Ted Fox strode in shortly, folders under his right arm and graying hair disarranged, wearing his usual preoccupied look. He sat at the table in front of the room, spread the folders before him, and looked up, eyes widened slightly, as if he was surprised to find us there waiting. “Right, then, gentlemen—and ladies, of course—let’s get to it.” He then proceeded to describe, in detail, a number of small bureaucratic matters that required our attention—attendance sheets filled out incorrectly, the importance of signing in and out of school on the clipboard left in the faculty lounge, the routine upcoming visit from members of the independent school board of accreditation. My attention wandered, and I could see my fellow faculty members shifting in their seats. None of what Fox was saying invited the slightest response.

After he had droned on in this vein for a few more minutes, he closed the files before him and pushed the various papers into a neat pile. He cleared his throat and gave the assembled faculty the benefit of his penetrating blue gaze. “This brings us to our main topic of the day, ladies and gentlemen,” he said firmly. “Some of you may have heard that Jerry Washington and I paid a visit to New Haven recently to meet with some of our African-American alumni and friends. Many of them expressed grave concern about the current state of our enrollment of black students. Or, to be frank, the lack thereof. As I’m sure you all know, we have a miserable retention rate with these young men, and we are having a harder and harder time attracting them at all—even as boys’ schools begin to come back into favor. What I want to hear from you today is not arguments or rationalizations, but some bold, clear thinking on what we can do to change this. Certain of our funding sources have demanded that we at least show an effort toward change in the very near future. What’s more, greater diversity is where this nation is headed. I don’t intend for this school to be left behind. Your thoughts, anyone?”

Stony silence descended. One or two people looked quickly at me, then away. The backs of my hands tingled, and I could feel my breath moving tightly in and out of my lungs. The issue of Chelsea’s racial makeup had never before been spoken of quite this bluntly. There seemed to be no immediate way to respond. The first voice to emerge from the silence was that of Jack Brodie, the chemistry teacher.

“Ted, what do you mean, ‘certain of our funding sources’?”

Fox reddened slightly and then decided to answer. “Well, do you all remember Brendan Hastings?”