Think about it. Who was threatened the most?

It’s all about threats, thought Macey. Venita and Isaiah, Davonn and Chamique; they are a threat to us. They are a threat to this town. Black is a threat. My parents wouldn’t even let me go to a church and a funeral, it’s that much of a threat.

And who, in 1959, was threatened by Mr. Sibley? And therefore became a threat to Mr. Sibley? Those people on Shell Beach.

We didn’t call names, did we? thought Macey Clare. We cut right to the chase. We used a match.

Her body seemed to change its chemistry: It was no longer blood and bone. It was something fierce and needful. She would never know who set the fire at Good Shepherd, but she had to know who had set the fire on Shell Beach. Who burned the barn? Who planned for Wade Sibley to die?

Was it my very own grandfather?

“Mom?” she said politely. “Why didn’t you bring Mr. Sibley a plate of cookies?”

Her mother stared uncomprehendingly over a box of macaroni.

“You said when a new teacher moved into the barn, you always brought a casserole or dessert to welcome them. But you never went into Mr. Sibley’s apartment. You said, of course you never did.”

Mom set the box on the counter and tilted it to read the recipe on the back for penne rigate with mascarpone cheese. The odds that this particular kitchen would have mascarpone cheese hanging around were about a zillion to one. “Well, my parents were a little uncomfortable with the whole thing.”

“What whole thing?”

“Macey, don’t be dense. People weren’t that sure of themselves when integration began. Now, let’s have a real dinner for a change, so you can report to Nana and Papa that I still know how to use a stove. I found an onion and some frozen chopped peppers to throw into the macaroni.”

“I don’t think you do still know how to use a stove,” said Dad. “I know I don’t. It must be Macey who knows how to use a stove.”

“You cook, Mace,” agreed Mom. “All that time you spend in your grandparents’ kitchen should have paid off by now.”

For a minute Macey hardly knew who these well-dressed, attractive people were. Why won’t they talk? she thought. Why won’t anybody talk? Because nobody ever wants to talk about race?

She put some oil in a pan and browned the onion and peppers. That’s why I’m lying when I ask questions, she thought. I don’t want to talk about race, either. I don’t even want to admit that that’s my topic. And if I do have to admit that’s the topic, I want to pretend I was forced into it. It’s an assignment. Or a party plan.