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way,” he says. “It’s time we all face this head-on.”
    â€œI just don’t see why we have to talk about it at dinner,” Mrs. Hargrove says. “When we’re having a perfectly nice time—”
    â€œMay I be excused?” I ask too sharply. Everyone at the table turns to me in surprise. Click. I can only imagine what that picture will look like: my mother’s mouth frozen in a perfect O, Mrs. Hargrove frowning; my father lifting a bloody piece of lamb to his lips.
    â€œWhat do you mean, excused ?” my mother says.
    â€œSee?” Mrs. Hargrove sighs and shakes her head at Fred. “You’ve made Hana unhappy.”
    â€œNo, no. It’s not that. It’s just . . . You were right. I’m not feeling well,” I say. I ball my napkin on the table and then, seeing my mother’s look, fold it and drape it next to my plate. “I have a headache.”
    â€œI hope you’re not coming down with something,” Mrs. Hargrove says. “You can’t be sick for the inauguration.”
    â€œShe won’t be sick,” my mother says quickly.
    â€œI won’t be sick,” I parrot. I don’t know exactly what’s wrong with me, but little points of pain are exploding in my head. “I just need to lie down, I think.”
    â€œI’ll call Tony.” My mom pushes away from the table.
    â€œNo, please.” More than anything, I want to be left alone. In the past month, since my mother and Mrs. Hargrove determined that the wedding needed to be fast-tracked, to correspond with Fred’s ascension to mayor, it seems the only time I can be alone is when I go to the bathroom. “I don’t mind walking.”
    â€œWalking!” This provokes a miniature eruption. All of a sudden, everyone is speaking at once. My father is saying, Out of the question , and my mother says, Imagine how that would look .Fred leans toward me— It isn’t safe right now, Hana —and Mrs. Hargrove says, You must have a fever .
    In the end, my parents decide that Tony will drive me home and return for them later. This is a decent compromise. At least it means I’ll have the house to myself for a bit. I stand up and bring my plate to the kitchen, despite Mrs. Hargrove’s insistence that the housekeeper be allowed to do it. I scrape food into the trash, and flash back to the smell of the Dumpsters yesterday, the way that Jenny materialized from between them.
    â€œI hope the conversation didn’t upset you.”
    I turn around. Fred has followed me into the kitchen. He leaves a respectful distance between us.
    â€œIt didn’t,” I say. I’m too tired to reassure him further. I just want to go home.
    â€œYou don’t have a fever, do you?” Fred looks at me steadily. “You look pale.”
    â€œI’m just tired,” I say.
    â€œGood.” Fred puts his hands in his pockets, dark, creased in front, like my father’s. “I was worried I’d gotten a defective one.”
    I shake my head, sure that I’ve misheard him. “What?”
    â€œI’m kidding.” Fred smiles. He has a dimple in his left cheek, and very nice teeth; I appreciate that about him. “I’ll see you soon.” He leans forward and kisses my cheek. I draw back involuntarily. I’m still not used to being touched by him. “Go get your beauty sleep.”
    â€œI will,” I say, but he’s already pushing out of the kitchen and returning to the dining room, where soon, dessert and coffee will be served. In three weeks, he will be my husband, and this will be my kitchen, and the housekeeper will be mine too. Mrs. Hargrove will have to listen to me , and I will choose what we eat every day, and there will be nothing left to want.
    Unless Fred is right. Unless I am a defective one.

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