Claire puts her fork and knife down, crossing them over each other on the plate. She rests her chin in the palm of her right hand and leans forward, her eyes actually smizing.

“Did you go to a disco? Oh! Please tell me you did something amazing! You can’t get your first jump back, Andre!”

“Well, then couldn’t you argue that no matter what I did, it was memorable? I mean, most people don’t time travel.”

Claire pauses and blinks owlishly at me, like she’s processing.

Greg chuckles. “He’s got you there, babe!”

I smile and look over at Blake. Maybe he finds this funny too. Maybe he’s processed his uncomfortable tenseness.

No such luck.

The only one not having a good time is Blake, who is still scowling.

I try to silently say something to him, make a mental check-in through eye contact, but he doesn’t look up from his plate. He’s just moving around the same goddamned pea he’s been pushing with his fork for the last five minutes.

I didn’t do anything wrong, I tell myself.

So why do I feel like his bad mood is my cross to bear?

“What are you planning on studying, Andre?” Greg asks.

“I want to do biology,” I reply without thinking about it. It’s such an automatic response—telling people that I’m going to cure some disease, or try to. This is the first time ever that the words don’t feel right against my tongue, and it takes me a moment to figure out why.

Michael.

The seeds of doubt that he placed in my head are taking root. I can hear his echoing voice playing devil’s advocate in favor of me finding my own path, finding my passion.

What a dumb thing, passion. Passion comes from what you put your blood, sweat, and tears into. Passion is what you do on the side when you’re done with the job that gives you the freedom to explore things. Passion, and following it, is a white middle-class concept, not a Black middle-class one.

“I think I want to study oncology.” I force the words out. They create a sense of responsibility. Now the McIntyres will know me as That Black Kid Who Wants to Cure Cancer. I can’t let them down. I have to follow through with it.

A flimsy stunt of mental gymnastics, but it’ll hold.

Greg nods proudly and nudges Blake. “See? That’s the type of person you need to be. Someone with an idea and the direction to realize it.”

Blake’s shoulders tense, as do mine. We all know this won’t end well. Especially when Greg says, “Lacrosse isn’t an end goal, Blake. It’s something you do to pass the time.”

And that’s when the geyser known as Blake McIntyre explodes.