They swivel towards her and she smiles nervously at the girl, then lowers her head. Mom does not understand that by saying nothing she will give them the wrong impression, and so it is up to me to act quickly. I try to arrange the words in my mind, my throat constricting, but I have no idea what words will come out of my mouth.

You shouldn’t not serve somebody just because they look different.

The pharmacist’s face goes red. The girl looks surprised. She regards my mother, who still stares through the glass, then returns to me.

That’s ridiculous, the girl says. That’s…. She stops herself and turns to the pharmacist. Did you hear what he just said?

The woman squeezes her shoulder, then turns to me. Her expression tries to reassure me, though she is nervous. She calls out to my mother, who looks up from the glass as if she had not heard any of our conversation.

Ma’am.

Yes?

Are you looking for something?

Mom looks at her hands and seems to think about this. She lifts her face to the woman again, almost deferentially.

What?

Do you need some help?

Oh no, thank you, she blurts out. I’m just looking.

I am facing her because I do not want to turn back to the girl and woman, but she avoids my eyes, fixated on the counter and moving off a step or two. She forgets to pull her purse along and immediately realizes this, though she seems too embarrassed to pick it up, and pretends not to have noticed. It just sits there looking abandoned on the glass. The pharmacist studies us, then calls over to my mother.

Well if you need any help—

Okay. She waves her brown hand impatiently, as if she does not want to be bothered.

The woman studies me again. The ceiling slants at an angle now almost as if it were far away. I focus on a corner of drywall and the lumpy plaster visible beneath its thin layer of paint. I scrutinize it carefully, real carefully, trying to think of nothing else.

The pharmacist approaches. Her warm hand rests on my shoulder before I know it is coming and she must feel my shoulders tense and almost pull away.

Hey, are you okay? she says.

Though she’s white, she sounds Puerto Rican or some sort of Spanish, and also like somebody’s mother. It’s strange I should know this, but somehow I feel certain.

I shrug.

Yeah.

You sure?