“I’m sorry you had to stumble on this, sweetheart,” said her father.

“I didn’t stumble on it, Dad. I’ve been working for weeks to get here. And I’m not sorry.” This was a complete lie. Macey had never been so sorry about anything in her life. She felt like Stella Miller in the rest home, the world nothing but strangers and bad smells.

Austin was leaving.

Dad looked at her as if they had not met, or as if he had met somebody else named Macey. “I knew you were investigating, and I let myself be amused. Isn’t that sweet, my little girl with this little hobby of local history.”

“Nothing about this,” said Macey to her parents, “has been sweet. That’s even the word you used, Mom, when Mrs. Framm said Bonnie became a science teacher in Mr. Sibley’s honor. It wasn’t sweet, Mom, you shouldn’t have said that.”

Her mother picked up photographs.

“It diminishes Mr. Sibley,” agreed her father. “That’s what silence is for. To make somebody unimportant.”

So I can’t be silent, thought Macey. But if I’m not silent, I have to be talking to somebody. About something. Like who? And what?

“That’s one way to win in history,” her father said. “You don’t bother with battles and soldiers and gunpowder. You make a group of people unimportant, and they vanish, like an unpopular kid in the class.”

“Daddy, why haven’t you said these things to me before? Were you ever going to? Were you going to let me grow up shallow and ignorant?”

“Shallow and ignorant are things we do well in this town,” said Mom.

“Then why are we here?” demanded Macey.

“I love this town,” said Mom. “It’s still the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. However, its residents, and that includes us, don’t always behave beautifully.”

“You’re wrong,” said Macey. “In this town, we do behave beautifully. That’s why it works so well. Who would suspect, with such beauty and courtesy, that we are the kind of people who will take any measure to keep our town white?”

Her mother’s patience ended. “It happened once, Macey,” said Mom, sneaking a glance at her wristwatch. “Once. Thirty-eight years ago. It’s not a daily practice.”

“Daily practice,” said Macey, “is how we make sure we don’t have to use matches again.” If only Mom had not looked at her watch. She loves us, see, but she can’t quite be a mama. Oh, Venita! thought Macey for the second time. Now I’m mad at you for saying things I’d remember!

“When you asked about segregation and the fifties, Mace,” said Dad, “I just threw any old answers at you because the subject made me uncomfortable. I think maybe I let you down.”

“Yes. My whole family has let me down. My whole town. My state.”