The last girl stubbornly arguing against interracial dating has brown skin, and according to the song, is bitter to the taste. She’s a descendant of slaves, whose pain echoes in her head even now. She’s the girl in the last verse, Peaches.

The basement lights dim. The song begins to play. The four girls glide onto the stage and take their place in the soft blue spotlight. They use the soulful song to voice their pain. It feels wrong to hear their deepest thoughts and fears, given the fact that I didn’t bother to remember their real names.

Their song causes a familiar ache in the center of my chest. It’s the ache that comes when I feel someone’s pain and am powerless to stop it. I don’t want to listen to the melody.

“Hey, let’s go back upstairs,” I suggest to Devonte.

“Ayo, what do you think about Franklyn and his girl?” Fire asks. Everyone turns to me.

Seriously, every single person turns to me? Why does what I have to say have more weight than anyone else here?

My mother.

Argh!

I know things like this come up sometimes, but I’m pretty sure the only reason we’re staying on this topic is because they expect me to have a strong point of view, given who I’m related to. Why can’t I get away from her shadow for just one night?

“We’re teenagers congregating in a space with alcohol, weed, and no adult supervision. We should be displaying shockingly bad judgment and self-destructive behavior. Or at the very least, getting pregnant and throwing our lives away. Anyone? Anyone?” I ask, only half joking.

Okay, fine . . .

I shrug. “I don’t know. Franklyn can do whatever he wants. If he likes her, then . . . yeah, it’s whatever.”

And the award for the best nonanswer goes to . . . Ayomide Bosia!

The crowd cheers. I bounce up the steps to accept my dubious award. “I’d like to thank politicians everywhere for teaching me the art of evasion and speaking while saying absolutely nothing. This means so much. I couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you! Thank you! Thank—”

“That’s all you have to say?” Water asks.

Water, you really need to shut the hell up. You’re the most deluded of all four of the elements.

“C’mon, tell us. Is Franklyn sip’n the Kool-Aid white folks made or what?” Earth asks.

It’s just my luck that at that exact moment, Franklyn and Chloe reenter the basement. “What y’all talk’n ’bout?” he asks.

“Some people feel a type a way about you bringing old girl here,” Devonte says. “And others feel it’s cool. We asked Ayo about it because that’s, like, her thing.”

That’s my thing? Debating complex social issues in inappropriate venues is my thing?