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Vinnie considers it a joke."
    "Sure it is," Dillard shot back, with a smile of proprietary confidence. "Vinnie's problem is that he takes everything so seriously. He needs to relax and get rid of that chip on his shoulder." As simple as that.
    It was a test of Vinnie's character, and I realized that my only hope of surviving in such a world was to be able to identify what I knew to be the truth, even though others chose to ignore it, and to find my own path through the wilderness.
    "I'd better get back to work," I said.
    "Let me know if you change your mind," said Dillard, still smiling as he left the room.
    A few days later, I was walking alone to my room after dinner when Vinnie caught up with me. The Thanksgiving holidays were a week away, and everyone, including me, was looking forward to going home.
    "You'll never believe what happened," said Vinnie. His hands were stuffed into his pants pockets. His head was down, and he was wearing an unbuttoned sport jacket as he walked beside me.
    "Try me," I said.
    "Now they want to move me into the infirmary. Spencer called me in and said he'd been thinking it over, and he thought I'd be a lot happier if I moved into the infirmary after the Thanksgiving break."

    "What did you tell him?"
    "I said I had to talk to my folks about it. It might be better. Less pressure."
    "Don't do it, Vinnie. Don't agree to it. It's like...," and for some reason I hesitated, perhaps because I had not used the word in months. "It's like segregation." We had reached the dorm and started up the staircase inside.
    "I'll call my folks," said Vinnie, stopping at the second-floor landing. "I'll talk to you later."
    A couple of hours later there was a knock on my door. It was Vinnie.
    "I talked to my father, and he said I should give it a try. I don't know what to think anymore." Vinnie sat down on my bed and slowly shook his head, as though he was trying to take it all in. "I wish I'd never come to this place," he said. His head was bowed at first, but then he raised it, and I could see that his eyes were filled with tears. "I guess they got what they wanted after all," he said.
    Every Sunday afternoon since I had arrived at Draper, I had called my parents to tell them how I was doing. I had mentioned Vinnie's problems, but because the problems didn't involve me, they seemed unconcerned. Now I wanted to call them and tell
them everything, about the slurs and the harassment and the signs and Mr. Spencer's refusal to do anything except put Vinnie in a segregated room, and I wanted to ask them to come and take me home, but I knew I couldn't. I couldn't because I had no place to go. I had made my decision to abandon the South, to escape the web of its myths, and I was now discovering what the rest of the world was like. And my parents had paid for the ticket, not me. For me, the journey was just beginning.

    "Can I help you move your things?" I said.
    Vinnie nodded. With his hand, he wiped away tears that were rolling down his cheeks. "I wish I didn't have to do this. They're just going to make fun of me even more." He sighed heavily. "But maybe I can at least get some rest."
    "When do you want to move?"
    "Soon as possible." He sounded as though it was resolved. "Tomorrow morning."
    The following morning, when I knocked on Vinnie's door, was the first time I had been to his room in weeks. He usually came up to my room to talk, to give himself a breather. On the door, someone had posted a sign that said quarantine: entering this room may endanger your health, and below it Was a crudely drawn picture of Vinnie with slicked-down hair and red dots all over his face and a large X drawn through it. I opened the door and entered. Vinnie was still packing. The odor from the shaving-cream bombs was everywhere and there were traces of shaving cream in every corner, but there was another odor
that was just as strong but nauseating, repulsive. I recognized it immediately as dog feces.

    "Vinnie," I said, "have you checked