The tack.

“It was you,” Sylvia says. “Admit that you did it!”

Should she deny it? Sylvia would never be able to prove it.

“Confess!” Sylvia says. She’s so close, Stephie can feel the heat of her breath.

“Yes, I did it. But you let the air out of my tires first.”

“I did not,” Sylvia says. “And anyway, that’s different. You must apologize now.”

“Never.”

“Grab her,” Sylvia orders.

Barbro grasps Stephie’s right arm, twisting it up behind her back. It hurts.

“Did you say ‘never’?”

“That’s what I said.”

Barbro grabs Stephie’s hair, pulling her head backward.

“Is that what you said?”

“Right.”

Sylvia bends down and grabs a fistful of gravel from the ground.

“Remember when I washed your face with snow last winter? I’ll do it again. But with gravel this time.”

Stephie looks at Sylvia. She means business. Stephie’s only hope is for the bell to ring.

Sylvia takes another step toward her.

“Sorry,” Stephie says.

“On your knees.”

“No.”

“Otherwise it doesn’t count,” says Sylvia as Barbro presses Stephie to the ground. She falls to her knees in the gravel.

“Say it.”

“Sorry.”

“Say: ‘Forgive me for ruining your bike.’”

“Forgive me for ruining your bike.”

“And kiss my shoe.”

Sylvia extends her dusty sandal; it’s just a few inches from Stephie’s face.

“Kiss it!”

Barbro presses hard on Stephie’s neck. Stephie presses her lips tightly together before her face touches Sylvia’s shoe.

At last the bell rings.

thirty-four

The lawns in front of the little houses in the village are bright green. The low apple trees are covered with pink and white blossoms, and the lilac bushes with clusters of white and purple buds.

The house at the end of the world doesn’t have a yard with apple trees and lilac bushes. It’s too exposed to the wind off the water. But on the beach little flowers are pushing their way up between the rocks: yellow, white, and every possible shade of pink, from very, very pale to bright rose. In the crevices among the rocks there are patches of wild violets.

A mottled mother duck and her ducklings are on their way to the water. The ducklings are yellow-brown and fluffy. They follow their mother, swimming behind her in an orderly line.

“Come in for a fitting,” Aunt Märta calls from inside. She’s making Stephie a dress for the last day of school. The fabric is very pretty, white with little pink and blue flowers. Stephie would have liked buttons down the front, a collar and a chest panel. That would look more grown-up, but Aunt Märta says it’s too hard for her. So the front is just an ordinary straight bodice. There’s a little round collar, and a zipper in back.

“Ow!” Stephie complains when Aunt Märta accidentally pokes her in the shoulder while inserting a pin.

“If you’d just stand still, it wouldn’t happen,” Aunt Märta tells her. “Vanity is a sin.”

But she looks quite pleased with her handiwork, pulling a loose thread off the skirt.

The evening before the last day of school, Aunt Märta irons the new dress and starches a petticoat for underneath it. The fabric feels stiff, rustling when Stephie pulls it over her head.

Stephie is solemn. The dress is her first new piece of clothing since arriving on the island, except for underwear and stockings, which Aunt Märta buys by mail order, and the cap and mittens she gave Stephie for Christmas.

Mounting the bike, Stephie’s careful not to wrinkle her skirt. She spreads it out across the carrier, smoothing it with one hand, making sure the fabric won’t get caught in the spokes.

The classes gather at school and they walk in single file to the church. Almost all the girls have new dresses. Sylvia’s buttons down the front, as Stephie would have liked hers to. But no one has such a full skirt as Stephie.

The head teacher’s speech to all the children in the church seems endless. He talks forever about the “dark shadow of war across Europe,” encouraging the children to spend their summer not just having fun but also being extra-obedient because of “these terrible times.”

The wooden pews are hard, and Stephie’s starched petticoat is itchy around her waist.

“Most of you will be coming back to school next autumn,” the head teacher goes on. “But the pupils in the sixth grade are having their very last day of school here today. I would like to wish each and every one of you the best of luck, both those of you who are going on to grammar school in Göteborg and those who are leaving school now. Remember, no matter where you find yourselves later in life, you have a mission: whatever you do, do it well.”

But what you do and where you are are important, too, Stephie thinks. I can do the things I want to do well, but not the things I dislike doing.

“Miss Bergström and I are, of course, especially pleased that so many pupils, five of you, will continue on to grammar school,” the head teacher says. “You are a credit to our elementary school.”

Sylvia, sitting diagonally in front of Stephie, smiles with self-satisfaction, as if the head teacher were speaking to her and her alone.

“And now,” he says, “I will present the achievement awards to the sixth graders. Miss Bergström, would you come forward and assist me, please?”

Stephie’s teacher stands next to the head teacher, a little stack of books in her arms. She passes him a slip of paper.

“Ingrid Andersson,” he reads.

Ingrid walks to the front, is given a book, shakes the head teacher’s hand, and curtseys before returning to her seat.

“Bertil Eriksson.”

Stephie turns toward the side aisle and looks at a painting on the wall. It depicts an old man dressed in black, with a stiff, white collar standing straight up and encircling his face like a flower. She wonders if that collar is as stiff and itchy as her petticoat.

Britta nudges her. “Aren’t you listening?” she hisses. “That was you.”

“Stephanie Steiner,” the head teacher repeats. “Isn’t Stephanie Steiner here today?”

Stephie stands up, bewildered. “Here,” she says.

Miss Bergström smiles. “There you are. Come forward, please, Stephanie,” she says.

Stephie squeezes through the row and into the center aisle, walking up to the head teacher and Miss Bergström.

“May I say a few words?” Miss Bergström asks the head teacher.

“Of course.”

“It is always a pleasure to reward good students,” Miss Bergström begins. “But there is particular satisfaction in presenting an award to a pupil who is so gifted that she is now at the top of the class in spite of the fact that she didn’t speak a word of Swedish a year ago. I wish you the very best of luck, Stephanie.”

The book they hand her is a thick one, with a beautiful cover. The gold lettering on the cover reads: Nils Holgersson’s Wonderful Journey Through Sweden. On the flyleaf Miss Bergström has written, in her elegant script:

To Stephanie Steiner, 7 June 1940

May this book aid you in becoming even better acquainted with your new homeland and its language.

From your teacher,

Agnes Bergström

Back in the pew, Stephie leafs through the book, fascinated by the illustrations. When the organ music begins, Britta has to elbow her in the side again to stand up.

“The summer flowers are blooming…,” they sing. Stephie finds it a lovely song, although she doesn’t understand the whole text. She’s happy about the book, and about what Miss Bergström said. And yet she’s feeling sad. Ordinarily she would have been glad summer vacation was beginning. But a summer vacation that doesn’t end with going back to school isn’t a real summer vacation.

When fall comes, she’ll be taking home economics two days a week. “Learning to run a household,” as Aunt Märta puts it. But there’s so much else to learn in the world!