Author/Uploaded by Yvonne Woon
Contents Cover Title Page Dedication Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Ch...
Contents Cover Title Page Dedication Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Coda Acknowledgments About the Author Books by Yvonne Woon Back Ad Copyright About the Publisher ii iii v 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 218 219 220 221 222 223 224 225 226 227 228 229 230 231 232 233 234 235 236 237 238 239 240 241 242 243 244 245 246 247 248 249 250 251 252 253 254 255 256 257 258 259 260 261 262 263 264 265 266 267 268 269 270 271 272 273 274 275 276 277 278 279 280 281 282 283 284 285 286 287 288 289 290 291 292 293 294 295 296 297 298 299 300 301 302 303 304 305 306 307 308 309 310 311 312 313 314 315 316 317 318 319 320 321 322 323 324 325 326 327 328 329 330 331 332 333 334 335 336 337 338 339 340 341 iv Guide Cover Contents 1 Dedication For my dad 1 Picture, if you’ll indulge me, a portrait gallery. It’s a jewel-toned room wallpapered to look seamless, as though there are no windows or doors, no entrances or exits. The subjects clasp their hands stiffly at their waists, emanating a quiet power. Power that was framed and nailed into the walls. Power that trapped you, that seemed dead but was very much alive, that you could pass every day, not knowing it was there, watching you, altering the direction of your feet as you walked. If you asked me to describe St. Francis School in a single image, this is the one I would choose. Not because it depicts a place steeped in old money or a sycophantic worshipping of the past, though both were true of St. Francis, but because it was a trick. The thing about portraits is that they’re an illusion. The subject puts on their best outfit, their finest face. The painter makes their shoulders squarer, their cheeks rosier, their fabrics richer. You believe what you’re seeing is true, but it’s a distortion. Look closer. Maybe you’ll spot a telling detail: a fly on the still life, a wrinkle in the skin, an errant brushstroke that makes the eye glint. Are you paying attention? I was standing in the portrait gallery at St. Francis when the message came in. The room that evening was humming with people. We were there for the fall alumni gala, which was billed as a night for students to network with alumni about colleges, but it was really a fundraising event for the school. Every event in the Washington, DC, area is, at heart, a fundraiser, you just have to figure out who has the money and who’s asking for it. In the hierarchy of fancy parties, alumni galas, even at a school like St. Francis, weren’t high on the list of places to be seen at, but my family and I had long stopped being invited to public events, so the ones at St. Francis were all I had left. “What do you think he did to get his money?” Adam said beside me, nodding to one of the portraits. “Oil? Railroads?” “Newspaper magnate,” I said. “How do you know?” “The newspaper on the floor by his chair,” I said. “The black smudges on his thumb and forefinger. Everything in art is a symbol.” He feigned skepticism, but I could tell he knew I was right. Adam Goldman was one of my few remaining friends, if you could even call him that. We didn’t spend time together outside of school; in fact, we rarely spent time together in school because he didn’t like to be seen with me. I pretended I didn’t care, that I wasn’t bothered by the way all my former friends avoided me as if what had happened to me was contagious. Though Adam wasn’t part of their group, he orbited them—the popular and powerful at St. Francis, which I once was a part of. Sometimes I resented that he had access to them when I didn’t, though I was glad for his company, even if it was only in
Author: Brenda Trim & Tia Didmon
Year: 2023
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