MILAN SLUMPED, TRYING TO TELEGRAPH THAT SHE DIDN’T CARE. Her stomach ached.
Behind her polished oak desk, Ms. Robbins steepled her hands, matching fingertip to fingertip.
Milan made herself meet the headmistress’s cool gray gaze. The silence stretched out until it was nearly unbearable.
It was Ms. Robbins who finally broke. “I know this last year has been difficult for you.”
Difficult? Milan suppressed a bark of laughter.
“Still, I would have expected better from the daughter of a senator.” Ms. Robbins separated her hands and laid them on her desk. “Of two senators.”
“Not simultaneously.” Milan’s voice was flat. “My dad had to die for my mom to get his seat.”
Ms. Robbins winced. “I’m sure the circumstances were incredibly difficult for both of you, but she is carrying on your dad’s legacy of protecting the environment.” Before becoming a senator, Milan’s dad had been the CEO of Earth Energy, an alternative energy company that harvested energy from the wind, the sun, and even the ocean’s waves. As a senator, he’d hoped to do even more to reverse the damage humans had done.
Her mom, who shared the same focus, had liked Briar Woods’ green campus, which included low-flow toilets, environmental restoration projects, and growing their own organic food.
Before her dad died, Milan had attended public school in Portland. Her mom had worked part-time for Save Our Salmon, roping in their deep-pocketed friends for boring fundraisers. Most weekends, her dad flew home. He and Milan would go out for breakfast or on long hikes.
The morning he died, her dad had been driving Milan to their favorite waffle place when his SUV drifted out of the lane. The resulting accident flipped their RAV4 Hybrid over and over. Her dad died instantly, and Milan’s left leg was now held together with pins.
After her mom ran for his seat and won, Milan braced for the move from Portland to DC, for leaving behind Chance and all her other friends. The reality was worse. According to her mom, the public schools in DC were notorious for metal detectors, high dropout rates, and low test scores. But putting Milan in one of DC’s private schools would have looked elitist. Her mom didn’t want to be seen as privileged or as someone who thought her kid deserved better, even though she was and she did.
So citing a senator’s long hours and her new status as a single parent, her mom enrolled Milan in a Massachusetts boarding school landscaped with native plants and powered by several acres of solar panels. In her mom’s eyes, it was the perfect solution. Milan would get a good education and be supervised 24-7.
Perfect, that is, for everyone but Milan. She had felt like an orphan. She was homesick all the time. Ever since, she had been flailing. Failing. Falling. This boarding school in Colorado was her third in six months.
The first school had been filled with rich kids, many the children of politicians, who planned to attend Harvard or Stanford. Milan had broken into the calculus teacher’s office, photographed upcoming tests, and sold them. Not for the money. She just wanted to reveal the other kids for the phonies they were.
Boarding school number two was girls only, complete with ridiculous plaid outfits, wilderness trips, and twice-daily mandated chapel, where they were reminded they were stewards of the earth. Remembering it now, Milan touched the tattoo inside her left wrist, the homemade one that had gotten her expelled. When a teacher noticed the bandage under the cuff of her white blouse, he’d worried it was hiding a suicide attempt.
But when Milan was forced to expose her tender pale skin, there were no cuts. Just four black letters and a question mark—WWJD?—each outlined by swollen red skin. (It might not have been the best idea to watch YouTube videos and then give yourself what was basically a prison tattoo with a sewing needle and ballpoint pen ink.)
It had hurt to make all those tiny holes, but Milan had bit down on a wooden chopstick and not made a sound. The pain had actually been a bonus. It pushed every thought from her head. Made her forget what had happened. Even though that was why she made the tattoo in the first place.
Thinking WWJD? stood for “What Would Jesus Do?,” the school almost let her stay. But the J was really for “Jack,” her dad, who had set his sights on the presidency. Who had wanted to be like that earlier Jack, Jack Kennedy.
Instead her dad was dead. And it was her fault.
Ms. Robbins’s sigh interrupted Milan’s thoughts. “I was hoping you’d learned some lessons from your previous experiences. Your mother said you had.” Her mom had been so sure Briar Woods Academy would be right for her. Not just for the environmental focus, but also because everyone here was troubled. Broken in some way. Just like her. “What were you thinking, Milan?” Her voice was kind.
What had Milan been thinking? She wasn’t too sure herself. It had started with her impatience at the literature teacher, who only assigned books by old dead white guys. Who was basically an old dead white guy himself. Who rolled his eyes when she brought up Colson Whitehead, Celeste Ng, and Jesmyn Ward. Two days ago, he had banished her to the hall after she asked if he’d assigned Moby Dick just to kill everyone’s desire to read.
