“That was messed up.”

“Messed-up things happen. That’s the point.”

“Technically, they were loitering, right?”

“When’s the last time a coffee place like that arrested upper-class white people for loitering? Why only the black people?”

Robb bursts out with, “They must’ve been doing something!”

There it is. The thing white people think that they won’t say out loud. They don’t believe in bias. They don’t believe it happens for no reason other than racism and misplaced fear. When push comes to shove, for them, it is tragic because it was a “misunderstanding.” They think that kind of “misunderstanding” could happen to a white person, that it has something to do with our actions, even though we see time and time again that it doesn’t.

“But they weren’t doing anything,” I insist. “Remember the guy who was on his cell phone in his own backyard.”

“Mistaken identity.”

“Because he was black.”

“It’s—that doesn’t make sense.”

“When cops see a black guy, their brains kick into heightened alert. A tiny flinch is a threat. A cell phone is a threat. Standing still with your hands up is a threat. That’s bias.”

Robb is quiet in the backseat. He’s got his head down. The rearview mirror is full of his cowlick.

“Look, if you’re gonna march with us, you gotta get your head around it. I’m serious.”

“Two lefts and a right,” Robb says.

He’s looking straight back at me in the mirror now. “What?”

“Take two lefts and then a right. There’s a body shop that does upholstery.”

I brake for a yellow light, and slam on the left turn signal. Goddammit. I’m speaking into a void and how can I call myself friends with someone I have to explain these things to?

And at the same time, this is Robb, the guy who was nicest to me from day one. The guy who always remembers what I like on my pizza and always invites me to do cool things around campus. My first and best friend at school, the guy I clicked hardest with when everything was new and strange. We’ve talked about girls and kept each other from getting too drunk, or walked each other home when we’ve occasionally missed the mark. He’s the only one who comes close to my gaming skills.

“Whoa, this is my jam, turn it up,” he says. My phone is plugged into the car. A good song is on. Upbeat. I spin the volume high, because, fuck it. I’m not getting through anyway.

We bob our heads to the beat. I rub the plush leather steering wheel, remind myself that Robb is still my ride home.

The thing is, I know that I will stay friends with him. We’ll march tomorrow and wear out our lungs. And afterward, he still won’t get it and I’ll be more enraged than ever. The knowledge spins out in front of me. And so does the knowledge that I won’t let him go because I don’t know how to. And I hate myself for liking him anyway. It makes me a bad black person, doesn’t it? If I’m not woke enough to walk away?