Brandon’s mouth fell open.
“Why?”
“Because I want you to stand on the other side of that glass,” I said. “Not as a manager. As a person. I want you to see what it feels like when people look at your clothes first. And I want you to see what it feels like when they don’t.”
Brandon was quiet for a long time.
“And five?” Mr. Hale asked.
I looked at Brandon.
“Five,” I said. “He comes to my house every Saturday morning for the summer. And he helps me in the garden.”
Brandon stared at me.
“I’m seventy-nine,” I said. “My knees are shot. The tomatoes are getting away from me. And I think you could use some dirt on your hands.”
Brandon didn’t say anything for a long time.
Then he stood up from George’s rocking chair.
He looked down at me.
“Mrs. Whitaker,” he said. “Why are you doing this? After what I did?”