She was supposed to have sat at an old wooden desk and reflected on her behavior. Milan hadn’t even hidden her phone in her bra, so she had nothing to entertain her.
Nothing, that is, except for her lighter. At this school, just like in a prison, cigarettes were currency, furtively smoked by every bad girl worth her salt. Milan had even persuaded Chance to send her two packs inside a hollowed-out book, along with a bunch of real books the school’s library didn’t have on its dusty shelves.
Slouched in the chair, Milan had flicked the lighter on and off, on and off, hating it here. Hating herself. After noticing a loose thread hanging from her shirt, she snapped it off and offered it to the flame. In a blink, it flared then disappeared. What else could she burn? A crumpled sticky note from her backpack caught for a brief second. When it singed her fingers, she blew it out.
Was there anything else she could light and then extinguish? Her eyes fell on the book that had basically gotten her kicked out of class. She opened to a random page.
“In connection with this appellative of ‘Whalebone whales,’ it is of great importance to mention, that however such a nomenclature may be convenient in facilitating allusions to some kind of whales…”
No wonder no one at this school liked to read! She slammed the book shut.
As if they belonged to someone else, Milan watched her fingers flick the lighter’s wheel and then apply the flame to a corner of the yellowed pages. Her cheeks were puffed full of air, ready to blow it out. But instead of a lick of flame, the fire became a whole open hungry mouth. The book became a bonfire. When Milan shrieked and jumped to her feet, it fell. Suddenly the carpet too was alight.
After that, things were a blur. The air filling with choking gray smoke. The deafening wail of the fire alarm. The literature teacher appearing with a fire extinguisher as Milan’s classmates evacuated. The automatic sprinklers suddenly plastering her clothes and hair to her skin.
Now, sitting in Ms. Robbin’s office, Milan felt stupid and ashamed. Her father would definitely never have done that.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen.” Her voice shook, giving her away. She dug her fingernails into her palms.
“I’m guessing you didn’t,” Ms. Robbins said. “Personally, I like you, Milan. There’s a spark inside you.” She bit her lip. “Sorry. Poor choice of words. But I’m afraid the board has overruled me.”
Where would Milan end up now? Did they have military schools for girls?
“I have informed your mother she has to come get you immediately. Well, actually, I told your mother’s personal assistant.”
Jenna Spencer. Milan could just imagine the face she’d made. Jenna was only eight years older than her but acted like she was a full-fledged adult and Milan a first grader. Too bad Ms. Robbins hadn’t reached Eric Scott, formerly her dad’s chief of staff and now her mom’s. He was good at fixing things that seemed unfixable.
“You’re making Mom come all the way out to Colorado from DC?” The last two schools had just stuck Milan on a commercial flight. Milan’s family had their own plane, though when people called it a jet, she always corrected them. It was a turboprop, not a jet, so it was more fuel efficient. It also didn’t sound so annoyingly rich, even though it was basically what people thought of when they said “jet.” Wide pale leather seats. Plenty of space. No need to go through security. And it had cost millions.
Ms. Robbins nodded. “She was already planning to fly to Portland for a meeting. Now she’ll be detouring here to pick you up first.”
Portland. Milan’s heart lifted. She could go home. Even just for a day or two. She could see Chance and her other old friends. Maybe even figure out some way to stay.
Three years earlier
THROUGH THE MESH OF THE SCREEN DOOR, JANIE REGARDED THE man who had just rung her doorbell. She hooked her fingers through Rocky’s collar. Rocky was growling, but then again, he never liked strangers.
The man, who was about her daughter Becca’s age, stood on Janie’s sagging porch. His Timberlands looked like he had just pulled them out of the box. Behind him was a shiny maroon Chevy pickup. The road to the farm hadn’t seen tires that new for a long, long time.
“Can I help you?” Janie asked. She had her hair pulled back in a ponytail, and she was wearing sweatpants, an old sweatshirt with the University of Ohio logo on it, and socks with no shoes. Her feet were starting to get cold. It had been a long day. She’d been up since four.
“Beautiful piece of land you got here,” he said, turning to wave his arm.
Janie knew what she had. Not much. The gutters were falling off the house, the dairy barn was listing, and the fields where their seventy-nine cows grazed barely grew enough fescue and clover. Still, it supported her, Becca, Becca’s husband, Thad, and the two grandkids, Noelle and Darcy.
For half her adult life, Janie had run this farm, doing the work of three men with the help of strong coffee and a tractor with an engine that required constant tinkering. On a farm there was no such thing as paid vacation, no matching 401(k), no sleeping in on weekends. Success was measured not in profits, but in years without a loss. And even that depended on so many things that Janie couldn’t control.
