Free Into White by Randi Pink

Black skin was filled with so many barriers, so many restrictions, so many. Don’t walk too deep into that neighborhood. Stop and turn around if you see too many Confederate flags catching wind on front porches. Don’t you get in that chlorine water, or you’ll mess up your perm. Don’t talk too proper or you’ll be accused of talking white. Don’t talk too Ebonic or you’ll be accused of talking ghetto. I started to run out of air, but I held it long enough to see feet dangling, bodies flipping, hands flapping upward and downward. Such freedom. Such fun. I would’ve cried if I weren’t underwater. I surfaced to smooth my hair back, and rose out slow like a mermaid.
    â€œHi there.” I knew who that voice belonged to. I had mini-stalked him a few years back. Eighteen-year-old Josh Anderson.
    I smiled mysteriously, or tried to anyway. “Hello.”
    â€œYou’re new here?” He was close enough to inhale. He smelled like chlorine and Acqua Di Gio cologne. What did I smell like? Damn it, I hoped not diesel fuel.
    â€œI’m an exchange student.” I pointed to myself with both thumbs. “Katarina.” Stupid!
    â€œNice to meet you, Katarina. I’m Josh.” He held his hand out to shake. So sexy and mature. I shook, careful not to grab too firmly. Delicate as a flower was the impression I wanted to leave him with. “Where are you from?”
    â€œKansas City, right on the line of Kansas and Missouri. Most people don’t know that.” I giggled. Double stupid!
    â€œI knew that.” He flicked his neck to force the hair from his face. “Kansas City Chiefs did okay last year. You been to any games?”
    I cleared my throat and stood a little straighter. “Of course, who hasn’t?” I slapped him hard on the shoulder, too hard. “Sorry.” Triple stupid!
    â€œNo worries.” He stepped back, peeled his T-shirt off, and dove splash-free into the pool, like the water was his home. He swam a full two lengths before I had the power to look away. When I did, I sashayed to the bleachers.
    â€œDo you know who just talked to you?” asked Amera Bailey, the second most popular girl in the tenth grade only after her best friend and twin, Amelia.
    Yes, of course I knew. “No, who?”
    â€œThat”—she placed her skinny arm around my waist—“was the Josh Anderson.”
    Amelia appeared out of nowhere. “The oldest son of the Andersons; owners of Anderson Toyota, Jeep, Dodge. He drives, like, a different new car every day.”
    â€œHe gave his last girlfriend a Prius for Christmas, and he is so nice that when he dumped her, he never even asked for it back,” said Amera.
    â€œWhy did they break up?” I asked, but I already knew. His last girlfriend was named Ashley Hemphill. Rumor had it that she had a little sex problem: She liked doing it—a lot. And, apparently, one guy wasn’t enough.
    â€œI’m not one to gossip, but…,” said Amera.
    I hated when people set up their sentences with “I’m not one to gossip, but.” You may as well announce to the world that you’re a low-down dirty big mouth who likes talking crap about everyone, including whoever you’re talking crap to right now. “Her name is Ashley Hemphill, but her nickname is Humphill, if you know what I mean.” They laughed in tandem.
    Amelia picked up where the other one left off. “Nobody likes her, really. Like, everyone just put up with her when she was dating Josh. I heard she has the gonorrhea.” The gonorrhea. She said it like Ashley was possessed by a demon named Gonorrhea.
    â€œWe like you,” they said at exactly the same time.
    â€œI’m Amera.”
    â€œAnd I’m Amelia.”
    I pointed to myself. “Katarina.” I had two friends on my first day, more than I’d made in two full years at Edgewood High as a black girl, and they