“Well, isn’t this a blessed sight,” he said. “There’s nothing sweeter to my eyes than young people showing their obedience to the Lord.” He folded his arms behind his back, and walked the center aisle, greeting the others and reviewing their work. Most everyone met him with a “Hey, Pastor” or “Good afternoon, Pastor,” to which he nodded his approval. When he reached Kiera, he placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. “Your collage is lovely, dear. Deacon and Deaconess Westing have done well with you.”

“Thank you, Pastor.”

He turned his attention to the boys’ side of the room, tipping his head toward the twins. “Nice job, young men.”

“Thank you,” they said in unison, then gave each other dirty looks—also in unison—for the unintentionally harmonized response. Pastor Newsome kept it moving to me and Jameer’s table.

Jameer didn’t make any special effort to acknowledge Pastor Newsome. He focused on his poster board, rolled his glue stick along the back of his final picture. He flipped it over and it wasn’t a picture, but a block of text from some article, too small for me to make out. His whole poster board was that way. No actual photos. Only text, under his name, which was spelled in individually clipped letters like ransom notes in movies.

Pastor Newsome’s previously jovial warmth chilled considerably. “Mr. Sesay.”

“Pastor.”

Newsome stared at the mass of letters that was supposed to be Jameer’s collage. It looked more like something a serial killer would put together, something full of secret messages only he could decode. I glanced around the room, and everyone seemed to be holding their breath.

Pastor Newsome said, “Perhaps there was some confusion about your project.”

“I like words better than pictures.”

“It’s not a writing project, Jameer.” Pastor Newsome looked to Sister Vanessa. “Perhaps you weren’t clear.”

“It’s the first day,” she began, but the temperature in the room dropped another few degrees, and she said, “I’ll be particularly clear from now on.”

Jameer chewed his bottom lip but remained silent. In the little time I’d known him, I’d come to think that was a difficult task for him.

Pastor Newsome shifted focus to my project. Grinned. “Now that’s a fine collage, Mr. Rainey.”

It was odd to hear my name, so formal, cross his lips. He said it with reverence, the way he pronounced religious names like David and Moses from the pulpit. I didn’t think he knew who I was.

“We need more fine young men like you in the congregation. You’re a shining light for your generation, and you’ll help guide up the young boys in the right way.” He motioned to Ralph and Bobby, who grinned, but I had a hard time sharing their enthusiasm because I knew enough to recognize that by praising me he was also, somehow, dissing Jameer.

Pastor Newsome’s eyebrows arched. He was waiting for something, and I knew what. Even though it made me feel slightly nauseous, there was too much I didn’t understand here and I wanted—needed—him to move on. So, I said it. “Thank you, Pastor.”