A token? But they were close, tight, doing as much as they could together. Movies. Ball games. Trips to the beach. Playing tennis. Late-night bull sessions at all-night pizza parlors and burger joints where they debated politics and economy and arctic thaw and nuclear winter. Together they read Hesse and Kerouac and Hemingway and Camus and Beckett and comic books. They spoke of travels and volunteering for foreign wars and political ambitions and winning Nobel Prizes. They smoked and drank and drove too fast the cars their mothers and fathers bought while listening to Bruce Springsteen and Pink Floyd, fully expecting the world owed them everything for nothing, and even more in return for a little effort. And Horace, enchanted by their singular, infectious freedom, identified with their sense of entitlement, believing the world owed him what it owed them. Believing wholeheartedly he would receive it in the end.

He ignored the criticisms of his friends, the labels that were being placed on him. Oreo. Greyboy. He refused to notice how other blacks stopped talking to him, stopped dishing the dirt, and pretended not to pay attention when he walked into their midst at school, and they all huddled and looked away, a few glaring at him with contempt.

Even when John Anthony approached him he decided not to understand.

What’s up, man?

Not much.

Not much? You sure been hanging tight with them fellows of yours. What’s up?

Like I said. Not much.

I mean, you know, we ain’t good enough for you these days?

J.A., man, what are you talking about? 1—

Look, I call them like I see them. Okay? And what I see with you ain’t too cool. Comprende?

No.

Well, hey man. What can I say? It’s your bag. Know what I mean? See you at the races.

Yeah.

Then came November, and Jay decided to pierce his ear along with Nolan, who convinced Ted and Ian. Horace agreed to come along. They would be branded as Musketeers, Caballeros, Brothers-in-Arms.

You in with us, Horace-dude?

Yeah.

Way to do, dude.