Jessie is taken aback by Exalta’s words. She begins to wonder if Exalta’s insistence on tennis lessons might come from a place of altruism, or even love.

Half an hour later, Jessie experiences the attitude adjustment that Suze has been hoping for. When Suze informs Jessie that she’s ready to play her first real games against another junior student, Jessie rises to the challenge instead of protesting. When Jessie discovers that she’ll be playing against the loathsome Helen Dunscombe, she clutches her racket like a caveman would his club. Jessie wants to beat Helen Dunscombe, not least because Helen Dunscombe’s instructor is Garrison Howe, the molester.

Suze stands on Jessie’s side of the court while Garrison stands on Helen’s side. Garrison murmurs something to Helen that Jessie can’t hear and Suze says, “Just keep a cool head and play your own game.”

Jessie takes this advice to heart. She doesn’t let herself get caught up in emotion. She allows herself to think of Garrison’s inappropriate touching and Helen Dunscombe’s asking Jessie when she’s getting a nose job only at the instant when the racket meets the ball. She follows through with a ferocity that surprises even Suze, and all of her shots clear the net with an inch or two to spare. Jessie’s backhand is weaker than her forehand, but it’s clean and technically sound. Her serves land in the far corner of the service box, making them challenging to return. Jessie wins three games in a row handily. As she’s bouncing the ball in advance of serving a fourth game, Helen Dunscombe throws her racket in frustration and Garrison shepherds her off the court.

“We need more practice,” he calls out to Suze. And then, to Jessie, he says, “Nice backhand.”

“I won!” Jessie announces to Exalta after the lesson is over and after Suze has patted her on the back and said, “Strong play, Jessica.” Jessie can’t help herself; she’s beaming. “I beat Helen Dunscombe, three games to love.”

Exalta is, as usual, sitting with Mrs. Winter, finishing her second or third or tenth mimosa.

“You’ll have to excuse my granddaughter,” Exalta says to Mrs. Winter. Exalta signals for the chit and wobbles a little as she stands.

“Excuse me for what?” Jessie asks once they’re far enough away from Mrs. Winter. “I thought you would be proud of me. I won. I beat Helen Dunscombe.” She swallows. “I’m learning the game, like you wanted.”

“That’s all fine and good,” Exalta says. “But you bragged about it, something that is unbecoming in a girl. I’m not sure where you learned that was okay…or, rather, I fear I do know—from your father’s side of the family. Your grandfather wears that horrid gold pinkie ring and Mrs. Levin drives a Bentley and they have their names plastered across the synagogue in Boca Raton, I hear. It’s all very garish. The proper thing to do when you win at tennis or any other competition, Jessica, is to congratulate your opponent on a game well played and mention your victory to absolutely no one. Do you understand me?”

Jessie’s face burns with mortification. She went into her lesson with such confidence and it had been satisfying to win against a person she disliked—two people she disliked. She’s embarrassed because she knows Exalta is right—she was a braggart—but she hates that Exalta attributes any unflattering behavior in Jessie to her father or, in this case, her grandparents. Jessie didn’t even realize Exalta knew her other grandparents, Bud and Freda Levin, whom Jessie calls Mimi and Grandpop. Grandpop used to be a jeweler and he’d owned a store on Boylston Street, and Mimi used to drive a Bentley, but now they live in Florida on a golf course and Grandpop doesn’t work and Mimi has cataracts so she’s forfeited her driver’s license.

“Jessica,” Exalta says. “Do you understand me?”

A nod won’t suffice, Jessie can tell. “Yes,” she whispers.

When they walk past Buttner’s on the way home, Exalta doesn’t mention stopping in to buy a new dress and Jessie doesn’t remind her. The morning has been ruined.

By the time they reach home, Jessie’s feelings about Exalta have reached a new low. She hates her grandmother. Her grandmother is a terrible person and most likely an anti-Semite. She’s probably not as bad as a Nazi, but she might be the kind of person who would have turned in Anne Frank’s family if she’d discovered them hiding in the attic.

Exalta’s mood has remained buoyant. She steps into the kitchen, where Kate and Blair are drinking glasses of orange juice, and says, “Let’s all go to the beach!”

“I can’t, Nonny,” Blair says. “I can’t go anywhere.”

“Nonsense,” Exalta says. “It’s a beautiful day. Let’s drive out to Smith’s Point in the Scout. That way you won’t have to walk. We’ll deliver you right to the water’s edge. We’ll pack a picnic.” She looks at Kate. “Do we have groceries?”

“Yes, Mother,” Kate says. “I have hard-boiled eggs and sliced ham and a fresh loaf of Portuguese from the bakery. And we still have half a melon.”

“Wonderful,” Exalta says. She studies Blair. “You haven’t even dropped yet. We still have weeks before we see those babies.”

Blair looks morose. “I can’t swim. I have no bathing suit.”

“You can get your feet wet,” Exalta says. “It’ll be good for you.”

“I’m not going,” Jessie says. “I have my summer reading to do. Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl.” She stomps out of the kitchen to the backyard and slams the door behind her even though stomping and slamming are not allowed. She stands on the brick patio for a second, waiting for Kate to appear to either reprimand her or ask what’s wrong. But enough time passes that Jessie figures she has gotten away with it. As she crosses the lawn to Little Fair, she sees Pick’s bike is gone, but even so, she hopes to find him upstairs, maybe getting ready to make lunch.

Little Fair, however, is deserted. Jessie takes the tin of Jays potato chips off the shelf and absconds with it to her bedroom.

Her book is splayed open on her bed. She has reached the part where Anne is beginning to have feelings for Peter, which matches how Jessie feels about Pick. Like Pick, Peter is older. Jessie hasn’t come out and asked Pick what religion he is but she can tell he isn’t Jewish. She suspects he might not be Christian either. If he lived in a commune, they might have practiced their own religion.