Shane is still holding my hand when we reach the crowd. I consider letting go as we approach the front of Zach’s line, because I can see Owen out of the corner of my eye. I don’t care, though, because Owen is not the boss of me. And who was just flirting with Sabrina instead of taking signatures? Anyway, it’s not like I’m with Shane or anything.

“So. You guys here to sign the petition or get married?”

Zach’s giving us this arch I know what’s going on here smirk, and I wish I could tell him to shut up and not ruin the vibe by calling attention to it. Instead I give him a look that I hope effectively communicates stern disapproval of his petty gossip-mongering.

“Signing the petition, bro,” says Shane with a sunny Shane smile. “Down with perpetuating the dominant narrative!”

“Right on,” says Zach, and hands the tablet and stylus over, another victim (thank goodness) of Shane’s boundless charm and complete faith that everyone is on his side.

Though it doesn’t even matter, because Owen is basically right there in front of us. I can feel him watching us, so I smile at him, but I barely catch his eye before he turns away. Now I’m totally sure that he’s observed the entire thing, from the bashful handholding to congratulatory fist bump to jovial petition signing. Well, good. I mean, I don’t care.

Shane and I thread our way back through the crowd (yes, he’s still holding my hand, yes he is divine, and yes, I am now divine by association) and pass by the kid who was complaining that Owen, Aviana, and Zach weren’t Japanese enough to credibly protest Robert McAllister’s name. He’s now arguing that no one really has a reason to protest anymore. “You can’t punish people for something their great-grandparents did seventy-five years ago. If someone robbed my great-grandfather seventy-five years ago, I wouldn’t have to go to prison for it.”

Nuh-uh. I hear myself butting in and saying, “Okay, first of all, if my great-grandfather robbed someone and I’m still benefiting from it, I owe that person’s family something. Second of all, having your racist great-grandfather’s name taken off a school is not a punishment.”

Oh, shit. The kid looks at me like I’m nuts. Then he turns to his friend and snickers. “Someone’s triggered.”

It’s such a nothing comment, but it infuriates me, and I realize I’m shaking from the shock of hearing something so . . . is it fair to call it racist? He didn’t say anything about my race, technically.

I take a couple of breaths to collect myself, and then I take one more breath and say—

“Fuck you, you little shit. Apologize.”