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neither can you. Do you know how I know this for certain?” He looks right into me with those fierce eyes of his. “Because my own Grandfather could not be bent or broken, and neither could my father. And, so far, nor can I. And you are made from the same material as the men who came before you.”
    I close the blade and slip the jackknife back into my pocket. My mother opens the back door of the car, and slides onto the back seat.
    â€œI am not a deeply religious man, Philip,” my grandfather says, “but there is one saying I learned back in Sunday school that has always stuck with me: God helps those who help themselves . Your situation will not change unless you stand up and do something about it. Are you ready to stand up?”
    â€œWill you come to the school with Mom and me?” I ask him.
    â€œYes. I will.”
    â€œDo you think they’ll punish Graham and Grant for what they did to me?”
    â€œThere is no insurance in life, Philip. There are no guarantees. You can only do what you have to do, and hope that things go your way.”
    I turn and look through the oval windshield, past the glimmering chrome ornament on the nose of the car, down the lane where it meets with the road, and I draw a long breath. “Let’s go, then,” I say.
    My Grandfather pushes down on the clutch pedal, and we glide downhill, the engine of the old Ford throbbing reassuringly, snowflakes streaming over the car’s black hood like shooting stars.

    After escaping all the way home from the school in that bitter wind, the vice principal’s hardwood-paneled office feels like a steam-filled sauna. My pants are damp from melted snow, and my bruises have thawed also, reminding me of each punch and kick. I feel sore, hot and itchy. Not only am I stained, I am bent and broken, too.
    Mr. Packer is wearing his usual size-too-small beige tweed jacket with the brown elbow patches, slightly-too-short pants and a patterned tie that hangs three inches above his belt. When he’s standing behind the bench at the Faireville Memorial Arena wearing his coach’s leather jacket, Mr. Packer looks confident and proud, but inside his Vice Principal’s office he seems uncomfortable and out of place, a prisoner of his own suit.
    â€œNice to see you again, June,” Mr. Packer says to my mother, smiling with chemically whitened teeth. “And hello, Former Mayor Skyler,” he says with less enthusiasm, not quite meeting my grandfather’s eyes. “Thank you for bringing June and Philip here, sir.”
    â€œHello, Ernie ,” my grandfather says.
    â€œ Mr. Packer , if you don’t mind, sir, since I’m conducting official business at the moment.”
    â€œThen I don’t suppose you’ll mind referring to my son’s wife as Mrs. Skyler , rather than by her first name.”
    â€œDid I call you June?” Packer says, flashing his hundred-watt grin at Mom again. “I didn’t realize. I suppose we’ve known each other for so long that . . . ”
    My grandfather clears his throat.
    â€œWell, then,” Mr. Packer says, “to the business at hand.”
    He looks down at my mother’s behind as he takes her coat, then ushers her to one of the two upholstered chairs facing his Vice Principal’s desk. I sit down beside Michael on the hardwood bench reserved for kids who have been sent to the office for misbehavior. So much for standing up.
    â€œFormer Mayor Skyler,” Mr. Packer says, again not quite looking at my grandfather, “if you wouldn’t mind waiting outside the office, sir. What we are about to discuss is confidential, and . . . ”
    My grandfather hangs up his coat, and sits down in the chair beside my mother. “No need for such formality, Ernie,” he says. “Just call me Mr. Skyler.”
    â€œWell, see Mr. Skyler,” Mr. Packer says, “what we are about to discuss is confidential, and, as you