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‘Flossie,’ he says, ‘if you leave me here, I’ll
die
here. You ain’t even a
Christian
no more.’
    “And I want to say, ‘Oh yeah? How ’bout you save that “no Christian” shit for that forty-six-goin’-on-five-year-old poppa-was-a-rollin’-stone no-show son of yours, except, oh yeah, I don’t see him around here for you to say that to . . . In fact, I haven’t seen him around here for you to say that to since I brung your no-blood-relation-of-mine ass up from Florida three months ago.’
    “See, but I don’t say any of that. The man’s old and scared, and God doesn’t give us any more than he thinks we can handle and I am truly, truly blessed. However, that’s a typical day off for me, Ray, so who broke that vase over your head, just give me the name so I can lock his ass up, go home, get in bed and watch
ER
like everybody else. What do you say, huh?” She touched her scarred eyebrow. “C’mon. I owe you one . . .”

Chapter 4
    Classroom—January 7
    A moment after the eerie electronic
boop
that signaled the beginning of class, Principal Egan finally, finally, after three days of false starts, herded seven students into the faculty lounge, the kids all flat-faced, eyes averted, not a smile in the bunch. There were four girls, two black, one Latina, one who could’ve been either, all with hair shellacked into frozen flips and waves, all sporting huge gold earrings, two with crucifixes on chains, the girls looking good; and three boys, two black, both of them in long-sleeved white shirts, cuffs buttoned above bony wrists, their ties askew, and a chubby, prepubescent Latino kid with a short inarticulate haircut, this boy also sporting a crucifix, which on him Ray found both off-putting and reassuring.
    Unable to look them in the eye as they scraped back their chairs before settling in at the long table, he directed his attention to the principal.
    “Seven?” speaking over their heads as if they were refrigerators or air conditioners.
    “Hey,” Egan shrugged, “be thankful for that many.”
    “No no no, that’s fine, that’s fine.”
    “They’re good kids.” Egan turned to them. “Right?” Then left the room.
    Ray sat there in this new silence, trying to smile, but it was a rictus grin, so he stopped, buried his nose in his one page of notes, then went at it again.
    “How you doin’,” his voice too Bowery Boy, but before he could reinvent himself, another blast from the PA invaded the room from the small loudspeaker mounted above the blackboard.
    “Mr. Moffat, please come to the Resource Room, Mr. Moffat . . .” in a dead Dempsy drawl.
    “What is this, the Medical Center?”
    Nothing; two of the girls exchanging glances, playing with the stiff collars of their blouses; all the others fascinated by their own nails, the wood grain of the table; the air suffused with wariness.
    “OK,” he began again, and again was interrupted, this time by a stocky skirt-suited woman bustling into the lounge, black-eyed, black-haired, all manila folders and eyeglass chains, the students sagging with recognition.
    “Hi,” addressing Ray as she scraped up a seat. “I’m Mrs. Bondo and I’ll be sitting in.”
    “For today?” Ray not liking this.
    “For a while.” Then, “Can you sit up, Rashaad?”
    “OK.” He finally plunged in. “My name is Ray Mitchell, this is the writers’ workshop. Show up every week, do the requested work and I’ll throw you an A.”
    “They’re not receiving grades for this, just extra credit,” Mrs. Bondo said.
    “OK. Show up, do the work, I’ll throw you twenty dollars.”
    Two of the girls exchanged “This man he crazy” looks; the long bony boy Rashaad saying, “Dag, I’ll take it.”
    Ray wasn’t displeased with this reaction until he checked out Mrs. Bondo; the woman smiling but not amused. Ray was becoming more and more focused on her and, losing some of his gun-shyness around the kids, he gave them his first clear-eyed look.
    “You