In the background, Diane had gone completely quiet.
“Okay,” I said. “Okay, sweetheart. Put your mom on.”
There was a long pause.
Then Diane’s voice. Very small.
“Megan.”
“Diane.”
“We’ll take the money,” Diane said. Every word sounded like it cost her something. “Thank you.”
“It’s not my money,” I said. “It’s thirty-one thousand strangers who read about two kids and a ponytail. And it’s not my name that should be on it. It’s yours.”
That afternoon, Graham and I sat at my kitchen table and transferred the fundraiser to his name. We wrote a new statement together. The truth. That a fourteen-year-old boy had started it without permission. That the family was grateful and furious and grateful again. That Harper was going to Philadelphia.
Harper picked a new photo herself.
Her, in the wig. Grinning. Holding up a peace sign.
Two days later, a reporter from Channel 8 showed up at the dental office where I work.
