“Don’t look now,” Earnell says, suddenly stiffening and blocking me with his body, “but that Christian white boy you like is walking this way. Alert, alert. Nazarene is approaching.” The good thing about a small campus is that if you stand in the middle long enough, you’ll run into everyone you know. My body freezes as Bryson Parker, a junior I met during orientation week, walks toward us. Bryce, which is what everyone calls him, is a tall, soft-spoken, curly-haired white boy with the jawline of a superhero. He’s so good-looking, I can barely meet his eyes for more than a few seconds. He’s devoutly Christian, regularly attending the Servants for Jesus prayer group, and he also participates in some of the diversity programs the college offers. “Sooner or later, he’s going to figure out you’re actually a pagan and leave you by the side of the road with the rest of us sinners,” Earnell whispers into my ear just as Bryce joins us.

“Do you know when it was built?” Bryce asks, referring to Matthew. Earnell rolls his eyes and I respond, “No clue.”

Bryce smiles with the radiance of a thousand suns. “Me neither. I just know it was before 1928 since that’s when it opened. Pretty cool, huh?”

“What’s cool about that?” Earnell snarks.

“This is my friend Earnell,” I say, before he has a chance to further interrogate Bryce.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Bryce says enthusiastically while extending his hand.

“Super rad to finally meet you.” Earnell stares at Bryce’s hand for several seconds until I smack him on the shoulder. He reluctantly reaches his arm forward and simply responds “hmph” while sizing him up and awkwardly shaking his hand.

“So this is—”

“The guy that does diversity stuff,” I say, cutting off Earnell before he has a chance to do more damage.

“Hmph,” Earnell says again, unimpressed. “Can you explain to me your interest in helping negroes and other people of color? Now that’s something I’m very curious about.” I choke on my potato chips. Bryce chokes on air.

“I know,” Earnell continues woefully, “the tension is thick when the descendants of slaves and slave owners have difficult conversations in liberal bastions of freedom such as this.” He spins around like Mary Poppins. “Well, guess I better get going. Don’t want to be late for class.”

Bryce and I watch as Earnell sprints off, leaving us to climb the mountain of discomfort he has erected. Just like Earnell to stir the pot and then book it. I shake my head in shame.

“He—” I start, unable to finish.

“I—” Bryce begins, also unable to find more words.

“Are you going to see the hypnotist tonight?” Bryce asks after several seconds of silence.

“No, I’m not interested in mind games.”