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Mr. Finnegan considered him a moment. “You don’t want credit?”

“I’m happy about it,” he replied. “But it feels kind of weird, because the one I wrote with Mindy wouldn’t have been thesame without her. I’m not a woman. I don’t know what it’s like to feel held back. She brought all of that to the table. The same with Ricky. I’m not sure I would have noticed, or even thought to wonder, if an Asian person had been to space before. That was his idea.”

“But you made an important contribution to the articles,” Mr. Finnegan said. “There’s a consistent style between them that makes both pieces shine.”

It’s true that Anthony had been opinionated about how everything should be phrased, but that was just him being picky. At the point when Ricky and Mindy were both satisfied with their work, he had taken it upon himself to refine the articles through further rounds of editing. He had done so almost instinctively. But still… “I don’t want recognition for something I haven’t actually experienced. Those articles might be about water and NASA on the surface, but underneath, it’s really their personal stories.”

“But you write about them so well.”

“I still feel weird about it.”

Mr. Finnegan leaned back to consider him. “You would rather tell your own story.”

“I guess so. Yeah.”

“And what would that be?”

Anthony swallowed. “I’m still figuring that out.”

Mr. Finnegan nodded. “Excellent. I’ll respect your wishes. You have talent, Anthony. I look forward to seeing how it manifests. When you’re ready.”

“Thanks.” Anthony said, unable to leave yet. “Just to be clear, I still want credit when it comes to my grades. I figure if we got into the paper, it probably means a couple of As, right?”

Mr. Finnegan’s gray eyes twinkled. “Indeed it does. Good luck with your interviews. I hope you enjoy working with Whitney. I suspect that you’ll make a good team.”

Why would he think that? Anthony left the room, feeling like Mr. Finnegan was playing matchmaker. If so, he was barking up the wrong tree. And if that kept happening, Anthony was going to get an ax and cut the damn thing down!

— — —

Mr. Finnegan had failed to emphasize, when dishing out the “easy” assignment, just how awkward it would be to approachtotal strangers. Anthony kept searching the cafeteria for people he knew. Whitney didn’t share this reservation. She was willing to talk to anyone. And she knew quite a few people.

“Keisha!” she called out, bounding toward a table filled with black students.

That’s the last place Anthony would have thought to go. Not because he harbored ill will toward anyone due to the color of their skin. He simply would have been too intimidated. There were only so many black kids at Pride High, and they tended to congregate together. Probably so they wouldn’t have to deal with idiots like him, who would try extremely hard to be nice so they’d know he wasn’t racist, when really the best way he could prove it was to not treat them differently at all. Of course worrying about this made him even more hyperaware of the situation, and less capable of seeing them the way he did everyone else. And to be fair, he had an antisocial streak and often invented reasons why he shouldn’t approach people, no matter what color they were, so why bother focusing specifically on their skin? Oh god… Maybe hewasracist!

He followed along helplessly as Whitney plonked herself down at their table. She pointed at one guy’s T-shirt and laughed out loud at whatever it said before getting excited about the type of granola bar that another guy was eating.

“So good!” she cried, before seeming to remember bad news. “Except when the little bits get stuck in my teeth. Which they always do.” Then she guffawed, as if it didn’t really bug her at all.

From the outside, she appeared as though she sat at their table every day. Anthony by comparison eased himself down and offered a very stilted, “Hiiiii.”

“Who’s this?” said a lithe girl with short-cropped hair. “Your boyfriend?”

Whitney laughed. “Oh my god, that would be so funny!”

“We’re withThe Lion’s Pride Post,” Anthony said after introducing himself.

“Keisha!” Whitney interjected, addressing the short-haired girl. “What’s the worst thing about high school?”

“Your answer might be included in the school paper,” Anthony added.

“Hmm.” Keisha’s large expressive eyes moved over him.

Please don’t let her answer be stupid white guys. How couldit not?! It totally should! But was he racist for not wanting it to be?

“I like your sense of style,” she said at last.

Oh! That was kind. Anthony was wearing an old black T-shirt that he’d crisscrossed with red spray paint he’d found in the garage. It went with the crimson Manic Panic dye that he’d used on his roots.