“A real slap in the face,” Gabby says. “How can they believe all that crap?”

Keli places her hand on Earnell’s shoulder and asks, “How ya doin’, buddy?”

“When will we be equal?” Earnell asks wearily. “When will they understand? One hundred more years? Two hundred?”

“More like a thousand,” Keli responds. “Probably never.”

The smoke of sorrow, which always follows the flames of rage, settles on the table and doesn’t lift even after we leave. No one sits there for the rest of the night. The band’s last song is “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood,” by Nina Simone.

Dean Yoda takes me out to dinner every week now, instead of meeting at her office, to check in and see how I’m doing. I eat as much as I can each time. Campus food is great, but not as delicious as restaurant food. Last week we went to Molly’s, which has the best bread around. They bring out a basket of warm bread and honey butter. I finished most of it myself, then asked for another. I ordered calamari to start, fish and chips as my main course, and apple pie for dessert. It was so delicious, I could barely keep up conversation. After I finish, I suck down the large glass of water on the table, pour another, then repeat. I am nearly in a food coma, like after the lobster dinner, when it’s all done.

Tonight, we are at the Indian restaurant down the street from Molly’s. Indian food is my favorite. It’s so different from the food we eat in Cleveland, but I fell in love with it instantly. The spices, the naan, the curries. If I go to heaven, I want them to only serve me Indian food. I don’t eat anything for breakfast on the days Yoda takes me out so I can leave room in my stomach for everything I will eat later. I walk into the restaurant beaming, full of glee.

“Hi, Dean Harrison!” I call out. “I came starving.”

“I know you did,” she says, smiling knowingly.

I tell her about the Keepers and the light at the Dartmouth Beacon meeting a week ago, about how it shifted something in one of the biggest conservatives on campus.

“I’m proud of you for figuring out so quickly what works for you, and for that incredible, life-changing realization. Some people carry pain their entire lives. It also makes perfect sense that scripture would be your conjuring tool. You have always been called by the words, even Bible verses though you are not Christian. I find that strange.”

“You find something strange,” I say amusedly. “This coming from the weirdest person I know. How did you become like this?”

“I, like you, was called forth.…”