Sistine was in Rob’s sixth-grade homeroom class. Mrs. Soames made her stand up and introduce herself.

“My name,” she said in her gravelly voice, “is Sistine Bailey.” She stood at the front of the room, in her pink dress. And all the kids stared at her with open mouths as if she had just stepped off a spaceship from another planet. Rob looked down at his desk. He knew not to stare at her. He started working on a drawing of the tiger.

“What a lovely name,” said Mrs. Soames.

“Thank you,” said Sistine.

Patrice Wilkins, who sat in front of Rob, snorted and then giggled and then covered her mouth.

“I’m from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania,” Sistine said, “home of the Liberty Bell, and I hate the South because the people in it are ignorant. And I’m not staying here in Lister. My father is coming to get me next week.” She looked around the room defiantly.

“Well,” said Mrs. Soames, “thank you very much for introducing yourself, Sistine Bailey. You may take your seat before you put your foot in your mouth any farther.”

The whole class laughed at that. Rob looked up just as Sistine sat down. She glared at him. Then she stuck her tongue out at him. Him! He shook his head and went back to his drawing.

He sketched out the tiger, but what he wanted to do was whittle it in wood. His mother had shown him how to whittle, how to take a piece of wood and make it come alive. She taught him when she was sick. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her tiny white hands closely.

“Don’t jiggle that bed,” his father said. “Your mama’s in a lot of pain.”

“He ain’t hurting me, Robert,” his mother said.

“Don’t get all tired out with that wood,” his father said.

“It’s all right,” his mother said. “I’m just teaching Rob some things I know.”

But she said she didn’t have to teach him much. His mother told him he already knew what to do. His hands knew; that’s what she said.

“Rob,” said the teacher, “I need you to go to the principal’s office.”

Rob didn’t hear her. He was working on the tiger, trying to remember what his eyes looked like.

“Robert,” Mrs. Soames said. “Robert Horton.” Rob looked up. Robert was his father’s name. Robert was what his mother had called his father. “Mr. Phelmer wants to see you in his office. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Rob.

He got up and took his picture of the tiger and folded it up and put it in the back pocket of his shorts. On his way out of the classroom, Jason Uttmeir tripped him and said, “See you later, retard,” and Sistine looked up at him with her tiny black eyes. She shot him a look of pure hate.