“Yeah, too friendly,” a redhead in the second row said.

“You just love me too much, Bethy.” Leaf grinned.

So much smile on one mouth.

But I did sit next to him in spite of Bethy Whatever’s burn, and there’s a simple reason why. He was the other “ethnic” kid. He might not realize I was in the category yet, though my last name was a huge clue, but we were different than the people around us, and being near someone who might get what that felt like was a comfort. It was a safety-in-numbers thing that white kids would probably never understand.

If your last name is Miller, no one asks you if you’re Mexican with their lip curled, completely ignoring every other Spanish-speaking country existing in the process. If you’re an Anderson, no one “jokes” about you being legal. And if you’re a Smith? No one assumes your single-parent mother is on welfare until you prove otherwise. Of course, once they learn she’s the Swedish parent, the narrative shifts completely, particularly when they discover my Hispanic father isn’t around anymore.

“Typical,” they’d say.

Hello, racism, my old friend. I’ve come to talk with you again.

White people, even well-meaning people that I legitimately liked, said some pretty heinous crap to me sometimes upon hearing my last name, and I was about as pale as paper. It wasn’t such a long shot to think that the brown-skinned kid had it sixty times worse than I did.

“Hi,” he said, leaning over his desk to offer his bear paw for a shake. I gave it. “I’m Leaf, like a leaf on the wind.”

“Oh, like Firefly?”

“Firefly. That’s a TV show, I take it?”

“Yeah. It’s about space cowboys. Been off the air awhile. My mom likes it.” I shifted in my seat, self-conscious that my grand opener at my new school was something super dorky.

“Ah. I should try it out, maybe. No, my birth name, Patrin, means leaf. Well, leaf trail, in Romani, but gadze screw it up and call me Patrick so I go by Leaf to make it easy.”

“...what’s a—”

“Non-Romani. I’m Stonington’s resident Rom. Gypsy, but don’t use that word. It’s a slur.”

“Oh, hey. Uhh. Cool.” I hadn’t known the thing about the G-word, but I burned it to memory so I wouldn’t use it again. “Well, I’m probably their resident Hispanic so—”

“Probably! This school is pure milk. Pretty nice milk, though, so there’s that.”