His body tightens up.

Maybe it’s a slap in the face. Maybe that’s a risk worth taking. Turn my head, send a glance toward all Brick’s boys in their row.

“You made your choice a long time ago.”

JENNICA

They come into the diner together, two men in nice clothes, well layered, with signs folded in their bags. I bring them menus and water and they ask for tape to repair a thing.

They order bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches and fries. When they ask to borrow the tape, I think absolutely nothing of it. I bring it, and they say thanks. They smile politely.

I could’ve said Sorry, we’re out and sent them across the street to the corner store to buy some. They don’t look like they’re from around here. I did notice that. We don’t get a lot of clean-cut white boys out to eat in Underhill.

Their signs are horrible, confusing, upsetting. I stay behind the counter as they do up their tape job, looking satisfied with themselves. I hope they finish before their order comes up. I have to bring them their sandwiches, but it would be easier if I could pretend I didn’t see.

They leave me a decent tip. I’m surprised they’re willing to eat in a diner in this neighborhood. They must’ve been really hungry, to accept food prepared by black hands. Except, by the look of them, I doubt they even know what it means to be hungry.

OFFICER YOUNG

I don’t agree with their signs. I’m not racist. People should live and let live.

Certainly, they should live and let Rest in Peace. It was a kid, after all. It’s distasteful to show up with hate signs at someone’s funeral, regardless of how you feel about things. There’s such a thing as basic decency, after all.

I hook my thumbs over my belt, put on my sternest expression. No one gets through me. Not today.

I’m not worried about it, though. They’re all just standing there with their signs. Exercising their First Amendment rights. They’re not even yelling.

They’re not here to start a fight.

DEVANTE

“Can you fucking believe this?” Robb marches into the lounge, where I’m trying to study. Econ is kicking my butt already and we’re only a couple weeks into the semester.

“Which part?”

Robb holds up his phone. It’s open to the Twitter feed of Underhill SCORE. Picture after picture of the white protestors and their rabid, homemade signs.

Tiny flames erupt beneath my skin. My voice, though, barely simmers. “They misspelled the N-word. Kinda undercuts the argument, don’t you think?” My fingers fan the pages of my textbook. I really need to focus. I don’t have time for this.

“She was a little girl! Why are they picketing her funeral?”