We lived in a two-bedroom house with peeling paint and a kitchen window that wouldn’t close completely.
The refrigerator rattled.
The bathroom faucet leaked.
Whenever the electricity bill arrived, Mom opened it with the expression other people reserved for medical diagnoses.
Still, she insisted I study.
“Your mind,” she told me, “is the one thing nobody can take away unless you give them permission.”
I believed her.
So I studied through thunderstorms and power outages.
I borrowed textbooks.
I tutored children whose parents could afford groceries without counting coins.
And eventually, I earned the highest grades in our graduating class.
But academic success never erased the nickname.
Madison Haverford made certain of that.
Madison was beautiful, wealthy, and accustomed to being forgiven before she apologized.
Her family owned several commercial properties across Kern County, and she liked reminding everyone that the handbag she occasionally carried to school cost more than my home.
