Chapter 10

"Harper is fifteen. She lives at St. Cecilia's in Brooklyn. She is a pianist."Polite applause—some sincere, most not.Harper stepped to the small microphone. Her hands didn't shake; her voice did, a little."My name is Harper Langston. I want to study music. I'm asking anyone here tonight: please give me a chance."She stepped back. Catherine moved on.At table 11, Charles Hartwell had not clapped. He was watching Harper sit down, holding his water glass the way a man holds a verdict he's about to deliver.Now, stop the story for a second: if a child stood up in a room of three hundred wealthy adults and asked for a chance, what is the worst thing that could happen next? Whatever you imagined, it was kinder than what happened.The introductions ended. Forks resumed against plates. Catherine stepped down to walk to Harper's table; she didn't get there in time.Harper had already stood. She crossed the ballroom alone: sixteen tables, fifty steps. Sister Margaret half-rose, then stopped, because two nights ago she had said, "You will have asked."Harper stopped three steps from Charles Hartwell's table. "Mr. Hartwell, sir, my name is Harper Langston."Hartwell did not look up. He was cutting a piece of steak.Bradley looked up first—fourth whiskey. He smiled, the smile a man smiles when he's spotted something he can use to make his table laugh."Well, well, look at this, gentlemen. The zoo forgot to lock a cage tonight, and one of them wandered all the way over here looking for a snack."The table laughed. The senator chuckled into his napkin."And the dress, sir. Salvation Army's been busy this season. Kids from those neighborhoods dressing better than we are."The woman at the next table set down her fork. She looked away; she did not stand up.

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