Page 64 of The Summer of Everything

“But?”

Zay tips his head back. Closer to the shore, the moon stretches a soft paw over them. Wes always forgets Zay’s the younger one. He’s so mature. In extreme situations, Zay’s the friend Wes wants around. He doesn’t panic. He doesn’t curl up into a weak, mewling ball. Zay simply handles shit.

“No buts,” he finally says. “Not yet, at least.”

“You’re gonna kill it.”

“You are too.” Zay elbows Wes’s bicep. “You were made for blue and gold.”

“Uh huh.”

Wes studies him. His eyes are droopy from smoking up with Cooper. There’s a faint, dark line across his upper lip from not shaving. Legs pulled to his chest and arms on his knees make his orange hoodie bunch up around his throat. Though they’re around the same height, Zay seems smaller—a reminder that despite being mentally prepared for his future, Zay’s physically seventeen.

“Do you ever feel… not ready for the future?” Wes lowers his eyes, blinking. “Or you’re always changing your mind about it?”

Zay’s quiet. The waves roll and crash. Gulls shriek. Cal Guy has launched into the Killers’ greatest hits. Wes can hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

Thudthudthumpthump.

“Sometimes.”

“Why are we even doing it? College, I mean.”

“Because some of us don’t have the option,” Zay whispers.

Wes lifts his eyes.

Zay rubs a hand down his face. “For some of us, college isn’t going to swing the job opportunity door wide open but it’s going to crack it just enough for us to stick a hand in. To remind people that just because we’re not white doesn’t mean we’re not smart. Or capable. That we’re just as qualified as that person who dicked around during school, got drunk, and made a lot of bad choices that money made go away.”

He tugs up his sleeve and jabs at the back of his left hand with his index finger. “This is what people see.”

Wes knows he’s talking about his skin color.

“Mom’s an executive at a nonprofit. Momma hastwodegrees and travels all over the west coast giving TED talks about the power of being who you are. About standing in the strength of standing out. It’s exclusively speaking to people of color.” Zay scowls at the sand. “I haven’t had a new phone in almost two years. My shoes? I pick them up at after-market sales. Both of my moms are smart as hell and still only get so far up the ladder before someone reaches down to pull up another person without any melanin in their system.”

“Yeah,” whispers Wes.

“We,” says Zay, wiggling a finger between them, “have to fight twice as hard.”

Wes appreciates that just because he’s often seen as passing and people don’t always connect him to Calvin, Zay makes it a point to include him in discussions of race and privilege. He doesn’t lay any guilt on Wes because there are some prejudices they won’t share. They’re still united.

“I have no clue what’s gonna happen in the future,” Zay says. “But having a degree gives me more of a chance. It’s not a guarantee. Nothing is. It’s just a backup.”

“Are you doing it because of your moms?” Wes asks.

“A little bit.” Zay’s nose wiggles like he’s fighting off a sneeze. “You?”

“Yup.”

“I wonder if all kids feel that way?” Zay smiles sadly. “Especially POC kids. Like we owe our parents for putting up with this fucked up world so we can have a future.”

“It’s in our DNA.”

“The struggle continues.”

Wes sighs at his shoes.

“Damn, Wes. Why are you so deep?” Zay pulls back, face scrunched.

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