“I want someone else’s life,” Chanel says. “That’s why I always be watchin’.” She can spend hours analyzing her interaction with anyone white—how the social worker’s voice tightened, suggesting a hidden disdain; how the man in a suit brushed past her on the train, as if his body mattered more. A person’s face is a map. Those who look to the left are lying. Those who smile too much are wearing “a frown turned upside down.” Chanel engages in endless wordplay, reciting lyrics, composing raps. An internal soundtrack accompanies her life. She switches from song to song like the dial on a radio—a
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