She liked to be amid the biota, as the scientists call it. At her previous address, Juniper had liked to sit among the tall longleaf pines at the back of the property, far enough from the house that she felt like she could breathe and think. Where was she supposed to go when she needed to get away but wasn’t allowed to leave? There was hardly any space here that was not taken up by the house and the pool, and what space there was had no cover. This new home’s yard was much smaller than Juniper’s old one-not even a third of an acre, when before she’d had three. Juniper was hiding something, and she didn’t know whether to be ashamed or angry or just exactly what. We’ll say most of us hide what troubles and confuses us, displaying instead the facets we hope others will approve of, the parts we hope others will like. We’ll say no one can be known by only what’s visible. It’s trite to say appearances can be deceiving, so we won’t say that. A difficult age, no question, even if you have everything going for you-which it seemed to us she did. Juniper Whitman, the poolside girl, was seventeen. They’ll challenge attendees to say on-camera whose side they’re on.įor the record: we never wanted to take sides. Later this summer when the funeral takes place, the media will speculate boldly about who’s to blame. A Sunday afternoon in May when our neighborhood is still maintaining its tenuous peace, a loose balance between old and new, us and them. We begin our story here, in the minutes before the small event that will change everything. A girl on a chaise beside a swimming pool, who wants to be left alone. An upscale new house in a simple old neighborhood.

The glass house amitav ghosh