holding one arm above her head and one pointed at the ground with her fingers spread apart. Her parents pulled her out of the ballroom so fast, she didn’t even get to see if anyone had applauded her. Carmelita woke up the next morning with a stuffed nose and swollen eyes. Without having to rehash the night’s events in her mind, she could practically still hear her parents whispering ‘we’ll talk about it in the morning.’ Even though she wanted to stay under her covers, Carmelita went to her closet and threw on a pink sweater dress, deciding that wearing pink wouldn’t make a difference in her punishment. Carmelita knew it would already be the worst she could imagine. She looked at herself in her bathroom mirror. “How pathetic,” Carmelita whispered to herself, touching her cheek. She rinsed her face off and brushed her hair, attempting to tame the curls. Carmelita wanted to start crying again. She wanted to be alone. She wanted a hug. But none of these were reasonable wishes. The only thing she could hope for now was to not die by the time her parents were done with her. “Okay, let’s get this over with!” Carmelita shouted as she flung open the door to her room. She walked into the sunroom and flopped onto the couch across from her parents. It’s a funny thing, when you know you’re going to get in trouble. You sort of give up. It doesn’t matter how you portray yourself. You just want to get it over with. Carmelita was surprised by how calm both of her parents looked. She had been expecting a pair of exploding bombs, but her mother had her hands neatly folded in front of her and was staring intently at her daughter, while her father didn’t even seem aware of what was happening. He just looked around the room. “Well?” Carmelita slapped her palms on the table. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Her mother took a deep breath. “We can’t deal with you anymore, Carmelita.” Carmelita’s eyebrows narrowed with confusion. “But I suppose we can’t just—give you up. That isn’t...considerate. You just need to be fixed,” said her mother, not meeting her daughter’s eyes. Carmelita dropped her gaze. “There’s this wonderful boarding school,” began her father, and Carmelita’s head snapped up. Not because of what he’s said, but simply the fact that her father hadn’t spoken directly to her in—quite honestly—years. “Yes,” Carmelita’s mother continued, “It’s called Prufrock Preparatory. It has wonderful ratings. The residents get to stay in lovely rooms, and I’ve heard there are violin concerts quite often in the auditorium.” “Wait a second,” Carmelita said, “A boarding school? As in where—where orphans go?” She whispered the last part as if she’d just said something awful. “Now, Carmelita, this will be good for you.” Her mother raised her eyebrows. “And...we will most likely come back for you. When you’re ready.” But Carmelita knew that this meant when her parents were ready. “Mother, you cannot send me to a boarding school! Do you have any idea how many cakesniffers go to boarding schools?!” “What on earth is a cakesniffer?” her father whispered, shaking his head. “I refuse! I will not be attending a boarding school!” Carmelita cried hopelessly.