He nodded slowly. "My granddaughter Folake calls her the Karen," he said, and smiled a little, for the first time. "I tell her that is not respectful. But I have started to wonder."
Izzy came out of his room on Sunday night, around eleven, while I was sitting in the dark living room not watching television. He stood in the doorway in his swim club sweatshirt, the old one from Pittsburgh, with the sleeves pulled down over his hands.
"Coach Volkov texted," he said. "I'm off the relay for the Fairview meet. Obviously."
"I'm sorry, honey."
"And Kofi's mom told him not to—" The K wouldn't come. He stood there with his mouth slightly open and his jaw working, and I waited, the way I've waited for him all his life, and I didn't finish the word for him, because he hates that, and finally it came: "—come over anymore. Kofi says he doesn't care. But his mom does."
Kofi Asante was the only real friend Izzy had made at Halverton East, a jittery, funny distance swimmer with a gap in his front teeth who liked the same terrible science fiction movies Izzy did. I'd met his mother once at a meet. She'd seemed nice.
"Come sit."
He came and sat on the far end of the couch, not next to me.
"I need to ask you something," I said. "And I need you to understand that I'm not asking it because I think you did anything. I'm asking it because Ruthanne needs to know, and I need to know, so we can figure out who did. Okay?"
He didn't say anything.
"Is there anyone at school who'd want to hurt you? Anyone you've had a problem with?"
He was quiet so long I thought he wasn't going to answer.
"There's a thing I didn't tell you," he said.