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her pencil on the grade book. “What happens . . .” Her voice trailed off as she seemed to struggle for the right words. “What happens if you manage to get a D, but get into senior English and fall even further behind? Then what?”
    â€œI won’t fall behind. Just give me a chance. I don’t want any gifts. I’ll work hard, I swear. I’ll get the D. I’ll do better in senior English, I promise. I’ll work a lot harder, you’ll see. I had some distractions this year. I’m not stupid, Miss Singletary.”
    â€œI don’t believe you’re stupid, Jimmy Lee. I think you’re very capable when you put your mind to it. But, for whatever reason, you just didn’t put forth much effort this year.”
    â€œI have a good reason.”
    â€œCare to share that with me?”
    I shook my head. “No, ma’am, not really. But if you give me a chance, I promise you won’t regret it. I won’t let you down.”

Chapter Two
    W
    e visited my brother in prison every other Sunday.
    He was an inmate at the state penitentiary in Mansfield, a hundred forty-two miles and a three-and-a-half hour drive from our house. It was an arduous ride, during which my dad cursed the ignorance of other drivers and chain-smoked, filling the interior of our car with plumes of blue haze and bluer language.
    About six months after Edgel was sentenced to Mansfield, Mom wrote a letter to the Ohio Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation requesting that he be moved to a prison closer to home to make it more convenient for our visits. “If you could move him to the prison in Lucasville, that would be nice as it is only about fifty miles from our house.” In response, she received a curtly worded letter stating that the state couldn’t honor such requests, which came as a surprise to no one but Mom.
    On the first Sunday of my summer vacation before my senior year, Mom made a breakfast of biscuit gravy and fried eggs, after which I put on a clean shirt and sat on a front porch swing that was sun-bleached gray and suspended from exposed joists with a rusty chain. I put my feet on the porch railing and slowly rocked, listening to the chain squeak and the house groan with each push, enjoying a moment of solitude before we began the journey north to the Mansfield State Reformatory.
    My father was next to appear on the porch. He shot a brief glance my way, his eyes unable to conceal the indifference he felt toward me, and did not speak. The moisture of his bath remained on his body; his forehead was slick and his shirt clung to his chest and back in damp pools. The old man was still hard and muscular, and the half-football bulge just above his belt was solid to the touch. He stood at the edge of the porch for a minute as he fished a cigarette from the pack in his breast pocket, slipped it between his lips, and began patting his pockets to locate his lighter. Once the torch had been found, he lowered himself down on the top step to fire up his smoke. A high-pitched whine escaped from deep in his body as he inhaled hard on the first draw, then allowed the exhaust to slowly escape from his mouth, sending up tendrils of white smoke that danced in front of his face. Streaks of gray were starting to show at the old man’s temples and the white scars of a hundred fights flickered like bits of neon on his tanned face. He smelled of Marlboros and the hair cream that glistened on the back of his pockmarked neck. While he sat and smoked, Dad pulled and twisted the metal wristband of the watch that hung loose around his left wrist. He twisted the watchband whenever he got nervous or anxious, and the trips to the prison always caused him angst. He didn’t like the visits, and I don’t think he liked Edgel. I grew up never understanding the underlying reason for the dislike, but I assumed it was simply the result of two hotheads living under the same roof.
    Mom was last out the