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I think back to the story Grandma Lenore told me at my graduation party. How I gave up on photography because I couldn’t get things just right. And I guess that’s my pattern, isn’t it? I’m scared to commit to anything fully because I might not be the best. I don’t want to risk being vulnerable, like,reallyput myself out there, because then I wouldn’t be cool, calm, collected, andconfidentLenore. But I can’t say all that to Alex.

“I like it,” I say finally, with a shrug. “But I’m not the best at it. And BFA programs are really competitive.”

Alex’s eyebrows knit together. “But isn’t that the point of college? To, you know, learn? You don’t have to be the best.” He stops, smiles, and laughs at himself. “I mean,Ilike to bethe best, but that’s my problem. It’s not a requirement. You just have to be interested and show some promise, and I’m sure your years at your art school would have been plenty enough experience.”

“Yeah, I don’t know.” I jab a thumb back toward the stairs. “Do you want to keep going?”

He nods, and we start walking again, but the playfulness that was there before is muted. I feel like he’s finally seeing me for who I really am, instead of the front I put on, and maybe it’s disappointing.

Finally, after a while, he claps his hands together, face bright with a toothy smile. “Okay, let’s switch gears here. Maybe if we approach this in a different way, we’ll get better results, you know?”

“Spoken like a true nerd.”

“Hey, not going to argue with you there,” he laughs. “So, what drew you to NYU? Or New York in general? Maybe that can help us figure it out.”

“Us,” like this is a joint struggle. But it’s starting to feel like one? And that’s not terrible.

I try reeeaaal hard not to make the face that I apparently always make when someone mentions New York, but I can feel the stank there. And if I dig down deep, if I’m honest with myself—I know why that is. Should I be honest with Alex too? It’ll probably be easier than admitting any of this to someone in my real life.

I take a deep breath, and let it out: “I don’t really like NewYork. I mean, Igetwhy people like New York. It’s diverse, it’s exciting. There’s always something going on. But we visited last August, and there are just so many people and the streets smelled like trash and no one smiles at you. And after one day outside walking around, I felt like I wanted to pull some Rip van Winkle shit and sleep for a hundred years. I kind of... well, I didn’t just not like it; Ihatedit.”

I feel lighter, like I threw off a heavy, itchy fur coat.

“But I don’t get it. If you hate New York, why didn’t you apply to schools somewhere else?”

I press my lips together. I’ve been asking myself this same question. “I don’t know. It just seems like I have to be in New York or LA if I want to do anything, and I also hate LA.”

“You hate LA? You live in LA!”

I fix him with a mock-serious stare. “Eh-hem. I live in Long Beach. You know it’s different.”

“Okay, true, true.” His face is serious, focused, like he’s trying to solve a serious math problem or compose the perfect thesis statement. I can see him over his textbooks in a few months, being a total nerdy star. “Why not a gap year?” he asks. “Give yourself some more time to figure out what youreallywant to study, where youreallywant to live. A year won’t make a difference in the scheme of things.”

I let out one laugh, loud and clear. “That’s some white people shit. My parents would lose it!”

“Malia Obama took a gap year.”

“Boy, I’m not Malia Obama!”

“Well, obviously,” he laughs. I try to slap his shoulder and he dodges me. “But it should be an option for you. You really don’t think your parents would understand?”

“Oh, I know they won’t.” I think of their faces if I dared to bring that up, and even just imagining the disappointment makes my throat feel scratchy and tight. “There’s pressure to, like, be our ancestors’ wildest dreams or whatever. I love that phrase and it’s inspiring, but it’s also so goddamn intimidating. And my siblings are doing that, they’re the wildest of wild dreams, like, totally killing it—but then there’s me. The black sheep. Well, actually I hate that because black is a good thing. The, like,pucesheep.”

Alex nods. “My mom has that phrase in a frame up on her office wall, and I guess I’ve always seen it as, I don’t know... some sort of challenge? But I get the other side of it, too.” His brow furrows and he shakes his head. “But you’re hardly the... puce sheep, Lenore. You got into a good school, you—”

I hold my hand up, cutting him off. “But that doesn’t matter!” I’m getting louder than I want to be. I try to swallow down those feelings and try again. “It’s not enough. My parents expect more from me. And I can’t even be mad at them because they just want the next generation to do better than them, and that’s fuckinghardbecause they’ve done so well. They’re the embodiment of Black Excellence and they—rightfully—want their kids to be too.”

I realize my eyes are wet and want to kick myself for getting this emotional. He doesn’t know me like this yet—hell, no onereally does. I hope my glasses are hiding it all, or else he’s going to be running for the hills.

I put my foot out to keep climbing, trying to put some distance between us so he can’t see how embarrassing I’m being, but there are no steps left. We’ve reached the top. The universe is on my side.

“Oh, look, we’re here. I wonder where they are.”

“Lenore, we can keep—”

“It’s good. I’m good.” I wave him away. “Hopefully they have some gyros waiting for us because I’m hungry.”

After taking a tour around Thira, Adonis drives us in another big, black van to Oia, the beautiful town that you see all over brochures and travel books and white girl influencer’s Instagrams. We’re finishing up another wine-fueled lunch on a café’s gray stone patio, shaded from the afternoon sun under a canopy of fuchsia bougainvillea.