“Think about the fall,” he said. “We’ll be back together again, at Vandy. You’ll be a shoo-in for SAE. First ballot, I guarantee it. You can be my little brother. Focus on that. The rest of this stuff will all settle out.”

I thought of the lame pass I’d made at Vanessa. I pictured her telling Arch, the two of them having a laugh at my expense. I wondered if Arch would feel so superior if he knew what I’d promised Vanessa—that she had trusted me with her secret. I imagined the look on his face if I were to tell him. I thought about doing the same to Mr. Haltom, just to prove to him that he couldn’t control and manipulate everything—that there were choices and consequences beyond his power. Then again, he’d already learned this lesson from my mother.

Mr. Haltom was to give the commencement address at Yeatman that year. It was unusual for a board chair to do this; usually, the school invited some local eminence or a distinguished alumnus. An exception had been made for him; his “invitation” to speak had been calculated as a platform from which he could announce his run for governor. He’d abandoned his presumed candidacy too late for a replacement speaker. So he went on with the address, most everyone in the crowd well aware of his looming divorce.

That week, I was told that my painting of the children gathering cans at the tailgate—the one I’d thought might get me kicked out of school—had, to my astonishment, won the school’s Art Purchase Prize. It would sit on an easel behind the dais for the duration of the graduation ceremony and then be hung in a place of honor somewhere in the library. Before the ceremony, I went to the art room to collect the painting and deliver it to the podium. There, I found Dean Varnadoe, dressed in a seersucker suit, white panama in one hand, brass-handled cane in the other, appraising my work.

“You have some talent, Mr. Boykin,” he said. “So your time here hasn’t been a complete waste.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Varnadoe’s eyes wandered over to Miss Whitten’s bare desk.

“I don’t blame her for leaving,” I said.

“No, I don’t either,” he said. “Still, it’s sad, isn’t it? To come in here and see the place stripped of every trace of her. Every trace, that is, but her influence on this fine painting you’ve produced.”

“You like it?” I asked.

“I do,” he said. “It’s a bit heavy-handed, mind you. But it’s quite powerful, and technically quite accomplished. And you may be aware of my low opinion of the Tennessee Breeders’ Cup.”

“Why’d they fire her?” I asked.

“I can’t say.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”