On the third night after Rebecca left the school, Brigitte lay on her bed and wept.

Many little girls do that, but Brigitte was not one of those little girls. Her strong emotions typically manifested as temper, and she was more likely to scream, throw things and kick them, even break something if she were in enough of a passion. To lie down and cry — That was not Brigitte. Even now she didn’t wail into her pillow like other little girls, but sobbed in wet hisses through her clenched teeth.

And then she realized Papa was watching her.

Normally, Papa would never have entered Brigitte’s room. It was a girl’s place — and it was Mama’s job to go in at night, brush and curl Brigitte’s hair, and oversee her prayers. Brigitte typically kissed him good night in his study, where everything was brown.

But here he was, surrounded by pink and lavender, standing beside her bed and looking at her in a way that made her suspect he already knew half the story. She’d tried to be quiet. She had been quiet.

But of course, Papa was Papa. Being quiet didn’t really hide much from him.

“Brigitte,” he said. “Sit up. Wipe your eyes and tell me what has happened.”

She pulled herself up and managed to dry her cheeks. “Papa…” she started, and then hiccoughed.

“There’s no rush, ma fille. Take a deep breath.”

She drew in her breath, then let it out.

“Papa,” she said, “I’ve been bad.”

She had been bad in the past. Quite frequently. Never before had she volunteered the information.

“Then you must tell me all about it. Get up, Brigitte,” he said. “Beds are for sleeping.”

He settled into Mama’s chair, and Brigitte took her’s, the one she sat in when Mama put her hair in papers.

“Is this about Rebecca Gold?” he asked.

She nodded.

Brigitte told him about everything. The Hootchie Cootchie song, Rebecca’s reaction to it, the way the other children had laughed. “I knew it was a naughty song, Papa, but I didn’t know it would hurt Becky’s feelings. I tried to make them stop, but they wouldn’t. And I even tried to tell her I’m sorry.” She looked at him. “Is Rebecca going to come back to school? Ever?”

Papa shook his head. “Brigitte, I’m sorry. The Golds are not going to stay on the island.”

“Is it all my fault?”

“No,” he said. “It is not. There are other things involved, grown-up things you needn’t know and shouldn’t trouble your head about. You made a mistake, no doubt about that, but we all make mistakes, especially when we are children.”

“It is a sin, Brigitte, to brood and weep and pluck at your heart. Le Bon Dieu does not like that. He likes little girls to smile and have bright, cheerful faces.”

“You must go to St. Elmo’s and confess that you sang a naughty song. Pere Francois will give you a penance and you will say some prayers and count yourself wiser.”

“But…”

“But?”

“Shirley Bonney won’t be my friend anymore.”

“Nonsense. You always become friends again. You have quarrelled before, and it’s not made you cry. Why now?”

And so she told him the rest.

The day after Rebecca left, Shirley wouldn’t speak to her. That had happened before. Sometimes it had been Shirley who wouldn’t talk to Brigitte; sometimes it had been Brigitte who wouldn’t talk to Shirley. What hadn’t happened before came at lunch break. Shirley walked over Brigitte and asked “Do you want to be my sister-heart again?”

Brigitte had nodded.

“Do you want to come sit with Natalia and Abby and me?”

Brigitte wasn’t sure about that. She thought Abby was a bore, and she didn’t like Natalia very much. While she was thinking about it, Shirley continued.

“Say ‘Rebecca Gold is a hideous ugly toad.’ Then you can be my sister-heart.”

Brigitte wasn’t sure she’d heard Shirley right.

“Say it. Say “Rebecca Gold is…”

“But she’s not!”

“Everybody knows she is.”

“If you say she’s not, you’re stupid or crazy. Or blind.” Shirley walked back to where Natasha and Abby waited and sat down, her back to Brigitte.

The next day, everything seemed strange. Brigitte and Shirley weren’t talking, and so Brigitte kept to herself, looking as distant and cold as she could manage but it seemed to her the other children whispered, and once she caught Fifine looking at her and giggling.

And today, it wasn’t just Shirley, Natalia and Abby. It was everybody. And it wasn’t just “Becky Gold is ugly.”

It was, “Everyone knows Becky Gold is ugly and everyone must make Brigitte say ‘Becky Gold is ugly.'” At recess Brigitte was tired of being alone. We went over to play Leap with Gertie and and Camille and Serafina, they stopped and gathered around her with the small, I’ve-got-a-secret smiles Brigitte was learning to hate.

