Free Behind You by Jacqueline Woodson

something, but he put his hand up.
    â€œI know we’ve talked about it before, but now all this time has passed and you’re the same.”
    I’m not the same, I wanted to scream. I’m different. My boyfriend was killed. That does something to a person.
    â€œSometimes I go to Brooklyn and visit Miah’s mother and Carlton,” I said. I knew I couldn’t make them understand, and I knew some psychiatrist friend of my father’s wouldn’t understand either.
    â€œWhen are you taking all these trips to Brooklyn?” Marion asked.
    â€œJust sometimes.” I took a bite of pancake and chewed slowly.
    Both of them waited.
    â€œWho’s Carlton?” Marion wanted to know.
    I looked up at the clock over the kitchen sink. It was almost nine thirty. Carlton and I had said we’d meet downtown at eleven for brunch.
    â€œHe was Miah’s best friend.”
    My mother put her fork down on the table. “And now you’re dating him ?”
    â€œGod—can’t you guys leave me alone? I’m not dating him.”
    â€œWhat’s going on, Ellie?” my father said. “What’s this about? There’re plenty of boys living right around you. Nice boys.”
    â€œYou mean white boys, Dad.”
    â€œI mean more appropriate boys.” My father looked at me and I looked back at him without saying anything. I’d always loved him more than my mother and maybe that’s why it hurt to hear him talk like that.
    â€œGive me a break, Dad. Cut the liberal crap. You mean white boys, but you would never say that, because it would be politically incorrect, wouldn’t it?”
    My father shook his head and stared at me like he was trying to figure out who I was.
    Marion got up and went over to the sink. She stood there with her back to us as though she’d forgotten what she’d gone there for.
    â€œMaybe it’s a good thing, honey. Maybe it means less sadness in the house.”
    â€œI don’t understand you,” my father said. “I thought I did, but I don’t.”
    â€œI understand you even less,” I said. “And I’m not dating him. He’s . . . he’s a friend.”
    â€œWell,” Marion said. “It’s good to hear you’re making some friends. I don’t want you going all the way to Brooklyn, though.”
    â€œI’m meeting him downtown today.” I took another bite of pancake. “Don’t worry—I won’t be crossing that dangerous bridge into an outer borough.”
    â€œDon’t be sarcastic,” my father said. “I still think we need to talk about you seeing someone.”
    I stood up. “How about family therapy? I’m game for that. How about I get a chance to talk about why I was too scared to bring my black boyfriend home to parents who swear they’re not racist. How about we talk about him dying without you ever meeting him because somewhere along the way, I got the message that it wasn’t okay—”
    â€œBring this new friend home,” Marion said. “No one’s stopping you.”
    I didn’t take my eyes off my father. “That’s not the point, is it?”
    â€œIt’s all something we need to talk about,” he said.
    I shook my head. “We never will,” I said.
    My parents were silent. They knew it was true.

Carlton
    â€œIT’S FUNNY. THERE’S THIS PART OF ME THAT ALWAYS KINDA felt alone, you know?”
    We’re in a coffee shop on the corner of Waverly and Sixth Avenue. There are people all around us—men and men together, women and men, parents and kids, women and women.
    â€œI used to come here with Miah,” Ellie said, leading me to a table in the back. We sat down and a waiter put two menus in front of us. The place was quieter than it seemed it ought to be. I looked up and saw that the ceilings were covered with a purple foamy material that must have absorbed a