“Vintage,” Alice ’s mother had said. “It’s vintage.”

Ronnie didn’t know what that meant, so she had to shut up. Ronnie liked Alice ’s mother and tried to be at her best when she was around. Alice didn’t know what vintage meant, either, but she knew it was good. Her mother had a whole vocabulary of good words that Alice didn’t quite understand. Vintage. Classic. Retro. New-Vo. When all else failed, when Alice was balking at wearing something because the other girls might tease her, Helen Manning would meet her eyes in the mirror and say: “Well, I think it’s exquisite.” This was the word that ended everything, her mom’s way of saying, in her gentle way, Not-Another-Word, I’m-at-the-End-of-My-Patience. Exquisite. The one time Alice had tried to use it, Ronnie had said: “Who wants zits?”

Yet it was Helen Manning who insisted that Alice play with Ronnie. Ronnie was a summertime-only friend, an in-the-neighborhood friend, the only other didn’t-go-to-camp, didn’t-have-a-pool-membership girl. During the school year, Alice had better friends, friends more like her, who read books and kept their hair neat and tried to wear the right things. Come fall, she was so happy for school to start because it meant a reunion with these real friends.

Only not this fall. Now that it was time for middle school, a lot of the girls in their class were going to private places. “Real private school,” Wendy had said-not meanly, but a little carelessly, forgetting that Alice wasn’t going with them. Alice thought St. William of York was a real private school. It was real enough that Alice ’s mother couldn’t afford it anymore. Next year, Alice would have to go to West Baltimore Middle. Ronnie would, too. Alice’s mother said it wasn’t about the money, that Alice needed to meet All Kinds of People, to be exposed to New Experiences, and, besides, if she stayed in Catholic school much longer, she Might Become a Catholic, God Forbid.