“Well, we call them ‘freedom highs’ because everybody is supposed to slide their fantasies up under somebody else. If the other person digs it, then they both experience it until they’ve had enough. And that’s a freedom high. It’s just a way to get all the bullshit out of our system. If you analyze it, you’ll see it’s not as fucked-up as it sounds. It’s all political.”

The student lounge was lit with the red tone of a traffic light on simmer. Everyone seemed to be heeding the light as a signal to slow down, because there was very little movement. Don’t Make Me Over by Dionne Warwick was playing as people went through what I assumed were forms of freedom high. A black dude and a white broad took turns tracing with their fingers the contours of their bodies. Two women, one black and the other white, moved their hands in a massaging motion through each other’s hair. A black cat and a white dude faced each other and traded salvos decrying the other’s presence in the human race.

“Hello.” It was the peekaboo girl behind all the marble cake. For the first time I got a good look at her. Her vanilla skin adhered so closely to bones in her face that skin and cheekbones seemed about ready to change places.

“Hi,” I said.

“You wanna get freedom high?”

“I don’t know. I’m not really sure how to go about it.”

“Get angry at me.”

“You haven’t done anything.”

“All right, I’ll help you… Did you know that when you move you look like you’re a walking chicken with your ass picked clean?”

I cracked up.

“You’re not supposed to laugh.”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it,” I said.

“Okay, let’s try again. Say, What’s the word?”

“What’s the word?”

“Thunderbird! Now say, Who drinks the most?”

“Who drinks the most?”

“Colored folks.”

“Where’d you hear that?” I asked.

“You mean you never heard that before?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t it bother you having a white person talk to you like that?”

“Not really. It’s only a freedom high, right?” “Not if you don’t act right, it isn’t!”

“Now you’re getting angry. I thought that’s what I was supposed to do.”

“The way you act no one would ever believe you were oppressed,” she said, walking away.

I looked around and noticed Keith talking to a black woman. She wasn’t paying much attention to him but was looking in my direction. A mane of thick black wool rose above her forehead like a second story. I acknowledged her look with a nod. She excused herself from Keith and walked over to me.

“You’re Melvin, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Geneva. Theo has told me a lot about you. He says you’re a very quiet dude.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“What made you get involved in The Movement?”