“Hey, guys,” Miles says. Luck must be on my side, since the coach isn’t here. I’m sure he’d make this even more awkward. “This is Simone.”

There are about ten guys, all in their pads and jerseys. Some of them have on helmets, but take them off, I guess to see better. It’s weird to think that they’re looking at me. I barely even glance at them when I see them walk around in the halls, with their jerseys and massive lacrosse sticks taking up all the space.

“Hi.” I give a wave. “I’m Simone.”

They murmur at the same time, words like “Hi” and “Nice to meet you” blending into each other.

“That’s Ryan.” Miles points to a white boy at the end of the group, and continues down the line: “Beast, Greg, Kevin, Squid, Tom, Dylan, Will, and Chad.”

Tom, a Japanese kid I talk to in math class, is the only person of color. Everyone else is white. I don’t know how Tom and Miles deal with it. The rest of the school is pretty diverse, and I’m normally not in a room full of white people by myself, a definite step up from my old school, where I was often the only black girl. Being in mostly white groups makes me twitch. It’s like I’m more vulnerable. On the bright side, these are Miles’s friends, not mine. He doesn’t hang out with Claudia and Lydia, and I won’t be hanging out with these guys. I force a smile, forcing myself not to say anything about the kids called Beast and Squid.

“Aw, Austin has a little girlfriend,” one of them says. I can’t remember his name, mostly because it’s hard to keep track. He pulls his helmet back on, matting his hair. “Look at you, making friends in Drama Club. It’s so cute.”

“Shut up, Greg,” another guy says, jogging backward. “It’s nice to meet you, Simone.”

“I like your hair,” a kid with freckles says. “It’s pretty.”

“Oh.” I tuck a strand behind my ear, but it doesn’t stay put. “Thanks.”

“I’ve always wanted to date a black girl,” he continues. “I’m pretty sure it would be more fun.”

“What?” I blink, cocking my head to the side. It’s barely been a full minute, and the bullshit is already starting. “What does that mean?”

“Chad, what the fuck?” Miles snaps. He takes a step forward, like he’s trying to block me or something.

I push him to the side with my shoulder, but he barely budges.

“What?” Chad says, holding up his hands. “It’s not a big deal. I’m just saying. Black girls are different. Feistier, you know?”

“No,” Miles says, voice short. “I don’t.”