“Stealing,” Exalta repeated. She made the word sound vile. Only criminals stole—Bonnie and Clyde, John Dillinger. “And this isn’t the first time you’ve stolen something, is it, Jessica?”

“I…” Jessie falters. What does Nonny know? Jessie inhales and prepares to…what? Lie? Cowards lie. She sits quietly for a second and regroups. Telling the truth when you’ve done something wrong is the most terrifying thing in the world. Never mind that Jessie was angry—her tennis instructor touched her inappropriately, her grandmother refused to let her use her own last name, her brother had been called up by Selective Service—her actions weren’t justified.

“No,” she says. “It wasn’t the first time.”

“Mrs. Winter told me that Bitsy Dunscombe told her that you took five dollars and a lipstick out of Heather Dunscombe’s bag. And I told her that I would bet all of my worldly belongings that this was not the case. Do you know why I said that, Jessica?”

Tears rise at the vision of her grandmother defending her against Mrs. Winter and Bitsy Dunscombe. “Why?” Jessie says.

“Because I thought you were different from the other three children,” Exalta says. “I thought you were sensitive and thoughtful. Trustworthy.”

At this, tears fall.

“Now I see I was mistaken.”

Jessie cries. She sobs. It’s too awful—not that Exalta is disappointed; this, she could have predicted. What’s awful is that Exalta had believed in Jessie, that she attributed wonderful qualities like sensitivity and thoughtfulness to her, and Jessie hadn’t realized it. She knew she was different from the other three children, yes, but she had always felt lesser, somehow—small, dark, strange.

“I’m going to sit here while you retrieve the five dollars and the lipstick,” Exalta says. “I will return them.”

Exalta will return them? Isn’t the correct punishment to make Jessie give the money and the lip gloss back to Heather along with a full, mortifying confession and apology? But then Jessie understands that Exalta needs to save face.

Jessie runs through the rain back to her bedroom at Little Fair. She opens her top drawer and pulls out the five-dollar bill and the Bonne Bell lip gloss—and the wristbands and the Twizzlers. When she gets back to the kitchen and drops the items on the table, Exalta looks unsurprised.

“Is that everything?”

“Except the necklace,” Jessie says. The matter of the precious heirloom, lost forever, seems to have been forgotten.

“Mr. Crimmins found the necklace caught between the floorboards in the hall,” Exalta says. “Lucky for you. And I have tucked it away for safekeeping.”

Jessie’s relief can’t be described. She feels so light she could float. Mr. Crimmins found the necklace! She is happy not because she’s been let off the hook but because she genuinely cares about the necklace.

“Don’t worry, I’m not taking it away from you,” Exalta says. “But I will retain custody of it until you’re older. Sixteen, perhaps.”

“I don’t deserve it ever,” Jessie says. This is how she feels. The necklace would be safer with Blair or Kirby or even, eventually, one of Blair’s children.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Exalta says. “You’re perfectly worthy of the necklace, Jessica. You simply need to grow up a bit.” The corners of Exalta’s mouth turn up ever so slightly. “I wouldn’t choose to be thirteen again for all the tea in China.”

Jessie can see why. So far, thirteen is turning out to be a terrible age.

“You’ll be punished for the stealing,” Exalta says. “Grounded for a week. Extra chores. You’ll keep on with your tennis lessons but you won’t be allowed to eat at the snack bar afterward. You can come home and eat. It’s against my nature to keep a child inside on a summer day but you leave me no choice. You’ll stay home in the afternoons and, of course, the evenings. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Jessie says. She swallows. “Does my mother know?”

“Your mother doesn’t need anything else to worry about,” Exalta says. “Now go. Get out of my sight.”

Back into the rain, back up the stairs of Little Fair, back to her room, where she closes and locks the door, sheds her damp tennis clothes, and puts her pajamas on again. She is disgraced for certain, but curiously, she feels better, not worse. She feels clean. She feels cured.

She picks up her copy of Anne Frank and takes out Tiger’s letter. Her hands are steady.

June 20, 1969

Dear Jessie,

I need you to promise you won’t show anyone else this letter.

Our company was ambushed last week near the village of Dak Lak. We lost over half our men.

Jessie, both Puppy and Frog were killed. Frog was hit by sniper fire—one clean shot to the head. Puppy ran out to grab Frog’s body and he stepped on a grenade. His right leg was blasted off. So I went to grab Frog and I brought him back to where Puppy was. I ripped Frog’s shirt off and used it as a tourniquet on Puppy’s leg, and I thought maybe I’d save him. He was still talking, first praying to the good Lord Jesus Christ, then calling to his mama, and I was praying too, saying, “God, please don’t take both my brothers in the same day, but if You must, take me too.”

Puppy died in my arms while we were waiting for the chopper.

So many men were lost that they’ve reassigned those of us who survived to other companies. I’m heading out on a top secret mission so I’ll be out of touch for a while. I’ll write as soon as I can.

I miss home, Messie. I’m not sure you even know the real reason I call you that; probably you thought all these years that I was teasing you, the way a big brother is supposed to. But really, I call you that because when you were a baby, Mom used to let me feed you your baby food. I would hold the spoon with your squash or pureed plums and half the time you would open your piehole like a baby bird and take what was on the spoon. The other half, you would reach a little hand out, grab the food from the spoon, and smear it all over your face. Then you would laugh so hard that I would laugh too.

That’s why I nicknamed you Messie.

Since Frog and Puppy died, I’ve been wondering what the point to all this is—not just the war, but life in general. I’ve had some real dark thoughts. I try to picture your baby face covered with plums and I hear that laugh like heaven’s bells and that keeps me tethered. My kid sister. Who knew?