“Sometimes it’s to gloat, like, ‘Yeah, we in this mother!’ But oftentimes, a nod is a way of saying, ‘There’s way too many white folks up in here, and I’m checking to see if you are okay.’ Because historically, when white folks outnumber us . . . it’s rarely by accident and it rarely ends well.

“Chloe, while well intentioned, doesn’t know what we Black girls have known for a long time now: It’s not a given that we’ll get to see our twenty-first birthdays. What started out as a regular day could find us in the morgue, all because we dared go shop, jog, or play video games in our own homes.

“We know that white girls have pretty, clear blue eyes, full of stars and careless daydreams. But our eyes, while also pretty, are filled with ghosts, ghosts of dreams that are fated to die even before they’ve lived. But those same eyes got yo back. We’re the lookout. We’re the tap on the shoulder that tells you to be easy ’cause the block is hot.

“But above all else, the thing Black girls know, that white girls don’t, is that to be a nigga in America is to be on borrowed time. It takes courage to face that truth; courage you might not have.

“Black girls are . . . Basquiat paintings. Vivid. Defiant. Complex.

“We get why you’d rather dive into a Bob Ross canvas. Big yellow sun. Happy clouds. Happy trees.

“We can’t force you to look our way. But don’t ask us to cosign. Because, mostly, we won’t.”

Chapter Eight

It’s Your Turn

Our country has a lot of weapons in its arsenal, including missiles, rockets, and nuclear warheads. But no weapon is as powerful or as dangerous as the tears of a pretty white girl. They’ve started wars and launched a thousand lynchings. Unfortunately for Chloe, she hasn’t quite perfected this mystical, salty elixir. And even more unfortunate, she’s in the one place where that weapon can be defused—a room full of Black people. But that doesn’t stop her from trying. Franklyn comforts her awkwardly.

I have no idea who I’m more annoyed with, Franklyn or myself. What the hell am I doing here? I should have left the moment Chloe asked me to do her hair. I knew better, but instead I stayed.

Argh!

I get my stuff from upstairs and storm out of the building. Night is falling and the wind has picked up. I put my head down as I walk back home. My jacket is too light for the weather, but that’s okay. I have self-loathing to keep me warm.