style="font-size:15px;"> He gave me a look but didn’t say anything. Then he and I were pulled into a nearby conversation, this time with a group of mostly white kids.
“Nice shoes, man,” one of them said.
“Thanks,” Myron replied. “We picked them up today. Have y’all met my cousin, Cameron?”
The change in his tone was immediate. Less bass. More enunciation. I wondered if he was even aware that he was doing it.
I quickly introduced myself. Most of them shook my hand, but one overeager guy leaned in to give me a dap-hug, saying, “What’s up, brother.”
And I said the same thing back, just like it was natural.
Because here was the thing—it was natural. This was how I interacted with kids all the time. I didn’t have to code switch at my school. There weren’t many other Black kids to code switch with. We lived in a very affluent neighborhood. (“A white neighborhood,” Grandma would say whenever Dad said this.) Even though most of my friends were white, a few weren’t. Arpit was from India, and Oscar was from Brazil. But it wasn’t like I talked differently around them than I did with my white friends. Honestly, we didn’t want to code switch. We were trying to sound like all our other … affluent classmates.
After a few minutes, Myron tapped me on the shoulder. “To your right,” he whispered. “But don’t turn too fast.”
I waited for Myron to pull away, then slowly shifted my gaze. There was Jess, looking as good as ever. Her brown hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she was wearing one of those summer dresses that made all us guys go crazy. As our eyes met, her lips faltered for a second, before she finally offered up a small smile and waved at me. I did the same.
Before I knew it, I was crossing the room.
“Hey Jess,” I said once I’d reached her group.
“Hey,” she said back. No kiss. No hug. Not even a handshake. “Guys, this is Cameron. Myron’s cousin.”
“Hey.”
“Wassup, man.”
“How’s it going?”
I took in each person’s greeting, thinking how Jessica must like being around kids like this. Once the last person in the group introduced himself, I took a deep breath and said, “Wazzup, peeps.”
God, did that sound as horrible out loud as it did to my ears?
Everyone else nodded back at me, but I noticed a flicker of a frown cross Jess’s face.
The discussion turned back to—what else?—basketball. I waited for a lull in the conversation, then threw out the little bit of basketball knowledge I had.
“That cat Steph Curry is amazing,” I said. “Best playa on the court. Breaking ankles with each step.”
“Yeah, but no one has a crossover as sweet as AI, right?” one of the guys replied.
“Um. Yeah,” I said. I had no idea who they were even talking about. Was there a person with those initials on the Warriors?
I caught sight of Jess again. This time the frown was full-on across her face.
“Cam, can I talk to you for a second?” But with the way she took my arm and guided me away, it was clear she wasn’t really asking.
At least she was finally making physical contact. Progress, I guess.
She led me outside, but as soon as we stepped off the front steps, she let go of me and crossed her arms.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Um … talking?”
“You sound like a fool,” she said.
“I’m just …” I shook my head. There was no way I could explain what I was trying to do. It sounded too stupid to admit.
“And those shoes?” she continued. “Since when did you start wearing Jordans? You think that makes you hood or something?”
“Myron said they looked good.”
“Myron is an idiot with too much of his daddy’s money to spend.” She swiped a bang away from her face. “You don’t even like basketball. Tell me the truth—did you know that AI stood for Allen Iverson?”
This was not the reception I was expecting when I’d dreamed about seeing Jess again. I mean, I hadn’t been holding my breath for love at first sight, but I didn’t think she’d be so upset. “Jess, are you mad at me?”
“Cam …”
“Just tell me what happened,” I said. “Why did you stop texting me? What did I do that was so wrong?”
Her eyes were warm. Kind. But not loving. More like how our vet looked when she told us we had to put down our dog. “We really shouldn’t talk about this now,” Jess said.
No way was I letting this go. “Just say it. I don’t want to spend the rest of my summer wondering what I did.” I stood up taller and steeled myself for her response. “Is it because I’m … me?”
“What does that mean?”
“You know,” I said. “I don’t talk the right way. Or dress the right way. Most of my friends are white. I’m not good at basketball.” I glanced at the ground—I couldn’t look at her while saying the words. “Did you stop talking to me because I’m not Black enough?”
She actually laughed. Doubled over, even.
“It’s not that funny,” I said.
“Sorry,” she replied. “It’s just—Cam, what does that even mean? Not Black enough?” she finally said. “Does your birth certificate say you’re Black?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Your school records?”
I nodded again.
“And is your momma or daddy Black?”
“Of course they are.”
“Then congratulations. You’re Black.” Her words sounded a lot like what Grandma had said earlier about being a feminist.
I thrust my hands into my pockets. “Then what did I do to make you stop talking to me? I had to have done something.”
Now it was her turn to look away. Those lips that were so perfect a year ago were now taut and pursed. “Do you know what happened in December? When I went ghost and fell off from all the messages?” She waited for me to shake my head. “Linton McCants was shot by the police.”
“Who’s that?”
“A kid from the neighborhood,” she said. “He wasn’t doing anything wrong. You know, other than being
