profile, Megan could clearly see the welted hand mark on her right cheek, its reddish hue deepening by the second so that it looked like it had been painted on, part of a costume or ritual. Megan remembered — she would for a long time — the cloud of rouge that had risen from Annabella’s wrinkled face as each downward blow from her son’s right hand landed with a sharp snap like the lash of a whip. Megan remained in place, only her eyes visible over the top edge of the dumpster, and watched as Annabella slowly pulled herself to her feet. Searching the ground, trying to steady herself, the old palm reader spotted something and then stooped to retrieve the multi-colored kerchief she wore at all times on her head. Carrying it in her hand–the bobby pins must have gone flying — she walked unsteadily but not without dignity into the building.
* * *
Eight months later, near the end of a hot day in early September, Megan stood at the filigreed wrought iron fence that bordered the grassy playing field of L’Ermitage International School in the leafy suburb of Maison-Lafitte, west of Paris. Through the fence’s sturdy bars, she could see a group of middle school girls, eleven- and twelve-year olds, playing soccer amid the elongated shadows cast by the chimneys of the nearby seventeenth century castle that had given the town its name. The girls all wore the same black shorts and Nike sneakers, the teams differentiated by the colors of their L’Ermitage-embossed T-shirts. The girl she was interested in, Jeanne, had just scored for the green team. Megan did not know the score as she had arrived mid-game and there was no scoreboard, but she knew the goal was important by the way Jeanne’s teammates surrounded her in brief exultation before setting up