Horace and his crew marched around, walking under a tall nightlamp that illuminated the front of the school, but Horace did not think about anyone seeing him from the road, or the fact that he was naked. They walked up onto the long verandah, and Horace saw a light on in the principal’s office. He tiptoed over and peered in, thinking, What is Jimmy doing in the office so late?

But Jimmy was not at his desk. A middle-aged white man sat there instead, and as Horace looked over by the door he was surprised to see himself sitting on the bench across the room, no more than ten, next to a young white boy with straw-colored hair and crooked teeth. Willy Smith, Horace remembered. Both boys had busted lips bright with fresh blood. Mr. Stubbs, then the principal, sat at his desk scribbling something with a hand that darted across the page, his face fixed in consternation. He was a round, red-faced man who was easily flustered; his eyeglasses seemed constantly to be slipping askew and he seemed constantly to be pushing them back on straight.

Willy had accused Horace of taking his Fantastic Four comic book, a special anniversary issue. But Horace had purchased the book the weekend before at a Wilmington drugstore. The boy pushed him and called him a liar and a thief, and they wound up in Mr. Stubbs’s office.

Suddenly the door was flung open, and his aunts rushed in. Peering in, Horace noticed how well dressed they were, made up in earth tones, their hair straightened with not a hair out of place, their posture impeccable. He could almost smell their perfume from where he stood.

Mr. Stubbs flinched, turning red as a beet. He stood up and automatically went on the defense.

“Now, Mrs. Edgar, Mrs. Johnson, Mrs. McShane, your cousin was caught fighting, fighting, with—”

“Why?” Rachel was blunt, her eyes like a dangerous animal’s, mere slits. “Did you even ask him why?”

“Well, I—”

“And did you ask the people around them?” Rebecca was looking down at him, her face calm, yet threatening. “Who was the teacher in charge? Why did she let this happen?”

“I believe it was Mrs.—”

“Horace is a Cross.” Ruthester pointed her finger at Mr. Stubbs, who recoiled involuntarily, as though poked with a needle. “He is not a fighting child. I’m certain he would not be fighting if not provoked.”

“Ladies, there—”

“And where is that teacher? Who did you say it was?”

“Mrs.—”

“Where is the little brat? Did you ask him?”

“Ladies, really, I—”

“I want to see Horace. Now. Where is he? He could be hurt!”

“Yes. Now.”

“That’s right. Now.”

“Ladies!” Mr. Stubbs was now the color of strawberry soda. Sweat covered his forehead, and he gulped to calm himself before pointing behind them to the bench and saying, “They’re both right here.”