It was Abigail who wanted the rings. Patience said not to. And, of course, Sarah said nothing because she never had an opinion of her own. She swayed between the two of them, following whoever was stronger, not unlike Finley.
Finley had noticed the rings a few times, when she’d been up at the chalkboard, working through equations with Mrs. Frazier. Finley knew all about diamonds from her mother, who never tired of leafing through Tiffany catalogs, showing Finley the jewelry she liked, teaching her about cut, color, and clarity. And Amanda had plenty of gems of her own, a drawer full of glittering stones—some costume, some costly. Finley had grown to associate jewelry with apologies. When Phil screwed up, a little blue box appeared shortly after.
Mrs. Frazier’s engagement ring had a cushion-cut stone, more than a carat, but not quite two, with a neat row of smaller stones, alternating diamonds and blue sapphires around the band. It glittered and drew attention to itself, and Mrs. Frazier always had her nails done. And such pretty, soft hands. The wedding band was a simple matching ring of small diamonds.
Finley could tell how proud her teacher was of those rings. Leading up to her wedding, there had been a stack of wedding magazines in her drawer, along with a binder of all her plans. She was all business in the classroom; but Finley could see how happy she was, how excited. She’d slide the magazines out as soon as the classroom was empty; Finley would see them when she stayed after class for one thing or another. One afternoon, Mrs. Frazier had showed Finley a picture of her dress, her ring and manicured nails glittering as she pointed to the picture. So pretty. Finley wondered what it would be like to be so happy, to be in love. Had her mother been so in love with her father once upon a time? Amanda said, yes, she’d never loved anyone like she’d loved Phil. And she probably never would again and maybe that was a good thing.
Mrs. Frazier took her rings off sometimes, put them in a little ring dish on her desk.
Take them, whispered Abigail one day. Finley had been taking a make-up test, and Mrs. Frazier got up to go to the bathroom, an act of tremendous trust.
Finley knew better.
“No,” she whispered. “Go away.”
But wasn’t there, deep beneath what Finley knew was good and right, a throb of desire? Was it hers? Was it Abigail’s? The room was cold, smelled of chalk dust and mold, the fluorescents flickering their sickly blue-white light. Finley really liked Mrs. Frazier, formerly Miss Grant. Finley would never steal from her, or anyone. But those rings were so pretty. And what would it be like to have something like that?
He’ll buy her another one. No one would ever suspect you.
Sarah stood by the chalkboard looking uncertain, glancing at the door. Her dress was long and sky blue, in tatters around the hem. The girls all smelled faintly of smoke. Patience was by the window, staring at Finley with dark eyes. Her dress was black, buttoned high up the throat, her hair tightly pulled back. She looked the most like Faith, though Finley didn’t know that at the time. She never met Faith until she moved to The Hollows. There was anger etched deep around Faith’s eyes and into her brow, even around the corners of her mouth. It was righteous, the anger of a person who had been done wrong. Abigail, Faith’s most unruly daughter was angry, too. But she wanted to do harm. She wanted to hurt because she had been hurt. She didn’t give a damn about justice. Finley knew all of this without exactly having words for any of it.
Follow her lead and you’ll know nothing but heartache. Trust me, said Patience.
Shut up, said Abigail venomously.
“Go away,” said Finley. “I have to finish the test.”
She ignored them and went back to work, using all her mental resources to block them out. When she was done, she put her head down on her desk. She was so tired when the girls were around; they exhausted her.
She must have drifted off, and Mrs. Frazier was leaning over her, her walnut hair falling in a pretty sheet, her cornflower eyes thickly lashed and worried. “Finley. Finley? Are you all right, sweetie?”
Finley roused herself as if from the deepest slumber, disoriented, a little confused, and with the sense that something was terribly wrong.
“You must still be a little under the weather,” Mrs. Frazier said, putting a hand to Finley’s forehead. Finley had been sick with the flu for a week, that was why she had to make up the test. She didn’t feel totally better. “I’ll wait with you out front until your mother comes.”