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Dear Molly,

Today I broke the bad news to you—that my cancer is terminal. I didn’t say it quite like that, but I did tell you that I’m not long for this world. You immediately dove deep into denial, convinced there must be a medicine to cure me, if only I saw the right doctor, if only I went to a different hospital, if only we had the funds to access better care.

Oh, Molly, how often I had similar thoughts about you when you were young, though for different reasons. What if I’d had access to specialized schooling for you? What if you’d received early education tailored to your needs? Try as I might, I couldn’t afford to pay out of pocket for private classes, and I failed whenever I tried to navigate the system to get you specialized care. My dream of appropriate schooling for you eluded me then, just as better healthcare for myself eludes me now.

Molly, I don’t have much time left, so while I have the strength, I’ll carry on with my story. Let’s continue from the moment my father’s chauffeur dropped me in front of the esteemed private college and I galloped apace to my very first prep class in the school’s hallowed halls. It was a joy to leave Gray Manor that morning, because with each passing day, tensions were growing at home. Something was wrong with the family firm, but what it was I didn’t quite know. I caught snippets here and there—my father going on about looming threats and the interlopers who wanted to ruin us, but when pressed for details Papa would either rage or disappear into his office.

He began taking meals at his desk instead of at the giant banquet table with me and Mama. He became vitriolic and even more unpredictable than usual. Every day, he would yell at someone for something—the cook for burning the beef; the chauffeur for scratching the bumper; the maid for the mess in his office. Even unflappable Uncle Willy was on tenterhooks as my father wandered the manor, spewing venom wherever he went.

But on a bright sunny day, dressed in my pleated gray skirt and a clean white shirt emblazoned with my prep school’s insignia, I walked through its corridors and never felt prouder. It’s interesting, Molly, how a uniform provides a sense of belonging, and yet, as I was soon to learn, its protection did not extend to me.

After some searching through the hallways, I found the correct classroom on the second floor of the austere Gothic building. Most of my classmates—all of them boys—were already inside, roughhousing and paying no attention to the girl in their midst or to the headmaster writing notes on the board. The bell rang, and everyone rushed to find seats. I took the desk no one else wanted—front row, center, closest to the blackboard.

The headmaster welcomed us to the class, explaining that the weeks to come would be devoted entirely to preparations for sitting our exams on the classics of literature. As I looked around, I recognized some of the boys, though I’d never been in classes with them before. These were the heirs apparent of all my father’s friends—the anointed aristocrats, the prodigal sons and captains of industry who would one day inherit the earth. It was immediately clear the boys had been classmates for years, whereas I was an intruder and the only girl in sight.

“Let me introduce some newcomers to our group,” said the headmaster as he addressed me with a nod. “Come to the front of the class, tell us your name and one interesting fact about yourself.”

I walked to the front of the classroom, knees knocking. “Hello,” I said as I looked out at the rows of young male faces. “My name is Flora, and one interesting fact about me is that my name means flower in Latin.” I stepped one foot behind the other to perform a clipped curtsy. No sooner was my curtsy complete than the room erupted into guffaws.

“Hothouse flower!” a redheaded boy called out.

“Bloom off the rose yet? Can I help?” another boy yelled.

“That’s enough !” the headmaster boomed as he eagle-eyed the class into submission.

Paralyzed in my place, I stared at the wooden planks at my feet.

“Flora is to be treated with the same respect you accord each other. He who disobeys will live to regret it. Understood?” the headmaster warned.

I looked out at the boys, only to be greeted by a sea of smirks and curled lips. But one boy in the back stood out from the rest, his brown eyes wide with fear, his broad shoulders rounded as though he was trying to take up as little space as possible though he was bigger and stronger than any other boy in the room. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him.

“We have another new student joining us. He’s been away at boarding school, but he’s a local lad. He’ll be sitting university entrance exams as well. Come, introduce yourself and share a fact,” said the headmaster.

The brawny young man at the back got up, nearly toppling his chair. He walked my way, then stood awkwardly beside me as he faced the class.

“Hello,” he said, his voice unapologetic and deep. “I’m John.”

The penny dropped. I swiveled my head for another look at him. Broad-shouldered, that same brooding expression and confidence, the brown, tousled hair—this was the audacious usurper who’d once taken my spot at Mrs.Mead’s kitchen table. This was Uncle Willy’s son.

“One fact about me,” he announced, “is that I’m the recipient of this year’s Gray Scholarship.”

“This year’s pity case!” the redheaded boy quipped loudly.

“Round of applause for Poor John!” said another boy as he clapped limply while the others roared with laughter.

