III | The Dead WaspsHIS HEART IS RACING; there is nothing he can do about it. The plagiarism discussion has ended, at last, but it has ended the way it begun—with a cruel flourish. Mr. Booker has handed him a sealed envelope to be given directly to his parents, handed it to him in front of everyone, which has elicited from some a sound even worse than snickers—gasps. Mr. Booker is setting up the 16mm projector. He watches as Booker removes the spool from a wide, flat canister and hangs the spool on an arm of the projector, flicks the switch. The projector hums to life and he begins threading the film, which rattles through the gate like a mini Gatling g*n. “Billy, if you’ll get the lights,” says Mr. Booker.
The Kid sits in the dark still too stunned to move, fingering the envelope. He doe
