The audience asked the kinds of questions you’d expect from twelve-and thirteen-year-olds. They asked if there were any girls’ schools nearby. They asked if the homework was hard. They asked if there were substitutes when a teacher was out (there was an excited murmur of approval through the room when it was revealed that when a teacher was absent, his or her classes were canceled for the day). They asked if there were a lot of black students. Rashid’s parents looked too moved to speak. Finally, the bell rang and the boys filed out—they were much more orderly now than they had been upon entering. Jerome had been quiet and preoccupied during the entire question-and-answer session, letting me and the boys do most of the talking. Now, as Hendricks approached them, he focused his attention back into the room with a visible effort.

“Thank you so much. All of you,” said the principal, his eyes lingering for an extra moment on Rashid. “You know how kids are—never want to let on that they’re that interested in anything. But I think you really reached some of these boys. Your presence here meant a lot. To all of us.”

“Thank you for having us,” Jerome said. “It’s truly been a pleasure to be here.” His voice had a funny, hollow sound, but maybe I imagined it.

Mr. and Mrs. Bryson came up to us, brushed past us without seeing, and both wordlessly went up to Rashid. First one, then the other, hugged him for a long, long time. After a while, Mrs. Bryson turned to me and Jerome and said, “Do you all have to get back right away? We’d … we’d like to have you all over for a bit, if we could.” I couldn’t miss the look of surprise in Rashid’s eyes but looked quickly away from him to Mrs. Bryson.

“That would be lovely,” I said emphatically, my tone of voice daring Jerome to try to stop me.

“Certainly,” he said, a bit less emphatically. The boys looked tickled, Rashid a little panicked. We said our good-byes to Mr. Hendricks, then left all together, our feet clattering on the stairs.