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pretended to be the other guy, you know.”
    I did know. Her breasts bounced like water balloons in that movie.
    â€œI don’t know about Swedish, Alex. You know that I suck at making up stories as I go. I’ll stumble all over myself and screw it up. What if I’m just white? Aunt Evilyn says I talk white.”
    â€œEvilyn is the devil’s spawn.” He scowled. “And what does talking white mean anyway?”
    We’d had this conversation many times before. Talking white means something totally different to Alex. He equates talking white with proper English, which he says should never be reserved for only the white community. On the other hand, my idea of talking white is an all-encompassing attitude—more of a transformation than simple vocal inflection. Moreover, to succeed at talking white , a person must embrace the act of being white or it won’t work.
    A few weeks ago, I attempted it. I consulted what I considered to be the handbooks of white females everywhere: Cosmo , Seventeen , and Teen Vogue . I combed those magazines for tips on how to become as white as a natural-born black girl could possibly be. Cosmo and Seventeen argued that I should wash my hair at least once a day. “So be it,” I said. Teen Vogue highly suggested boy shorts underwear instead of granny panties. “So be it,” I said. All three magazines agreed brown mascara was more natural than black, so I followed the instructions to a T.
    My hair started to break off, which I’d assumed was the transition from thick, unruly curls to long, flowing locks. The boy shorts underpants rode up my butt crack so that they turned into bunched-up thongs. The brown mascara made my black eyelashes look like brown recluse spider legs. My bubble really got busted when I marched past Deanté and the other black people perched by first-period biology. He said, “Why you talking like that? You ain’t white.”
    He was right. I needed to make the thing official, so I went to the one person with the power to grant my wish: Jesus. And wouldn’t you know it, he swung by my bedroom and made me white.
    Alex nudged me. “You ready for Colossus?”
    â€œNot in the least,” I said. But I had no other choice. The first twenty-seven steps took the remainder of my energy. I stopped cold.
    â€œI counted twenty-seven steps.” He sounded appalled. “Aren’t white people supposed to have more endurance?”
    I bent forward, gasping for breath. “I need a break.” I sat on the edge of the curb.
    â€œColossus just kicked your butt. We were getting better, too. Last time, it took us six and a half minutes to conquer.” He took a seat on the curb beside me. “Our goal is two steps a second, remember?”
    Alex had been assessing our steps versus the time it took to get to the top of the hill. One day, for the sake of science , he’d conquered Colossus twelve times by himself, carefully measuring his stride and step count to ultimately determine our goal of two steps per second. We hadn’t even been halfway up when I stopped.
    â€œHey, Alex. Why did you accept my change so quick?”
    â€œI see you struggle, Toya.” He retied a loose tennis shoe lace and scratched caked dirt from the sole. “You’re strong, but these Edgewood people are like your kryptonite. They kill your spirit every day. I’ve been praying, too, little sis.”
    â€œWhat were you praying for?”
    â€œMostly for God to bring your smile back. I knew that he could do it, because he can do anything. The question was how, you know? I must say, though, I never would have imagined this.” He placed his hand on my hand. “He works in mysterious ways.”
    I smiled, since he’d officially accepted my crazy story as fact with very few questions asked. “I love you very much. You know that?”
    â€œI do. Now, come on, white girl.” He leaped to his