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want to do no hard drugs ever,” Anton replied. “You can borrow it.”
    Emma nodded and searched for another book.
    “You think cause I’m black I don’t read. Or maybe you think I only read black shit like A Raisin in the Sun . Girl, I’ve out-read you a hundred times over. I read everything. Like Frankenstein ,” Anton said pointing to the book in Emma’s hand.
    “We had to read this for school,” Emma reminded him.
    “Girl, I read that thing years before we was supposed to,” he replied.
    Emma was dumbfounded. “Why?” she asked turning to face him.
    “‘Cause I like to read.”
    “Why?”
    “Girl, you seen where I live? You standin’ right in it. What else I’m supposed to do?”
    Emma turned back to the mountain of books to hide her face. She needed the moment to compose herself. The concept was a foreign one to her—that some people read to imagine away their brutal realities. She never considered the idea of reading as an escape from a hard, unforgiving existence. She never had to.
    She turned around to see Anton staring at her. It made her uncomfortable, and she searched for something to say.
    “You listen to Tupac?” she asked after a time, pointing to one of the posters on his wall.
    “You know who he is?” Anton said amazed.
    “Doesn’t everyone?” she asked.
    “Just surprised is all,” he said. “You ever listen to his stuff?”
    “No.”
    “Nah, I guess you wouldn’t. His music’s older. He died in ’96. We was babies then,” Anton replied. He thought for a moment. “You want to?”
    “Want to what?” Emma looked uncertain.
    Anton thought better. “Well, I was gonna see if you wanted to listen to some of his stuff, but nah. You ain’t ready for all that yet. I forgot you only just got here. I don’t wanna be overwhelmin’ you with all my blackness.”
    “I’ve listened to rap music before,” Emma pointed out.
    “That shit on the radio?” Anton asked. “Girl, that ain’t no rap music. There ain’t been no good rap music since the 90’s. Well, in my opinion anyway.”
    “The 90’s, huh? So you listened to rap music as an infant?” Emma asked sarcastically.
    “Girl, why you think I don’t know older people who introduced me to that music? It ain’t just young people who live in the ghetto,” Anton replied.
    He plopped down on his bed, leaving her standing in the center of the room. She was unsure what to do.
    “Girl, sit down,” he said, and then mumbled, “Lookin’ like a fish outta water.”
    He leaned over and pulled the chair out from underneath his desk offering it to her. She sat down tentatively across from him, their knees almost touching. Suddenly she was nervous. She hadn’t felt that way when she was talking to his mother. But now, being in his room and surrounded by his things—just the intimacy of seeing his personal belongings—made her anxious.
    “You so funny,” he said, watching her smooth her skirt on her thighs.
    “Why do you say that?” she asked.
    “You all nervous and shit. It ain’t no big deal bein’ in my room. If anyone should feel nervous, it’s me.”
    “Why?”
    “I can’t imagine what’s goin’ through yo’ mind right now. I’m sure you think this house a dump. You prolly countin’ down the minutes ‘til you get outta here,” he said. He couldn’t believe his honesty and was not even embarrassed by it.
    Emma, however, was extremely embarrassed. She shifted in her seat. “I don’t think that at all.”
    “Sure,” he said unconvinced.
    “What can I say to that?” she asked. “What do you want me to say? I told you I don’t care, and you don’t believe me. Do you want me to feel uncomfortable being here? Will that make you feel better?”
    Anton felt slightly ashamed. He shouldn’t have said those things to her. It wasn’t fair. It was a barrier he tried to erect to protect his heart from what he thought were her impressions of his house. He wanted her to be okay with it. He wanted her to feel