Most years she barely made enough to keep up with the taxes and loans, but it was still Janie’s farm, her family’s, and she knew it, every cow, every tree, every patch of rye and orchard grass.
Janie would be damned if she was the generation that lost the farm. And she’d be damned if she’d let this stranger see her cry. “I’m not looking to sell.” She started to close the door.
The man raised his hand, palm facing her, like he was volunteering for something. “I could help you with getting things turned around.”
“I’m fine,” Janie said, not knowing what he was offering but instinctively not trusting it. “I don’t need any help.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Good luck, then. It’s just that if you ask around, you’ll find your neighbors are thinking a little different.”
MILAN HAD NEVER SEEN MS. ROBBINS’S CAR BEFORE. IT TURNED out to be a red Mazda Miata, a sports car that only sat two. Now they zipped through the turns on their way to the town’s small airport.
“Are you looking forward to being back in Portland?” Ms. Robbins asked. She downshifted. At least that’s what Milan thought had happened. She’d never driven a stick.
“It’ll be good to see my friends.” Milan pictured Chance’s black hair, his eyes so dark they seemed all pupil. Would he be just as upset with her as everyone else was? Or would he understand, at least a little? “But I doubt it’ll be for long. My mom’s probably having Jenna find a new school.”
“Once you’re there, I would advise putting your head down and working hard. You’re a smart girl.”
Milan finished the thought for her. “Even if I don’t always act like it.” Now that there was clearly no way to fix things, she felt less guarded.
“I didn’t say that.” Ms. Robbins sighed. “I came to Briar Woods because it tries to help people and the environment. When I was your age, I had a tough time. My parents fought constantly and I started acting out. I ran away more than once. I even got arrested.”
“No way! For what?” Milan remembered this from times with her dad, how easy it was to talk in the car.
“I won’t go into detail. Let’s just say I know what it’s like to feel overlooked. Overwhelmed.” She sighed. “I wish I could have reasoned with the board, but I’m too new. Even with insurance, the school still has to pay a hefty deductible.”
“I’m sorry.” Milan meant it but worried it didn’t sound like it.
The Miata caught up with an old orange VW Vanagon. Milan squinted at the bumper sticker on the back. NOT ALL WHO WANDER ARE LOST. Hippie wisdom.
“Look, I’m not your headmistress now,” Ms. Robbins said, passing the Vanagon. “So this is me, one human being talking to another. I have faith in you, Milan. Once you learn to think before you act, you’ll be okay.”
The GPS interrupted to say they should turn right in a quarter mile. After guiding them through a few more turns, it announced their arrival.
“Huh,” Ms. Robbins said. “I didn’t even know this was here.” “This” was an FBO, or fixed base operator, a private terminal for private planes. Milan’s mom’s plane was already on the tarmac, stairs down. “I’m going to think of this next time I’m in the TSA line.”
As they got out, her mom came down the stairs, followed by Jenna.
Her mom’s hair was in a French twist. Her foundation was perfect, making her expressionless face look even more masklike. She walked over, right hand outstretched. Milan could see the tension in the set of her shoulders.
“Ms. Robbins.”
“Senator Mayhew. I appreciate you coming right away.”
Her mother looked all angles and edges. Like if Milan tried to hug her, she would cut herself. After her dad died, her mom had lost all interest in eating, forgotten her love of cooking. Now she looked even thinner than when Milan had last seen her, seven weeks ago.
Her mom’s eyes narrowed as she took in Milan’s blue hair and black roots.
Milan tried to meet her gaze steadily. In some ways, it was like looking in a mirror at her future self. Milan’s hair was curlier, but their upturned noses were the same. Her dad’s influence was literally in Milan’s bones—long legs and long-fingered hands.
She ended their mutual inspection by saying, “Mom, I—”
Her mom raised one finger. “Not now. We can talk about this later.”
“I just want to say I’m sorry.”
Her mom pressed her lips together so hard they turned into a thin white line. “All I will say, Milan, is that I don’t need any more on my plate.”
Anger sparked in Milan’s veins. Was she just a sprig of parsley her mom could push to the side? Something she would take a single bite of, then spit out in her napkin?
Jenna’s face stayed neutral, but Milan saw the smirk in her eyes.
Her mother drew Ms. Robbins to one side and they started talking in low voices.
As the pilot came down the stairs, Milan looked for Eric. But the window of his customary seat was empty.
“Where’s Eric?” she asked Jenna. He could always be counted on to be a buffer. If the tension got too thick, he would break it with a weird wager—the next person they saw would be over six feet tall, the next car to pass would be blue, it would rain in the next hour. Eric would bet a dollar on almost anything, and more serious money if it was sports.
Jenna’s small nose wrinkled. “This morning, he was putting his suitcase in t. . .
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