There are no divisions between us now. No conservative Black guy from Detroit, no crunchy granola girl from Colorado, no Black hippie tree hugger from Washington, DC, no sassy Black Prince Charming from Atlanta, and no mentally ill first-generation college student from Cleveland. Just young people lost in a world of chaos where the God of Opposition reigns supreme. Here, at the mouth of the great unknown, our hopes and expectations for how our lives would turn out leap over the edge like the shadowy figure from before.

Then the moment rides on, like a cowboy into the sunset on an old TV western. Our bodies mourn the passing and rise, as if on cue.

“Can you guys please not tell the others,” I say with a hoarse voice. “I don’t want them to think I’m a freak.”

They all smile considerately, Gabby placing a hand on my shoulder, like I’m the trunk of one of her ancient trees. “Don’t worry,” she says. “We won’t tell a soul.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

On our last night at the cabin, Connor prepares a feast. Well, a white people’s vegan feast. There are green beans, cabbage, tofu, mashed sweet potatoes, and roasted cauliflower. I take a moment to look around the table at the faces that I’ve grown to love. I am amazed at how quickly strangers become kin in settings like this. I guess that’s the point of the trip in the first place, to encourage us to build real community. After everyone has been served, Connor says it’s tradition at the last supper (pun intended) to share something personal and deep.

“That’s why so many end up staying friends after these trips. We get to see inside each other and not just the masks we all wear. We’ll start with lighter topics and get a little deeper as the night goes on. I’ll go first. My name is Connor Raskins and my favorite TV show is Gilmore Girls. You can laugh, I’m not ashamed. I like long walks on the beach, epic sunsets, anything that has to do with nature, and mayonnaise on my French fries, the European way.”

Earnell almost chokes as a green bean goes flying out of his mouth. “Mayo-nnaise?! On French fries? Wow, that’s really gross. I think I might throw up in my mouth. I’m going to step outside and get some air ’cause the puke is coming,” he says while making vomiting noises and walking dramatically out the door to sit on the porch. I know he’s just trying to escape the manufactured vulnerability at hand.