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caused it. At a table near the front window, a slender blond woman in a boldly patterned wraparound dress was fl irting with a cop, a big-bellied, broad-shouldered man holding a co ff ee cup in each hand. He said something that made her laugh, then reluctantly took his leave, shu ffl ing backward out the door so he could keep his eyes on her for as long as possible. When he was gone, the woman smiled to herself and re fl exively checked the messages on her cell phone. Vicki felt a sharp stab of envy — something that happened to her several times a day — irrational hatred for the smug woman coupled with an intense desire to be her, or at least to be looked at the way the cop had looked at her.
    “So you read it, huh?”
    Vicki turned around, her mind a beat behind the question. She felt fl ustered, as if Jessica had caught her in a private moment.
    “Excuse me?”
    “ Th at thing I wrote? Th at’s why you wanted to talk to me, right?”
    “Yes.” Vicki straightened up, hoping to regain some of her teacherly authority. “I was hurt by it. You said some really awful things about me.”
    Jessica nodded contritely. “I know.”
    “You really need to be more considerate of other people’s feelings.”
    “I didn’t think you’d read it.”
    “Well, I did.” Vicki’s eyes locked on Jessica’s. “I cried myself to sleep last night.”
    “Wow.” Jessica didn’t seem to know what to do with this information, and Vicki wondered if she’d made a mistake in revealing it. “I’m really sorry.”
    “I’m only human,” Vicki continued, a slight tremor entering her voice. “You think I like reading about my big backside on the Internet? You think that makes me feel good about myself?”
    “Well, how do you think I felt?” Jessica shot back. “You called me a fat pig.”
    She said this with such conviction that Vicki couldn’t help wondering if it might actually be true, if she really could have said something so mean and then repressed the memory. But it didn’t make sense. If she’d called Jessica a horrible name like that, she would have remembered. She would have gotten down on her knees and begged for forgiveness.
    “I never said that.” Vicki’s voice was calm but insistent. “You know I didn’t.”
    “But you thought it.” Jessica was blushing fi ercely. “I remember the way you were looking at me. Judging me. You don’t need that candy bar. ”
    “No,” Vicki murmured, but the certainty had drained from her voice. “I wasn’t judging you.”
    Jessica took a long pull on her Frappuccino, squinting at Vicki the whole time.
    “I didn’t ask to be fat, you know.”
    “You’re a lovely girl,” Vicki told her. “You have a very pretty face.”
    “My mother tells me that fi ve times a day.”
    “It’s true.”
    “I used to be really cute.” Jessica laughed, but all Vicki heard was pain. “People used to tell me I looked just like my big sister.”
    “How old’s your sister?”
    “She’s a senior. Jenny Grasso? Cheerleader? Like the hottest girl in the whole school?”
    “Oh.” Vicki knew Jenny Grasso. You couldn’t spend a day in Gi ff ord High School and not be aware of her. It was like living in America and not knowing about Britney Spears. “I didn’t realize that the two of you — ”
    “Why would you? It’s not like we have the same last name or anything.”
    “It’s a big school,” Vicki replied lamely. “You could be cousins.”
    Jessica shook her head. She didn’t seem upset, just defeated. “Her clothes are so tiny. You can’t believe she fi ts in them.”
    Vicki had never taught Jessica’s sister, never even spoken to her, but she had an oddly vivid image in her mind of Jenny Grasso walking slowly past her classroom in tight jeans and a pink tank top, clutching a single red rose.
    “Do you get along?”
    “Sometimes. I mean, she’s pretty nice most of the time. But it kinda sucks living in the same house with her. Boys are always texting her and