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Summary
Perhaps because it was easier to imagine Kromer with her bruised knees as a rowdy, hungry older classmate, with her eroded pupils and sun-bleached hair and a trained whistle. Easier to imagine that her being in his same class despite being a couple years older was a consequence of this ruptured life and not some deliberate action. Easier to imagine that sinister smirk shining with perverse youthful satisfaction over shoving a boy's face on a toilet and flushing than to try to think about—about everything that he would find out later. Even in his mind such judgment came with pause, not out of any pity for her—she deserved no less than hell—but because Sinclair still found himself loath to turn over the stone of his own self to find this much resentment still in there.