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responded whose family never had game night.
    “Of course you do. Although you don’t have little brothers or sisters. If you did, I think you would think differently.”
    Emma grunted.
    “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye!” And Morgan hung up.
    Emma turned off her phone and then lay back on her bed. She stared up at the ceiling replaying the events over in her head. Why was he so rude to her? What had she done? She thought hard trying to remember anything in her behavior or words that might have been offensive, but she was at a loss. She was polite, at least up until the moment he insulted her for no reason, making fun of the way she acted in class. Since when was it a bad thing to participate, she thought bitterly? He participated in class all of the time, and not just to be argumentative. He made observations about the books they read. So why did he make fun of her for doing the same?
    And then it occurred to her, a realization that panicked her, that maybe it had nothing to do with her personally. Perhaps he didn’t like white people in general. Narrow-minded indeed, she thought, remembering Dr. Thompson’s words to the class. She knew she could allow the panic to win over and create in her a fear of him. It was easy, and she was tempted. She cringed at the thought of the following day—having to see him and talk to him. The panic rose, and she entertained it, imagining how he would treat her for the next six weeks. The things he would say. The way he would look at her.
    With great effort, she focused on replacing her fear with anger. She recalled him calling her a bitch. She let that replay over and over in her head until the sinking in her heart was supplanted by a steady glowing hate. She lay on her bed and nurtured it, letting it glow brighter, build up in her until she resolved to say something to him. What, she did not know, but she had to say something.

 
    CHAPTER 2
    THURSDAY, APRIL 16
     
    She was unwavering in her decision even as she felt the beads of sweat pop up under her arms. She took a deep breath and walked towards him. He was at his locker pulling books.
    “I’m not a bitch,” she said once she was close to him.
    He looked at her skeptically. His friends were standing around him, and they laughed. When he said nothing, her anger bubbled over.
    “I’m not a fucking bitch!” she yelled, turning a few heads.
    “I didn’t call you a fuckin’ bitch. I called you an uptight white bitch. Is that the same thing?” he asked, closing his locker softly.
    “You can’t talk to me like that,” she replied. “I . . . I don’t deserve that. You don’t even know me!”
    “I know you uptight,” he responded.
    His friends looked her up and down—she could sense it—though she kept her eyes on him.
    “I am not uptight,” she said, stamping her foot in frustration.
    He laughed and reached for her necklace.
    “Yeah you are,” he said tugging gently on the pearls.
    “Don’t touch me!” she screamed, slapping his hand away. She heard his friends say “Aw, no!” and “She scrappy!”
    “Relax,” he replied. “Me touchin’ you won’t turn you black.”
    “I . . . that’s not—” she began.
    The tardy bell rang, and he turned to leave. Instinctively she grabbed his arm and pulled him. He pretended to trip, and he fell into her, dropping his books, pushing her back against the lockers and pinning himself on her. He was tall: the top of her head didn’t reach his collarbone. He smelled of something she couldn’t pinpoint, but it wasn’t unpleasant. She had the fleeting, horrifying thought that she liked the way he smelled. He stayed pinned against her for a half moment before apologizing into her ear for being clumsy. She felt the brush of his lips.
    He was far down the hallway before she understood what happened. She looked at him laughing with his friends. They were laughing at her tough girl act, and she was humiliated for it. She felt the tears brimming, and she cursed her