On the morning before I went away to boarding school, my mother made eggs for breakfast and let me take one to tell my fortune. I poured the egg white into hot water and picked out shapes in the cooking tendrils: a star, a leopard, the lifting anchor of a ship. Something very beautiful was going to happen to me. My suitcase stood by the door, full of dark blue socks and oxford shirts, waiting. But I did not want to go to Rowland Girls’ School. I wanted to crawl under the porch stairs, lie down, forget language, let my teeth fall out, and become a soft, sleeping animal.
