Things snapped into place the second year, when she met Jane. They were in the same postmodernism seminar and sat near each other because they were the only Black girls in the room. Ayanna probably would have sat next to Jane anyway. During the first class meeting, Jane wore a white T-shirt, and written across it in all caps were the words I EAT WHAT I FUCK. The next class meeting, another white T-shirt, that time with the phrase EAT PRAY BARF. It was a level of affectation that, on a white girl or boy, would’ve made Ayanna feel exceptionally wary. The type of white kids who did this could be either the realest kids you knew or the type of white kids who thought the mixture of edginess and an enjoyment of Black culture made them special and who could send you things that used the N-word because “it reminded them of you.” But here was Jane, a true Black weirdo of the highest order.

The third time she saw Jane that first week of classes, Ayanna was doing her usual walk around the city, trying to tire herself out. She listened to headphones and smoked one cigarette, long and pink with a gold tip. Ayanna needed both of these things to build a shield for herself alone in the world. The combination felt like it kept everyone but the truest nutjobs from trying to engage with her and gave her permission in this city just to wander. Here she was multitasking with her pretentious cigarette and listening to her private music—lately, mostly Alice Coltrane—and sometimes looking into different shop or restaurant windows to get a sense of what normal people were considering. They were having dinners where they looked a lot at their phones, they seemed interested in wearing tops that had keyhole sleeves and peplums, and it was rare to see someone whose smile completely reached their eyes. She refused to pay close attention to the spirits she saw. Ever present, wanting to speak, changing shape into swirls. Ayanna did not want to see a familiar face among them. My sister is alive; I will find her, Ayanna told herself on a regular basis.

“Ayanna?”

She turned and there was Jane wearing an eighties prom dress, turquoise with puffed sleeves and bows at the join between the sleeves and the bodice. Her hair, through an elaborate structure of gel and bobby pins and luck, was up in a mohawk. Her eyes were rimmed with black eyeliner to emphasize dark circles and lipstick had been applied to look like blood dribbling out of her mouth.

“I’m having a party; do you want to come?”

Ayanna surprised herself by saying, “Yes.”