When their father got home and got the news, something even more unexpected happened. His eyes filled with tears. He stood clutching his son’s acceptance letter, reading it over and over. Then he stopped reading, hugged their mother, then the boys, and he said, “Well, we’ve sure got something to say when they ask about blessings at church on Sunday this week.”

The night before Kofi’s departure, the two boys lay in the small room they shared, their heads buzzing from the talk and congratulations of Kofi’s going-away party and from the fizzy remains of a couple of illicit half-drunk beers sneaked off the table. (“Mama’s gonna whup your ass, she sees you sneaking those, Kofi.” “Who’s gonna tell her?” Then the thrill of the slightly warm beer—it tasted nasty at first, but then you kind of got used to it—going down their gullets. They smiled at each other like men.) Kofi’s packed bags, one of them already starting to split at the seam, sat in the corner. The room smelled warm, of boy’s sweat and humid city air. Rashid spoke first. “You nervous, Kofi?”

“Nervous? Naw…. Well, maybe a little. The work’s gonna be hard up there. Harder than old chump-ass Banneker.”

“You can do it, though, right? I mean, they wouldn’t even have let you in if you couldn’t, right?”

“Right.” Silence. “It’s gonna be different, though. A lot of white people. A lot of work,” Kofi continued. “I’ma miss you, you little punk.”

Rashid was silent for a moment. “I’ma miss you, too.”

Barbara and Henry Bryson had scraped together enough cash for a rental car to drive Kofi to school (Henry praying silently through the whole transaction that they wouldn’t actually put a charge on his severely overextended Visa card), and each member of the family struggled downstairs with a piece of Kofi’s luggage when it was time for him to go. There was no one to see them off or wish them well—just the group of corner boys fixing them with the same contemptuous stare with which they greeted everything. Once they were all in the car, Henry took a deep breath and said briefly, “Lord, bless us this day as we take our oldest boy on to his next stage of life. We ask for your protection and care.”

“Amen,” said the boys and Barbara. They all smiled nervously at each other. Then Henry turned on the radio and pulled away from the curb. All you could hear was the sweet voice of Al Green on the Sunday oldies show.