The Color War by Jodi Picoult

It wasn’t that Raymond Willis had anything against the Lord, but he knew as sure as he knew that he was nine years old that he wasn’t a child of God. Made in His image —that’s what they said at Sunday school, but it was a lie. Jesus was the Son of God, and Mary was his mother, and neither one of them had Raymond’s skin; or his eyes, which burned like coal.
    “It ain’t necessarily that way, Raymond,” his grandmother had said when he told her this truth. “You been looking at the wrong pictures.” She got up off her chair and put aside the quilt she’d been patching forever because she got distracted by her game shows. She walked into the kitchen and crossed the linoleum floor, even the part that scared Raymond because it rose like a bubble of gas or maybe a ghost was trapped beneath it, and dug through a drawer. Finally she found what she was looking for. “See, child?” she said, holding out a framed illustration that looked as if it had been ripped from a book. In it, a man was being crucified—a black man with an Afro—and up above, floating in the vicinity of the sun, was the fading face of another figure, His brown skin standing out in relief from His snowy beard.
    “That ain’t Jesus,” Raymond said. “Jesus got hair down to his shoulders.”
    His grandmother had laughed. “When you ever seen a man like us that got hair down to his shoulders?”
    Raymond had known better than to argue with his grandma, who was as old as the earth and who got to church an hour before the service, as if Pastor Dumont was going to be giving out the new iPhone instead of just another boring homily. So he kept going to Sunday school and church, knowing he understood something that everyone else seemed to have overlooked, waiting for his own personal opportunity to meet God and say, square in His eye, “I told you so.”
    The only person he told about his hunch was Monroe. He and Monroe had grown up together in Dorchester, playing in the streets when the summer made the asphalt breathe and their laughter bounced like a tennis ball off the high brick walls of the apartment buildings. Monroe had been one for adventure, and Raymond always had his back. They’d spied on Monroe’s older brother, crawling through the HVAC system and eavesdropping through the heating vent. They’d hopped the turnstiles to get onto the T and had ridden it all the way to Wonderland, which did not live up to its name. They had gone gallon smashing at the grocery store.
    But that was in April, when Monroe was still here. It was almost July now, and with school out, there was nothing for Raymond to do except wonder about the color of Jesus’ skin and watch his grandmother snore through Wheel of Fortune. What he needed was a new best friend; what he wanted was his old one.
    “Raymond, baby?” At the sound of his mother’s voice, Raymond ran into the hallway. Most of the apartment was painted bright yellow, as if that could make up for the water stains on the ceiling and the rust ringing the pipes. Raymond’s mother had been born in this apartment, and as she said, she’d probably die there. She swept Raymond into her arms. Even though she was wearing her green cafeteria uniform, even though she smelled like the bubbling oil from the fryer, Raymond thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. She worked six days a week at the hospital, since her income was the only one in the household. If Raymond had a father, he’d never been mentioned, and—truth be told—he liked not having to share his mother with someone else.
    “What did you do all day?” his mother asked, her smile as fragile as the crumbling edge of a cliff.
    Raymond was afraid to tell her. Not because of what he’d done, but because of what he hadn’t. He knew it made her sad, hearing that he didn’t go out to play basketball with the other kids—but how could he, when every time he dribbled the ball he remembered how he and Monroe once managed to sneak in a