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I scowl. Lucia Reyes, aged sixteen. Maplewood junior class president and unbeloved best friend.

Brook is eyeing me with a new, serious look. His mouth is a thin line and the soft, concern in his eyes is familiar. “We don’t have to talk about it,” he says, “but—”

I hold up a hand. “You’re right. We don’t have to talk about it.”

I’ve carefully tucked those five minutes from Friday night into a deep, dark part of my brain. They sit close to that one big fight Rio and I had in middle school when we didn’t talk for three days and right beside that time I fell down the stairs and it took my dad five minutes to find me, bruised and weeping. Sighing, I lean on my locker.

Brook watches quietly, as if he knows the ice is fragile, already starting to crack.

“Thanks for,” I pause, my breaths shallow, “for what you did at the party.”

He shrugs halfheartedly. “I could’ve done more.”

“No.” I shake my head. “You did enough. What would’ve happened if you hit him? As cool as Chloe thinks her dad is, I doubt Lieutenant Parker would’ve given you a slap on the wrist. A black kid assaulting someone else at a party where there’s underage drinking and weed? It’s not a good look.”

“Probably not.” A sly grin crosses Brook’s lips. “Let’s hope Chloe’s dad doesn’t discover that I found out what car that dickhead was driving and had a little fun with Mrs. Cowen’s beauty products all over that nice paintjob.”

I gasp, and Brook, all broad eyes and relaxed expression, cracks up. Then silence. Brook waits; I settle my breathing.

“The whole thing sucks.” I close my eyes. “It’s not that he was coming on to me. It’swhy. All he saw was my skin color, something he’d never had. It’s like, that’s all people see sometimes? I’m not Remy; I’m Remy, the black kid. Or, sometimes, just the black kid.”

Brook doesn’t say anything but I can tell he understands. It’s in his eyes.

“What kind of asshole does that?”

“A lot of them.” Brook laughs, ironically. “Just another day in the life of being black, right? Our melanin attracts the unwanted. You’re either Suspect Number One or every undercover racist’s get-out-of-jail-free card because, ‘Hey, I’ve got a black friend!’ Or you’re some exotic flavor they just have to try once.”

“A piece of chocolate.” I make a face.

Brook says, mockingly, “That warm piece of caramel. Black coffee for their side of cream.”

“It’s gross.”

“It’speople, little dude. It’s what they’re taught, either by example or by perception.”

“It’s effed up, Brook.” I sigh. “All I am is a skin color.”

“And that’s all they love or hate about you too.”

I whisper, “We’ll always be a stereotype.”

“Not to the good ones.” Brook says it in that way that’s all him: certain and full of hope. “To the important ones, we’ll be an inspiration, a best friend, and the love of their life. Those are the labels that matter.” He adds, firm but endearing, “And don’t let others take pride in who you are—your race, sexuality, whatever—away from you. They didn’t give it to you; they have no right to snatch it away.”

The corners of my mouth twitch. Brook Henry is a universe of so many undiscovered stars. That little corner Liam is tucked into shrinks. It’s still there—let’s face it, things like that are always there—but it gets smaller and smaller.

“Now,” Brook grabs my shoulder, squeezes, “get on the homecoming parade. It’s happening. You’re gonna win.”

“I’d rather get mauled by a pack of mountain lions.”

“Aren’t they solitary animals?”

“I don’t know.”

“Either way, gruesome imagery.” Brook makes a face. “We’ll work on better campaign slogans later. I’ve got swim practice.”

“This isn’t happening, Brook.”

“Can we fit that on a T-shirt?”