I play along. Not because I’m worried about my safety. Because I’m curious.

“Nothing in this life is just given. It’s not just the luck of the draw. Everything comes at a price and a consequence,” I say.

“Spoken like someone who has never just enjoyed life for what it has to offer.”

I point to my dark-skinned arm. “This doesn’t allow me that.”

She pauses. She swallows, her sharp collarbone becoming more pronounced as her body tenses.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she says, backtracking.

“I know. No one ever does.”

I breathe in and count to five. It shouldn’t be my job to make her more comfortable with discussing race. I’m not a teachable moment. But that’s always how this goes. Most race conversations end like this. Uncomfortable, awkward sessions of me trying to make someone else feel better. I should be used to it. I should be…

The front door opens suddenly, with enough force to make the photos on the wall vibrate. At first, I think it’s Isobel. I’m sure it’s been more than ten minutes, or close to it. But the voice that follows is deep, and the footsteps that thump against the floor are heavy.

“Hey, Mom. There’s some girl sitting in the driveway glar—”

We turn to the doorway, but I’m the only one who stands. Fast enough, I might add, that the ground comes rushing up to me in a wave of dizziness. Standing there, in the flesh, is the same boy, now at least a decade older than he is in the photos. I assume he’s the McIntyres’ youngest son. His brown hair is matted to his forehead, and there’s a sheen of sweat on him. He holds a lacrosse stick in one hand and an equipment bag in the other, and his shirt reads THE HUTCHERSON SCHOOL. My rival school.

“Blake,” she says sternly. “You know I told you no cleats in the house. And you’re late. I told you to be here—”

“You brought him here?” he interrupts.

Blake never stops looking at me. No, looking isn’t the right word; he’s staring—like his eyes are trying to bore a hole in my forehead and kill me.

“Hi, I’m—” I start to say.

“I don’t care what your name is. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Blake, Andre is our guest, and he’s—”

“Don’t,” Blake snaps. “Don’t you dare say what I think you’re about to say.”