John turned to me. “It’s your family name on that scholarship. Aren’t you going to say something?”

All the blood in my body rushed to my cheeks. I looked up at the hulking young man beside me. “I wouldn’t think a burly lad like you would need a girl to defend him.” I said it so loudly and caustically, it’s a wonder my own tongue didn’t burn right off.

In return, I got what I’d hoped for—the boys now jeered at John instead of me.

“Good one, Flora!” one of them called out.

“Zinger!” said another.

The headmaster put an end to the antics with the smack of a ruler against his desk. “Silence! If I hear so much as an eye roll out of anyone, you’re going to wish you never showed up today, understood?”

Just like that, order was restored. I hurried to my seat as Uncle Willy’s irksome son followed me to claim his own.

The rest of the class passed without disturbance, and as the headmaster lectured on the classics and what we might expect from our exams, I took copious notes. Before I knew it, three hours had gone by. And when the headmaster announced, “Class dismissed,” I raced out of the room.

In the echoing hallways, I jostled against exuberant teenage boys, all on their way to the cafeteria, as was I. I pushed my skirt down my thighs, wishing it covered my whole legs and not just my knees.

I felt a hand grab my arm. “Hey,” I heard.

I turned to find the redheaded, catcalling boy from class standing in front of me. His pale eyes were skittish and twitchy, and he was short, not even my height. Away from his classmates, he suddenly seemed much less intimidating.

“Are you really Flora Gray, daughter of Reginald Gray, head of Gray Investments?” he asked.

I nodded.

I watched as a new esteem for me colored his expression. I was used to this. My father’s name engendered awe in most circles, young and old. I will admit that I enjoyed it a little too much and even puffed up a bit.

“I…had no idea who you were. I’m Percival Peterson.” He held out a thin, pasty hand. “I’ve heard about you from my folks.”

“And I’ve heard not a word about you,” I replied, “which suggests my parents believe you’re beneath me.”

This is how I was at the time, Molly. When wronged, I leapt for revenge.

“For a flower, you’re sure no shrinking violet,” said Percival.

“Correct,” I replied.

He grinned as the tides of students swam around us. “Walk with me?” he said. “The cafeteria’s hard to find. I’ll show you the way.”

We strode through the labyrinthine hallways, turning this way and that, Percival telling me all about his professor parents and how they had holdings with Gray Investments. He talked about his two golden-boy brothers, both older than he was, and both acing statistics at university.

“How come you’re not streaming toward math like they did?” I asked.

“I suck at numbers,” Percival replied. “I’m not good at lit either, but I figure I can watch the movies of some of the books and pass if I’m lucky. We’re here,” he said, pointing to a set of heavy doors and the sign above them that read MESS HALL .

“Sorry for what I said about you in class,” Percival offered. “I was a jerk. Forgiven?” he asked, holding out his meek hand.

“Forgiven,” I said as I shook it firmly, glad to leave the classroom antics behind us.

“Hey, you were taking lots of notes in class. Can I see them?” he asked, his skittish eyes meeting mine.

All I could think about was a mouse Mrs.Mead once cornered in her cottage, how it looked up at her broom, hoping beyond hope to survive her wrath.

“I will grant you that privilege,” I said, taking my notes from my binder and handing them to Percival. “But I’ll need them back.”

“Thanks,” he replied. “Get ready, Flora. The mess hall is madness.” He pushed through the heavy doors as I followed.

The shrieks and roars of hundreds of hungry, unruly teenage boys assaulted my ears. Four headmasters stood sentry like points on a compass, alert to signs of impending food fights. Not far from us was a long table of boys from my class. They were shoveling food into their mouths from fresh cafeteria trays. They spotted us, waving and yelling, “Percy! Percy!”

I looked around, trying to find a spot to sit, but the only empty seats were at a table at the back of the hall. Alone, sitting on one end, was Uncle Willy’s son, John. Beside him was an open lunch box, the only lunch box in sight. He took out a small parcel wrapped in wax paper. His eyes met mine, and I looked away.

Percival ambled over to the boys from our class, and I followed, but right before we arrived at their table, he turned to face me.

“I showed you the way here, but that’s all I can do,” he said. “You have to understand, you’ll never be one of the boys.”

He dashed to the table, where his classmates made space for him.

At the back of the room, I could feel eyes on me—John, watching from afar. He bit into a roast beef and cucumber sandwich, Mrs.Mead’s specialty. He held out a hand, inviting me to take the empty place next to him. A red fury flared up my neck and cheeks. I turned my back on him and marched out of the mess hall.