“I hear ya,” said Norris, because Norris had always idolized Layton. In Norris’s mind, Layton defined what it meant to be a man, and it made me boil, because as far as role models go, Layton was no quarterback. Hell, he didn’t even deserve to be on the field.

“Got anything else you want to take out on her?” I dared to ask. “Maybe a bad grade you got on a test? Or that ketchup stain on your shirt?”

“Watch yourself, Ash,” Layton threatened.

“Then I’d be just like you,” I said. “I’d be watching myself all day.”

I left the table, claiming the last word—but I didn’t go the same direction as Katie, because I didn’t want to create any more grief for her—and if Layton saw me going in that direction, there would definitely be grief by the bushel. I did need to talk to her—to make sure she was okay, and also to make sure she was still the same Katie—but I wouldn’t make her the object of a pissing contest between me and Layton. That was just one more way of disrespecting her.

I strode around the food court, too ashamed to make eye contact with anyone in the “other-than-white” section. Then I noticed that there was a third section, smaller than the other two, and tucked away, as to be less obvious. This third section looked a little more like my world. Some white families, some brown. An oasis of normal in the pit of despair.

“Ash,” I heard someone call. I turned to see Paul Fisher, my math tutor friend. He was with his parents in this unsegregated section. The Fishers are white, but they were choosing to sit here. Suddenly I liked Paul a whole lot more.

“You’re standing like you forgot where you were going.”

“Yeah,” I told him. “Problem is, I wasn’t really going anywhere.”

“If you’re hungry, why don’t you join us,” Paul’s mother said. “We ordered way too much.”

I was far from hungry, but I sat with them anyway, because this table was the first inviting thing I’d seen in this world. We made small talk, and I was grateful for it. Paul told his parents about my home theater, I told them it was nothing special. His little sister complained that her burrito had no flavor. Which didn’t surprise me—the Mexican place that this world had vomited forth didn’t have anyone behind the counter who looked remotely Mexican.