Free Every Time a Rainbow Dies by Rita Williams-Garcia

textiles.”
    â€œTextiles?”
    â€œCloth,” she said. “Cloth to move in. Dance in. Be free.”
    Her face lit up when she talked about cloth. This enthused her in a way he could not understand. Instead of truly listening to her words, he followed her lips. She wore lip gloss. Not pink, not orange, but that color in between.
    He had to snap himself out of it, or she would think he was strange.
    â€œIs that what you have in that black case?”
    She nodded and said it was her classwork from Art and Design High School, where she was in her junior year.
    â€œLet me see.”
    â€œNo,” she snapped.
    â€œWhy not?”
    He reached to playfully take the portfolio, but she pulled the case toward her. Her eyes were serious. Thulani let go of the case and said, “I’m sorry.”
    She let the moment pass and said, “You can see if I say so.”
    He put his hands up.
    â€œYou can’t just grab,” she scolded.
    â€œI didn’t mean anything.”
    â€œAnd your hands are greasy. That is my work. My work. I don’t want it ruined.”
    He started to apologize for the second time. Sometimes he was talking to Ysa and then she would appear and stand between them. Rape Girl. Show her scars. Take something the wrong way. No matter what, he felt he had to apologize, whether he had done anything or not. He had felt this before. The night he ran and ran and ran. The time he followed her to her church.
    She wiped her mouth and hands. She was done.
    He said, “I knew you were an artist or something.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œOnly bright, bright colors for you, Ysa,” he said, watching her take a self-conscious check of herself, as if it had not occurred to her. “Every time you step out, a rainbow must die.”
    She sucked her teeth and said, “Crazy boy.”
    â€œThat’s how I find you.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œFirst everything around me is drab. Dead. Then I see bright this, bold that, and poof! there you are.”
    â€œSo. I like color.” She stood and picked up her case. When she turned the black case on the other side, he noticed the letters YB , done in silver Magic Marker, in fancy loops. Her handiwork for sure.
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    They strolled toward Franklin, her street. There was still warmth in the mid-October air. It was a beautiful night. Even more beautiful than those summer nights when he lay on his rooftop, dreaming of a faceless girl. A beautiful night was walking slowly with someone whose hand he could not yet take. And having the air smell so good.
    Thulani was careful of how he pointed to the black case; he didn’t extend his arm fully. He was afraid shewould run away if he touched her by accident. “ YB ?” he asked. “What’s the B ?”
    â€œBaptiste,” she said. “My, uh, name.”
    â€œSo that makes you Haitian.”
    â€œHow do you know what I am?” she snapped.
    â€œThat accent,” he told Ysa and Rape Girl.
    â€œYou don’t know my island,” she sang. Rape Girl had stepped aside. It was just Ysa.
    He said, “I can guess.”
    â€œHmp.” She tossed her head and took a few steps ahead of him. “My island’s small, but not poor.”
    He caught up. “Do you parlez Français ?”
    â€œCreole,” she corrected with pride. “Not like you think. A different Creole.”
    â€œFrench Guyana?”
    â€œHa. French Guyana’s not an island.”
    They were at her brownstone. It was time to say good-night, but he didn’t want the night to end, and he had run out of French-speaking countries.
    â€œBefore you go,” he said, “can I see you again?”
    â€œI’m too busy,” she said. “School. Work. Study.”
    He was not discouraged. The playfulness in her voice was still there. He asked, “Can I walk you to school?”
    â€œI take the train.”
    Not a no, he told himself.