“You were talking to that Gold girl the other day weren’t you?” asked Camille. “Didn’t you notice how nasty looking she was?”

“No. Why do you say she looked nasty?”

For a moment Camille just looked at her smiling, her eyes strangely blank. Then she sang out, “She was FAT! FAT, FAT, FAT!” and Brigitte could hear people laughing.

“She looked like a great big pig!”

“A PIG with a toad’s face!”

“And her teeth were all crooked!”

“And her skin was all splotchy!”

“And her eyes were crossed!”

“Didn’t you see? Didn’t you see?” They started chanting, other children began to gather, laughing and joining in.

“NO!” she shouted. “None of that is true!”

And she lost her temper completely, and began screaming at them to shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!”

The noise brought Miss Skinner out. She ordered Brigitte back into the class. And while everyone else was outside, she sat Brigitte down and talked to her about shouting and losing her temper.

“She has spoken to you before about this,” said Papa quietly.

“And then she asked me why I was shouting and…and I told her about Becky and the things the other children were saying about her. I don’t tattle, Papa. I didn’t tell her any names…”

“What did Miss Skinner say about that.”

“She told me I was being silly and stubborn. She told me I was making a fuss about nothing. She said I should just agree with everyone instead of making a lot of noise and causing a disturbance.”

“Hmmm.”

“Papa… Am I wrong. Is something wrong with my eyes? Was Becky ugly? Was she like they say she is?”

“No, cherie, you are not wrong. There is absolutely nothing the matter with your eyes. Rebecca Gold is a pretty little girl, slender, with lovely skin and dark hair. But Miss Skinner is right about you shouting. It is very unladylike.”

“But what they said, what they wanted me to say, it’s not true.” She could feel something inside her get hard, immmovable.

“I won’t say something that’s not true just because everybody else is saying it. That’s stupid. I’m not going to be stupid!”

“So you need to know, Papa, and I hope Mr. Bonney doesn’t get angry, but Shirley isn’t going to be my friend anymore. Ever. Nobody is ever going to be my friend from now on and that’s just the way it is. It’s just…” She sighed.

“…It’s just that there are so many of them. It’s everybody. And I’m just one.”

Papa smiled.

“Brigitte,” he said, “Have you ever heard the story of the lionness and her cub?”

“No, Papa.”

“Once upon a time, in a forest, a mama hyena felt very proud. She’d just had a litter of four little pups, and she boasted to all the other animals about it.”

“Well, I think you know what followed. Naturally, all the other animals in the forest began talking about their own children. The squirrel pointed out that she’d easily matched the hyena’s with four of her own.

“The ferret had seven, while the rabbit boasted of nine. But the mouse had them all beat with ten hairless baby mice rolling around in their little burrow, none of them any bigger than the tip of your finger.”

“Then someone went to the lionness, and, smirking, asked her how many cubs she’d had.”

“One,” she said.

“But that one is a lion.”

“Do you understand?” he asked.

“I think so.”

“Don’t shout and glower at stupid people, Brigitte. There are far, far too many of them, and it just makes them imagine they are your equal. Lions only roar when they call to other lions. Better to speak quietly. If they are willing to listen, they’ll stop their squeaking, and yipping and baaing. If they aren’t, there’s no point in straining your voice.”

“Do you think I am a lion, Papa?”

“Yes, cherie, I think you are,” he said, and he rose, then bent to kiss her on the cheek. “Lions are very cunning beasts, but they never, ever tell an untruth merely because everyone else is doing it.”

His face grew grave as it always did when she’d been bad and he was laying down the law.

“I meant what I said about going to confession, girl. If I learn of you singing that piggish song again, your mother will warm your backside with a hairbrush. And I am tired of speaking to you about shouting and stamping your foot at people. It makes you look ugly, and I want no ugly women in this house.”

“I will miss playing with Shirley, Papa.”

“You will be friends again. Give her time, and she will come to you.”

Brigitte’s lower lip stuck out. “And I’m supposed to just forgive and forget.”

In the doorway, Papa turned, and for a moment Brigitte was afraid she’d gone too far.

“Forgive, yes,” said Papa. “Absolutely. Shirley Bonney can be a good friend to you, and a good friend is not something to be lightly tossed aside.”

“But forget where good friends have failed you? Where they are weak?”

“No, cherie. Never.”