For twelve years, the whole school called her "Trash Girl" because her mother collected cans for a living — until graduation night, when she said one sentence into the microphone and four hundred people rose to their feet in tears.

I sat back on my heels.

Haverford.

I had known Madison Haverford since the third grade.

I knew her house.

I knew her mother's leather handbag, the heavy one, the orange box in the closet.

I knew exactly what bag Madison had been swinging through the cafeteria for a year like a trophy.

Hermès.

It cost more than our house, she'd said.

And the thing that had paid for the bag's return, the ring, the nine thousand dollars, the rest of it, had cost my mother a night of gas, a day of work, and a dinner for her daughter.

I had every weapon I could ever want.

I held it for three years.

I could have stood up in the cafeteria and said it out loud.

I could have said it in the hallway, in the locker room, in front of Madison's whole table.

I never did.

It wasn't mine.