Company and a Bible Study class with the Crisis Ministers of Monroe County. Mrs. Hatley disliked her on sight and the ministers introduced her to a group of fifteen strangers as the daughter of two drug addicts who overdosed because they denied the grace of God. When she corrected them by saying her mother had actually died of cancer, one minister suggested the illness had been sent as punishment for godlessness.

Tory had spent two days wondering what she’d done to deserve this nightmare. Despite probing every crevice of her memory, she had no answer. Sitting there facing Jacqueline, she could not silence the pain locked in her chest anymore.

The plea rolled from her lips, desperate: “Please, don’t send me back there. Please.”

Then Tory put her face down on the table and just cried.

Jacqueline rounded the table to try to comfort her, but Tory shrank away from her touch. It made her wonder what else had gone on in the Epstein household. Tory had previously been warm towards Jacqueline, even when she’d been mouthy. A few times, she’d even gotten a hug from the girl. Tory’s reaction was so out of character that it prompted Jacqualine to ask if something else had gone on at home.

Tory sat back, but would not meet her eyes. Fresh tears ran down her face.

“It’s all right, Tory. Telling me removes them from future foster care. I just need to know. I’ll believe you,” Jacqueline told her.

“It wasn’t enough that she threw away my things,” Tory said through gritted teeth. “She made me strip that morning to prove I wasn’t pregnant. She told me if I fought her, she’d report me for assault and I’d go to jail. She wasn’t fucking satisfied until I was standing there naked.” The humiliation of the memory made her shake with rage. “I had to turn around three times with my arms out at my sides so she could make sure my stomach hadn’t changed. I got grilled on the last date of my period and sex partners with no clothes on. She doesn’t believe I’ve never slept with anyone. Even said that shit to my face. Then she packed my nightclothes in a garbage bag and made me get dressed in the new clothes right in front of her. I had to style my hair the way she liked and scrub my face until she was happy with it. And when she opened the door, I saw that her husband had been in the hallway the entire time like some fucking perv.” She put her face in her hands. “She said ‘inspection’ will happen once a month like clockwork to keep me from being a whore and that if I’m lying about my period schedule, I’m going to the gynecologist.”

Tory balled her fists at her temples. “I can’t do this. Please, don’t make me go back there.”

Jacqueline felt sick to her stomach. They’d never had a bad report about the Epsteins. Then again, Tory had been there longer than any child ever placed in their home. She vowed internally to handle this that very afternoon.

“You don’t have to go back there,” Jacqueline said.

Tory slid tormented eyes towards her. “Don’t say that shit if it’s not true.”

“It’s true. You aren’t going to another home either, I promise.”

“You’re lying to me,” she sobbed.

“I’m not lying. You’re going with her.” Jacqueline nodded towards the doorway.

Prudence stood there with a perplexed look. “Jacqueline, what’s going on? I thought you said she’d been happy about this?”

The look of hope blooming across Tory’s face made Jacqueline remember why she decided to become a social worker. She watched Tory fly across the room and nearly knock Prudence over with a hug so fierce it made her own eyes sting.

“You came back like you said you would,” Tory said, crying into Prudence’s shoulder.

“Of course, I did,” she said gently, returning the hug. “I told you that you’re my sister. And sisters stick together.”

“I love you, Prudence.”

Prudence laughed. “Okay, I love you, too. But what the hell happened to your clothes? This outfit is shit on a stick.”

When Tory laughed uproariously, Jacqueline knew everything would work out just fine.