“What are you doing?” “Nothing. “Stop this—this humbugging,” he explained. If you were ten years younger, you'd have me wondering. ‘Why did he make me French, Marthe? Why did he give me this name of Melusine, and say I am born of Suzanne Valade?’ Martha looked at her, but her lips remained firmly closed. When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. Well, it had to happen somewhen.
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