See No Color by Shannon Gibney

search for words, a rebuttal, anything to make them leave me alone. Nothing coming. Just my legs moving me along as fast as possible, to get away from that blackness that would engulf me otherwise—and then what would I be? I’m not black anyway , my mind would scream, but the phrase would never make its way to my mouth. I’m mixed. Dad’s answer. I hiccupped now, disappointed that that was still all I had on them. And at least I’ll be going to college, unlike you idiots.
    I bowed my head in shame and tried to come back to the present—even if it was a present in which I realized that Reggie would never want me if he knew how the black kids really saw me, and how I saw myself. The truth was, I wasn’t black at all. Not by objective assessment, and certainly not by choice. I opened my eyes again and looked up at the ceiling, counting the cracks that radiated from the dingy fluorescent fixture. When I got up to fourteen, the hiccups had almost subsided. Then a knock at the door.
    â€œAlex, you okay in there?” Mrs. Carter’s voice was warm with concern on the other side of the door. “You just been in there a minute, so I thought I’d check.”
    I thrust my feet down to the ground—probably a little too forcefully—and tried to make my voice as level as possible. “I’m fine, Mrs. Carter. Sorry. Almost done in here.” I stood up and turned on the sink, letting the water fall into the drain as my dry hands gripped the basin.
    â€œNo problem at all,” she said. “Take as long as you need.” She sounded a little embarrassed now. “I was just checking.”
    I opened the door abruptly and faced her. She wore a simple blazer and matching beige skirt, her hair straight but curled inwards at the ends. She had given Reggie her bright eyes, which I suspected and feared could see as much as his could.
    â€œAll set,” I said, stepping toward her. “Let’s eat.”
    She put her hand on my back and lightly directed me toward the kitchen table.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
    I n 2009, when I was ten and Jason was nine, Hank Aaron came up to Madison to scout out some local talent and visit friends. At the time, Hank was director of player development for the Brewers and was always traveling somewhere to look at a prospect. Dad had somehow convinced Hank’s personal assistant that it would be worth his time to stop by batting practice of the number-three-ranked Little League team in the country that afternoon, since he would be in the area anyway.
    At 3:35, twenty of us were hot, sweaty, and ready for a water break. We had been swinging at pitches with all our might on the off chance that Hank Aaron would walk in at the exact moment we were up and see us slam one out of the park.
    â€œAlex, you’re up,” Dad said, from behind the cage.
    I sighed; my right wrist ached from snapping it so hard during all the previous at bats. I knew better than to mention this to Dad, however.
    â€œThis sucks,” Jason whispered in my ear.
    I wiped my dirty hand across my forehead, which ended up only making my sweat dirty as it dripped into my eyes.
    Logan, my teammate then and now, is this pasty, pale-faced white boy who was thin as a rail then. He could throw anything and everything at any speed, and at any location, even the pitches that weren’t allowed in the league for our age group (like curve balls). It hurt my head to swing against him in the middle of the afternoon like this; I had to think too much, and my temple was already throbbing.
    He hid his face from me behind the mitt. I sighed, lifting my bat higher over my right shoulder. The sun felt like it was burning a hole in my skull. He went through the windup and then delivered. All of it happened so fast that I barely had time to think, and then the ball was in the catcher’s mitt, and I was still standing there, waiting, staring into the sky.
    â€œYou can’t wait for the