But I was not sixteen.

And whatever else was true in that room, I was not alone.

Chapter 13 — Not Sixteen Anymore

I did not cry.

I did not scream.

I did not flee to the ladies’ room to fall apart in private, which is what every person watching expected, because it was what the old Josephine would have done.

I stood still, and let the last drops of wine run off my fingertips onto the marble.

Then I reached into my small clutch and drew out a folded square of white linen, and I unfolded it without haste, and I wiped a single streak of wine from my cheek — slowly, deliberately, the way a person cleans up a minor, manageable inconvenience.