We raise our heads, but I concentrate on Mrs. Vincent’s chipped front tooth, a strange imperfection in an otherwise perfect American face. She purses her lips, thinks for a moment, then says, “What does the Bible tell us about loving our enemies?”

I wait for Lottie to contribute, but she keeps stubbornly quiet, so I say, “‘But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.’ Matthew 5:44.”

“That’s right.” Mrs. Vincent smiles. “Violence begets violence, so tell me what you should have done instead of throwing stones.”

“‘We . . .’” I go to quote another Bible verse, but Lottie cuts in.

“Adele should have turned the other cheek and let the boy spit on her a second time. Then, amazed by our humility and goodness, the boy would have come to love and appreciate us.”

Mrs. Vincent seems to struggle to say something but finds nothing.

“In time,” Lottie adds in the silence.

“Yes . . .” Mrs. Vincent draws the word out because Lottie gave the right answer, but Mrs. Vincent doesn’t know how to tell me straight to my face that, yes, I should have smiled when the boy called us “monkeys.” That I should have let him spit on me again. That God loves to see his children endure, because it teaches them strength.

Would she give her two young daughters the same advice?

Her silence makes me bold, and I look straight at her. She’s bright red, and the cords in her neck stick out under the skin. I wait for her to do something, say something, anything. But Mrs. Vincent is quiet, and it strikes me that she doesn’t know what to do or what to say to Lottie’s perfect reply.

My boldness makes Lottie bold. She sticks out her hand, with the palm up, and says, “Punish us, so that next time we will be kinder and gentler to white boys who hate us.”

Mrs. Vincent blinks, and the cords in her neck stretch so tight I’m afraid they’ll snap and her head will collapse on her shoulders. She turns away from us and grips the porch rail with both hands. “Go,” she says. “You’re dismissed.”

Lottie moves fast, in case Mrs. Vincent changes her mind and sends us to ash the toilets. I move slower, and when I reach the bottom of the stairs, Mrs. Vincent says, “Be careful of where your anger will lead you, Adele.”

“Yes, Mrs. Vincent. I will.”

I hurry through the roses, grab up my grass broom, and catch up with Lottie. We walk the road to the senior-girls’ dorm. Halfway there, I stop and look over my shoulder at Mrs. Vincent standing alone on her porch. We escaped, but I’m not elated like I should be.

“Come on.” Lottie tugs my arm. “She doesn’t know anything about us. She’s white and American. How can she?”