Sublime

if you approach small children without an agenda, if you can match the openness of their minds, you too are open.

Grace Macaulay, then: seventeen, small and plump, with skin that went brown by the end of May. Her hair was black and oily, and had the hot consoling scent of an animal in summer. She disliked books, and was by nature a thief if she found a thing to be beautiful, but not hers. She didn’t know she couldn’t sing. She was inclined to be cross.

Eldest was Frances, with skin as pale as milk and blood-red hair, who early on had the ability to commune with birds, which flocked to her window as if called when she was still in her crib.

Debra Chamberlin-Taylor,

"Jones is still a good teacher. And not a bad person." Her eyes reminded me of lilies because of how the petals curled back, as though overripe, as though begging. "And I don't think I'm a bad person either, and neither is Laura."

I wondered if she sounded hopeful, or if she'd decided.

"And neither are you, Natalie."

I looked at her. Mouth closed over