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since you didn’t actually see how the altercation started, you may have mistakenly assumed . . . ”
    â€œThey were giving Philip Birthday Beats!” my brother protests.
    â€œ Mr. Packer ,” my grandfather interjects, “if it was Philip who attacked Grant Brush, then how do you explain the fact that Philip is the one with the black eye and the bruises all over him?”
    Mr. Packer hides behind the Incident Report again. “Allow me to quote directly from the testimony of Grant Brush: ‘Philip was swinging his arms so wildly at me that he accidentally hit himself in the eye. He was so out of control that me and Graham thought we had better hold him down, so he didn’t hurt himself more. We were just trying to do the right thing.”
    Mom speaks up for the first time. “So you’re telling us that Philip hit himself in the face? Really , Ernie.”
    Mr. Packer places the Incident Report on the desktop, and removes his reading glasses. He looks at my mother. “June, Mrs. Skyler ,” he says, “when you came here in September to enroll Philip, I warned you that home-schooled students often have a difficult time adjusting to the social environment of formal education. I also advised you that Philip’s, well, unusual appearance might make social acceptance by his peers difficult. We’ve done our best to help Philip adjust; I even personally ensured that he was placed in a class with a more deliberately paced learning environment.”
    A more deliberately paced learning environment . So I was right. They shoved me into the Reject Class because of my face.
    My mother shoots a quick, cold look at my grandfather. She and my father had argued many times about sending me to school. Mom wanted to keep me at home until I started high school, but Dad insisted that I needed to “face the real world” sooner rather than later. When approached to cast the tie-breaking vote, my grandfather agreed with my father. And that was that.
    â€œI’m afraid I predicted this unfortunate outcome some time ago,” Mr. Packer sighs. “You should have trusted me.”
    â€œListen, Ernie, Mr. Packer ,” my grandfather fumes, leaning forward on Packer’s desk, “we’re supposed to be able to trust you to keep our boys safe at school. Philip was beaten up by two kids who are not only bullies, they’re also liars.”
    Mr. Brush, the Principal, bursts through the door between Mr. Packer’s office and his. Mr. Packer, Mom, Michael and I all jump in our seats; my grandfather does not.
    â€œHow dare you!” Mr. Brush bellows, his fleshy neck red against his starched white collar, his jowls shaking dramatically. “My boys are good, upstanding, honest young men. How dare you call them liars! I’m raising a family with strong moral values.”
    â€œYes, Clarence,” my grandfather says coolly, rising from his chair, “I remember hearing you say that in the speech you gave when you were running for the local Conservative Party nomination. Quite stirring. I’m sure you’ll win next time.”
    It’s no wonder that my grandfather was re-elected as the mayor of Faireville so many times. Those eyes of his, the deep, confident voice, his towering height, his full head of silver hair; he is the physical definition of Authority . Despite having retired from the mayor’s office years ago, my grandfather still carries much local political currency. When they see him driving through town in his old Ford, or tending the gardens behind his two-bedroom bungalow near Church Square, they see a lack of pretension, which small-town folk despise in politicians. That he wears a suit and tie whenever he leaves his home shows them that he still has respect for his former office, but the scar in the middle of his upper lip, left by a flying puck during a childhood hockey game, tells them that he is still one of them. The people of