Valley of the Moon Read Free Page A

excuse, but couldn’t exactly share it with my teacher.
    My last class before lunch was an English senior seminar. I could finally relax—I had my English grade on lockdown.
    There was no end-of-semester midterm in English, but we’d be getting our final papers back. “Outsiders on the Inside: The American Novel.” That was the actual, semi-pretentious name of the class. But we read Jack London and Willa Cather, and the most popular teacher at Briar taught it. Mr. Quarry was always nice to me, especially compared to some of the teachers at Briar who played favorites.
    They didn’t put that in the brochure or on the website, where Briar proclaimed itself “finest private all-girls day school in Northern California. Housed in a Spanish colonial mansion and nestled in the low mountains above the picture-perfect Sonoma Valley, the School was founded in 1949.”
    Also this gem: “Sonoma is the favored destination of wine lovers and romantics from all over the world.” I didn’t fall into either category.
    There was just one thing I hated about English class.
    Piper Blodgett raised an eyebrow as I rushed in and slid into the seat next to her. It was always summer in Piper World. Her long legs were bronzed from playing tennis every day. She was seeded something like number 214 in the country.
    “You’re late,” she whispered.
    “Don’t judge,” I said. “I just bombed French and Calculus. I’m emotionally fragile right now.”
    “Yeah. Sure you did, Miss Three Point Nine.” Piper didn’t know that I had no choice about the GPA. It was part of my heinous scholarship arrangement. If it fell below a 3.7, they were allowed to kick me out—or force us to pay full tuition.
    Not “they”—her.
    And tuition was $41,000 a year last time I checked.
    But, hey—that’s what happens when your father dumps the president of the Briar Board of Trustees.
    “Think he’ll hand back our papers today? I totally phoned this one in,” she said, leaning in close. She smelled like the strawberry-scented soap in the gym showers.
    “Yeah, today’s the day. I’m sure you did great.”
    The door opened and Cressida Crawford strolled in.
    We had kind of a past.
    Mr. Quarry got up from his desk and gathered a stack of papers from his desk. He was perfectly preppy, in wrinkled chinos, a button-down shirt rolled to his elbows, and a woven navy tie.
    He cleared his throat. He looked twenty-five, but we all knew he was thirty-two. But with his dark wavy hair and creamy skin, a lot of girls had big-time crushes on him.
    Not me, of course. Not really .
    “Okay, girls,” he said. “I have your midterm papers graded and ready to hand back. Overall, I was very impressed.”
    He walked along the desks set up in a semicircle. (From the Briar brochure: “Most classrooms are arranged to resemble small college settings in order to stimulate debate and discussion.”)
    “But before I do, I wanted to give you a chance to read what I consider the single best paper written by a student this semester. I made a copy for each of you.”
    He handed the stack to the girl on the end. She took one and handed the stack to the girl next to her. My heart beat a little faster. When I got my copy, I scanned the title page. “Good, Evil, and Jack London: The Revolutionary Power of Resistance in American Fiction.”
    It was mine. Piper snickered. I kicked her loafer. She knew all about my Jack London thing. Everyone in the class knew. It wasn’t an obsession, though. Not really. I practically lived next door to Jack London State Park in Glen Ellen, after all. It was where I went to forget things.
    All the things.
    “Please read it over break,” Mr. Quarry continued. “I think it’s exactly the kind of paper your professors will want to see next year.” I stared down at my desk, praying for him to stop talking.
    “And now, the moment you’ve been waiting for,” he said. He picked up a new stack. “As you know, this essay represents thirty percent