It wasn’t even lunch yet, and Helen had a plagiarism situation on her hands. Becky Fairchild: chipper with lots of teeth, field-hockey captain, hair ribbons in Hadley Academy colors every Friday, scones and effusive thank-you notes for teachers at Christmas, clothes from the kind of catalogs that Helen sometimes flipped through wistfully on the toilet. Becky truly was not bright. During class discussions she produced a lint roller from her backpack and ran it dreamily over her breasts, and when called on, she volunteered others for the job — “Why doesn’t Donald tell us what he thinks!” When you got down to it, the only time she voluntarily spoke was to deliver her daily appraisal of Helen’s outfit from the back of the room — “Jeans, wow. Ms. Fiore’s not wearing her usual skirt!” or “Ms. Fiore, you’re looking so bohemian today with that crazy scarf” — so relentlessly that, while her husband still slept, it was Becky she found herself anxiously dressing for each morning, wondering if she’d meant “crazy” in a bad way.