“Essie,” my father said, trying to be calm, cool, and collected. “We both know that Pleasantville is by far one of the top towns to live in the whole state. Mr. Chrysanthemum is very well aware that we don’t live anywhere that relatively resembles the ghetto or poverty. And it is clear that you are not a charity case. I am paying for the camp. Arthur Chrysanthemum is just letting you stay in his home out of the kindness of his heart. So don’t be thinking that anyone is going to stick their nose up at you just because you’ll be a foreigner in London. Honey, I promise once again that everything will be okay. You just have to trust me. It’ll just be for one summer. I promise. Please, you have to trust me,” he begged, his eyes pleading. Either way, I knew I didn’t have a choice.