Places, everybody.

A steady stream of vehicles bused in kids dressed like things I didn’t recognize. A lot of flowy gowns and angel wings. A lot of sports jerseys; the pro-athlete dream was always acceptable in every part of our community. The church parents let their children skitter away in all directions like tossed marbles while they angled for apple cider, pizza, and cake from the snack table.

Me and Mya had the most popular attraction. Our bouncy house rocked for a solid two hours of the scheduled three-hour event W-T-F Jameer! So many giddy squeals escaped the flapping nylon entrance, I expected car windows to shatter.

“Socks only,” I chanted at each new bouncy house guest, holding the entry flap wide while little ones shimmied inside. A boy ripped up the Velcro straps securing his Superman sneakers, kicked them off. In the folds of what I thought was a Pick-a-Disciple robe, I spotted a toy light saber dangling off his belt. That had to be a no-no, right?

“Are you a Padawan?” I asked, because what self-respecting Star Wars fan doesn’t want to know another fan’s Force proficiency?

Shoe-free and already jumping in place, he showed me the various gaps in his grin. “Nope. I’m a Jedi Master. May the Force beeee with you.”

Jameer’s warning flashed in my head like the caution lights by train tracks. I checked for nearby adults with the power to shut down the kid’s fantasy, the power to shame him.

The boy followed my gaze. “Are you looking for my mom?” He pointed. “She’s over there and she said I could go in the jumpy house if I want.”

“Naw, not your mom. I was looking for Sith Lords. You know they’re the ancient enemies of the Jedi, right?”

“Yep.”

“I don’t see any, though. I think they’re scared of you.”

That got him giggling. He made VWOOM—VWOOM noises like his light saber was on and sizzling air, then joined the other jumpers inside.

“You’re really sweet with them,” Mya said. “Star Wars, though?”

The disdain in her voice threw me. “Yeah, so?”

“There are like no black people in that franchise.”

I was disgusted. “You’re crazy. Lando Calrissian. Saw Gerrera. Finn.”

“Ummm”—she ticked them off on her fingers—“traitor, dead, goofy footnote.”

“Lando’s getting his own movie.”

“Too little, too late. Plus, that galaxy far, far away is missing some sistahs! Where the black women, bruh?”

“I—what?”

“While you’re thinking, I’ll remind you that Lieutenant Uhura has been an integral part of the starship Enterprise from day one.”

“Oh my God. You’re a Trekkie!”

She rushed close to me, shushing. “Keep it low. You know what it’s like around here.”

So me and Jameer weren’t the only Rebel Scum (yeah, I’m running with that) at First Missionary.

Mya, hushed, said, “And I’m not a Trekkie exactly. I like Uhura from the original series, and Burnham from Discovery, and Maeve from Westworld, and Riri Williams from the Ironheart comics. Like Issa Rae said, ‘I’m rooting for everybody black.’”