Excerpt from Here I Am by Jonathan Safran Foer, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Shaking her head in disbelief, Julia quietly read the list: "Filthy Arab, chink, cunt, jap, faggot, spic, kike, n-word—"

"He wrote 'n-word'?" Jacob asked. "Or the actual n-word?"

"The word itself," the rabbi said.

Though his son's plight should have taken mental precedence, Jacob became distracted by the fact that this was the only word that could not bear vocalization.

"There must be a misunderstanding," Julia said, finally handing the paper to Jacob. "Sam nurses animals back to—"

"Cincinnati Bow Tie? That's not a racial epithet. It's a sex act. I think. Maybe."

"They're not all epithets," the rabbi said.

"You know, I'm pretty sure 'Filthy Arab' is a sex act, too."

"I would have to take your word for it."

"My point is, maybe we're completely misinterpreting this list."

Ignoring her husband again, Julia said, "What has Sam said about this?"

The rabbi picked at his beard, searching for words as a macaque searches for lice.

"He denied it. Vociferously. But the words weren't there before class, and he is the only person who sits at that desk."

"He didn't do it," Jacob said.

"It's his handwriting," Julia said.

"All thirteen-year-old boys write the same."

The rabbi said, "He wasn't able to offer another explanation for how it got there."

"It's not his job to," Jacob said. "And by the way, if Sam were to have written those words, why on earth would he have left them on the desk? The brazenness proves his innocence. Like in Basic Instinct."

"But she did it in Basic Instinct," Julia said.

"She did?"

"The ice pick."

"I guess that's right. But that's a movie. Obviously some genuinely racist kid, with a grudge against Sam, planted it."

Julia spoke directly to the rabbi: "We'll make sure Sam understands why what he wrote is so hurtful."

"Julia," Jacob said.

"Would an apology to the teacher be sufficient to get the bar mitzvah back on its tracks?"

"It's what I was going to suggest. But I'm afraid word of his words has spread around our community. So—"

Jacob expelled a puff of frustration—a gesture he'd either taught to Sam or learned from him. "And hurtful to whom, by the way? There's a world of difference between breaking someone's nose and shadow boxing."

The rabbi studied Jacob. He asked, "Has Sam been having any difficulties at home?"

"He's been overwhelmed by homework," Julia began.

"He did not do this."

"And he's been training for his bar mitzvah, which is, at least in theory, another hour every night. And cello, and soccer. And his younger brother Max is going through some existential stuff, which has been challenging for everyone. And the youngest, Benjy—"

"It sounds like he's got a lot on his plate," the rabbi said. "And I certainly sympathize with that. We ask a lot of our children. More than was ever asked of us. But I'm afraid racism has no place here."

"Of course it doesn't," Julia said.

"Hold on. Now you're calling Sam a racist?"

"I did not say that, Mr. Bloch."

"You did. You just did. Julia—"

"I don't remember his exact words."

"I said, 'Racism has no place here.'"

"Racism is what racists express."

"Have you ever lied, Mr. Bloch?" Jacob reflexively searched his jacket pocket yet again for his phone. "I assume that, like everyone who has ever lived, you have told a lie. But that doesn't make you a liar."

"You're calling me a liar?" Jacob asked, his fingers wrapped around nothing.

"You're boxing at shadows, Mr. Bloch."

Excerpted from Here I Am by Jonathan Safran Foer. Copyright © 2016 by Jonathan Safran Foer. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.