Over the summer Gideon had changed. His girlish, cute body had been transformed, much like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. Everyone was talking about it. Noticing him. The old women would say, Have you seen that boy of Lucius and Viola’s? He done took to growing! Suddenly he was taller than Horace. His arms, which seemed thicker and nothing like a girl’s, were falling beside a waist that was bunching itself together into something solid and decidedly manly. His voice was taking a deeper register. It was clear he would follow in the footsteps of his mother and his brothers and become a large man. And even more disturbing to Horace, what had once been annoying indiscretions now appeared intentionally charming; his formerly shrill and high-pitched voice was now honey toned; his “sissified ways” were being called mannerly and intelligent. Horace made an effort to avoid looking at him.

He would be lying to himself if he said he had not been attracted to Gideon, now more so. But admitting this resulted in such overwhelming guilt, he might as well have crucified himself. How? How? How? could he endure working closely with him? Why couldn’t the Lord take this bit of torture, this careful trap away? Give him larceny to fight instead. Let his piety be questioned. Try to force him to lie, to worship false gods, to dishonor his mother and father, to covet his neighbor’s home . . . but why Gideon?

Then he realized—it had almost been an afterthought—what his family would say about him working so closely with the son of a bootlegger. He knew he had stumbled upon the solution.

Granddaddy, Mrs. Hedgeson says I have to finish my project with Gideon Stone.

So?

You know. Gideon Stone. Lucius Stone’s son?

So?

Well, I mean . . .

You mean what, boy?

Well, you know . . . his daddy and all . . .

Uh-huh . . .

They ain’t . . . righteous people.

I beg your pardon, son?

That’s what you said be—

Come here, boy. Come here.

Yes, sir.

Now, son. Just because folks don’t do like I say don’t mean I got no cause to judge them. I say things, more than I ought to sometimes, but listen here to me, boy: Don’t you ever feel yourself better than nobody round here in Tims Creek, you hear? Nobody, nowhere. White nor black. Folks do what they gots to do, and cause that ain’t what you got to do it ain’t no cause to turn up your nose to them. Now let that be a lesson to you, boy. You go on and do your work with Gideon Stone. It won’t hurt nary one of you.