I think about how my grandmother once told me that black people have different blood than ours. How it’s got disease in it. I was nine years old. “They’re not like us,” she said. It was my birthday party. I’d invited eight friends from school to the local roller rink and two of them were black—it was the year I met Ian, and I’d already known Talia since first grade. I watched them skate in circles, and I looked over at my grandmother and my parents, who were eating half-burned pizza and french fries. I skated toward the opening into the rink and then stepped out to join my friends going in
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