Yuri nodded. For several moments, he occupied himself with moving his finger around the slate but when I looked down, it was a maze of scribbles. “I’m sorry, Uncle. Maybe we could get Mickey. He understands you better than I can.”

Uncle Yuri shook his head vigorously. “Ahhhhnuh, ohffffffeeee ohhh noooo!” Uncle Yuri grabbed my hand and held it to his heart. He was perspiring and there were tears of frustration in his eyes. “Luuuuuuuuuuuffffffffffff.”

“Love?” I asked. I still had no idea what he was trying to say, but he nodded with relief that I had at least translated that one word. With my free hand, I grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and blotted his forehead with it.

“Luuuufff,” he repeated. “Thhhhhaaaaaaaaaahhhrrrr.”

I felt his hand weaken and his body relax. At first I worried he was dead, but he was only asleep. I set his hand on his chest and then I slipped out of the room. For the moment, I had escaped death again.

On the two-mile walk home, I added more blessings to my list:

I was young enough to correct any mistakes I had made.

I was strong and could go wherever my legs could carry me.

8. Anything I wanted to say to anyone living, I could still say.

“You haven’t said a word since we left. What are you brooding about, Annie?” Natty asked.

We had just reached the southern edge of the park. (It was undeniable that the park was somewhat safer since Charles Delacroix had come to town with his policy of prosecuting even small crimes.) I turned to look at my sister. Though I hadn’t had a stroke like Uncle Yuri, it was still difficult for me to express what was in my heart. I wanted to tell her that I loved her, that she was the most important person in the world to me, that I was truly sorry for having lied to her about Liberty. Instead, I asked her what she wanted for dinner.

“Dinner already?” she asked. “We just ate brunch.”

Monday, while Natty and all other nondelinquents were at school, I went about the business of finding a new school for myself. Mr. Kipling had thought I should wait until after I was out of Liberty to formally begin the process. His theory had been that it was better for me to appear to have put my incarceration behind me.

According to Simon Green’s preliminary research, there were a dozen private schools comparable to Holy Trinity, and of that number, eight didn’t admit incoming seniors. That left a grand total of four schools that would even consider me. A further issue was that I was, in Simon Green’s words, “The infamous Anya Balanchine—sorry, Anya, but it’s true.” The media would likely find out about any school that admitted me, which would lead to bad publicity for the school. After making several inquiries, Simon Green had only come up with one real option, the Leary Alternative School, in the East Village, within walking distance of my cousin’s speakeasy. I had an interview scheduled with them that afternoon. Mr. Kipling would accompany me.

I usually just wore my Holy Trinity uniform everywhere, but I didn’t think that would be appropriate for an interview at another school. I decided to wear the suit I had worn to Mickey and Sophia’s wedding.

So, Leary. It was kind of artsy, if you know what I mean. No one wore uniforms. A lot of the classrooms didn’t have desks; kids sat in circles on the floor. Many of the male teachers had beards. One female teacher I saw wasn’t wearing any shoes. There was a distinct aroma to the place—clay? herbs? Obviously, it wasn’t what I was used to but I told myself that that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Mr. Kipling gave my name at the front desk and then we were pointed in the direction of a cluster of beanbag chairs. “Interesting place,” Mr. Kipling said to me while we waited. He lowered his voice. “Do you think you could see yourself making a go of it here, Anya?”

What other choice did I have? There were public schools, but any good one had a long waiting list and many of my credits might not even count. I could end up in high school until I was twenty. After about a half hour, the headmaster, a curly-haired man in a brown corduroy suit, emerged from his office. “Come in, Anya. Stuart.” I bristled at hearing Mr. Kipling referred to by his first name. “Sorry to keep you folks waiting. I got a late start to my afternoon meditation. I’m the headmaster here, Sylvio Freeman. Everyone calls me Syl.”

We went into his office, where there was a thick kilim rug in reds and oranges, and no furniture. “Have a seat.” Headmaster Syl indicated the rug.

Syl poured us cups of licorice rooibos tea. “I’ve read all about you, Anya. Your academic record is perfectly drizzly though you should know we don’t give letter grades here.” He paused. “Forensic science. That’s your thing, right?”

I nodded.

“We don’t offer that subject, but there’s always independent study. In any case, I’d love to take you on.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Mr. Kipling said.

“I ran the idea by my Board of Overseers,” Headmaster Syl continued. “The chocolate-daughter thing wasn’t a problem for them. We have kids from many different backgrounds. Unfortunately, well … See, we’re all about peace here. And the gun possession. Well, that’s a bit of a deal breaker. My board doesn’t want that kind of thing at Leary.”

“We had to come down to hear this?” Mr. Kipling asked.

“I wanted to meet Anya myself. And it’s not without hope, Stu. The folks on my board agreed that next year, when more time has passed, they’d be happy to reconsider her application.” Syl smiled at us. “Take a year off, Anya. Volunteer somewhere. Maybe take some classes in forensics at the university. Then come back to us.”

A year was an eternity. All my friends would have graduated, even Gable Arsley. I stood and thanked Headmaster Syl for his time. Mr. Kipling was still struggling to get up from the floor, so I offered him my hand.

On my way out the door, Headmaster Syl grabbed my arm. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m involved with the pro-cacao movement. Maybe you’d like to speak at one of our rallies. I’m sure you’d have some superdeep insights.”

At last, the real theme of this meeting. The real reason Mr. Kipling and I had been forced to drag ourselves downtown just for me to be rejected. This man was no better than my old history teacher Mr. Beery.

“I’m trying to avoid making a public spectacle of myself these days, Mister … Uh, Syl,” I said. “Understood,” he said. “Though I wonder…” Syl furrowed his brow. “You are known, for better or for worse, and that’s power, my friend. If you’ve got a chess set, why play checkers?” Syl offered me his hand, and I shook it. “Perhaps I’ll be seeing you again someday, Anya Balanchine.”

I doubted that very much.

“I didn’t think that place was right for you anyway,” Mr. Kipling said as we walked back to his office. There was a light rain, and Mr. Kipling’s bald head was shiny with mist. “No letter grades. And that weird smell. And what kind of headmaster doesn’t have any furniture?” We stopped to wait for a walk signal. “Don’t worry, Anya. We’ll find a school for you. A far better one than that.”

“Honestly, Mr. Kipling, if Leary Alternative doesn’t want me, what school will? There isn’t a school in the city that has a reputation for being more liberal than Leary, and even they think I’m damaged goods. And they’re probably right.” I was standing on a street corner at one thirty in the afternoon on a Monday, and I didn’t want to be. I wanted to be at Trinity. I wanted to be pretending to fence or complaining about tofu lasagna. I hadn’t realized how much of my identity was wrapped up in that uniform, in that school. I felt as if I belonged nowhere. Despite my resolution to count my blessings, I was starting to feel very sorry for myself.