This Side of Home by Renée Watson

can watch his Alfred Hitchcock collection.
    We walk downstairs into the basement, which is no longer a creepy dungeon but a game lounge. There’s a pool table and dartboard, and framed playbills and movie posters are hanging on the wall. On the other side of the basement, there’s a sofa and two armchairs.
    We sit on the sofa.
    â€œWhose turn is it?” Tony asks. Another game of questions is about to begin. Tony and I have made this our ritual every time we’re together.
    â€œIt’s your turn,” I say.
    â€œYou sure?” He leans back on the sofa and stretches his legs out.
    I realize how close we are sitting, and I get a tidal wave in my stomach. “I’m positive. It’s your turn.”
    â€œOkay, here’s my question,” Tony says. Then he asks, “Do you know how much I like you?” He says this as if he’s asking me what time it is.
    I can’t even open my mouth to answer.
    â€œI’ll take that as a no,” he says. “Well, I do. And I have since the first day we talked.” Tony turns to me, scoots even closer to me so there is no space between us. “I know it’s your turn,” he says. “But can I ask another question?”
    I still can’t speak.
    â€œDo you like me as much as I like you?”
    What happened to questions about favorites and hobbies? I guess we’re past that.
    â€œI can’t,” I say in a soft whisper. “I can’t.”
    Tony scoots back. “You and Devin don’t seem—”
    â€œWe’ve known each other our entire lives,” I tell him.
    â€œYou didn’t answer my question. I asked you if you liked me as much as I like you.”
    I know I didn’t answer his question, but I feel like he needs to understand that with Devin there’s history.
    Tony starts laughing. “I’ve never seen you speechless. You always—
always
—have something to say.”
    I smile. And even though I know the answer to his question, I just can’t bring myself to answer him.
    Tony puts the DVD in and hits the Play button. “I’ll let it go … for now,” he says.
    I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe how happy I am that it is.
    We must watch five episodes and just as the credits roll, I blurt out, “I don’t like him.” It’s a declaration. “I don’t.” The second time I say it, I believe myself even more.
    â€œThen why did you say you can’t?” Tony is trying to sound neutral, like before. But I can hear a twinge of frustration in his voice. Frustration or maybe sadness. Sometimes they sound the same.
    â€œI—it’s just how it’s supposed to be,” I tell Tony. And then, as if the words can’t help themselves from spilling out of my mouth, I say, “I’m not supposed to like you.” I cover my mouth quickly and gasp, trying to inhale the words back in but it’s too late. “What I meant was—”
    â€œBecause I’m white?”
    â€œNo. I-I didn’t mean that.” I get choked on my words. They are tangled and twisted on my tongue and nothing is coming out right. I take a deep breath. My tongue betrays me again, and before I can tell itnot to, it says, “Tony, I like you. Okay? I like you a lot. Even though I don’t want to.”
    â€œYou don’t want to like me? What does that mean?”
    Now no words will come.
    â€œIf I like you and you like me, what’s the problem?”
    There is no easy answer to his question.
    â€œIt’s not the fifties, you know.” Tony takes my hand. And those feelings return, my hiccuping heart, the tidal waves in my belly. This time I don’t push them away. Instead, when his lips touch mine, I kiss them back. Tony’s fingers play in my hair. The skinny twists wrap around his fingers. Has he ever touched a black girl’s hair? How do I feel in his hand?
    The basement