Chapter 1

Kit Wainwright rummaged through his desk drawer and stuffed items into his backpack. He powered down his laptop, put it and a binder into his pack and zipped it closed.

“Jeezus,” his roommate said, drowsily, “do you have to make so much noise?”

“Sorry, Billy -- I have an eight AM bio lab ... Mondays and Fridays.” Kit picked up his pack, locked his door behind him and headed across campus.

“Kit ... Kit,” he heard someone calling him.

“Nichelle...” He regarded the young woman approaching him. She was petite, dark-skinned and with curly, shoulder-length black hair.

“Kit ... I heard you were asking some of the others if they wanted to switch lab partners. I’m offended, Kit. Is there something about me you don’t like?”

“It’s not about you, Nichelle. It’s about me.”

The two walked together toward the lab. “How is it about you?” she asked, “or, is it more about me? It’s because I’m black, isn’t it?” Kit walked, eye on the pavement. “It is! Don’t tell me you’re one of those racists. Because if you are, I will switch partners in a heartbeat.”

They reached the building. Kit opened the door and held it for her. “I’m not a racist,” he replied. “I have nothing but good will toward your race ... but...”

“Hmm ... Whenever someone says, ‘I’m not a racist ... BUT... ‘ it means he’s a racist ... Or, maybe you’re sexist. Maybe you object to the fact I’m female.”

“No -- I don’t object to that.”

“Then, what is it? Tell me, Kit.”

They headed down the corridor to the biology lab. Kit opened the door and headed toward his assigned equipment locker. “It’s just...” he replied, “ ... I felt out of my comfort zone. I grew up in a small town out in the middle of nowhere ... population eleven hundred. I just don’t have any experience with ... colored folks.” He took a keyring from his pocket and unlocked his locker.

“I see ... It IS a race thing.” Nichelle unlocked the locker adjacent to his. From a tray she removed a dissecting needle. “For future reference, Kit -- the accepted term is black. Colored sounds so ... nineteen-fifties.” She opened a bottle of lab alcohol, moistened a Kim-wipe with some and scrubbed the needle. “Give me your hand.”

“Why?”

“Just give it to me.” She took his hand, swabbed his finger with alcohol and jabbed it with the needle.

“OW!” he exclaimed.

“Don’t be a baby...” She squeezed a drop of his blood onto a piece of filter paper. “There ... no need for hospitalization.” Nichelle wiped the needle with more alcohol, swabbed her own finger and jabbed it. She squeezed some of her blood onto the filter paper; then she folded the paper small and opened it up again. “Okay -- which one is yours and which one is mine?” Kit put his finger in his mouth. Nichelle pinched the back of her hand. “It’s only skin deep, Kit.”

“Point taken...”

“If you really don’t want me as your partner, I’m fine with it. I wish you had come to me first. But you’d be making a big mistake. I’m a competitor, Kit. I would kick your ass.”

“I apologize, Nichelle. I’m sorry. I really am. I feel like a real jerk, now.”

“I’m glad you feel like a jerk,” she replied.

“Why? Because I am one?”

She smiled. “Because, if you feel that way it means you might be a decent guy, after all. Still want a new lab partner? If you do, I won’t object.”

More students began filing into the lab. “No,” he said. “We’re in this together.”

“Good. I was happy when I learned you and I were assigned as partners. I know, last year, you’re the one always getting an A.”

“Not always,” he replied. “You pay attention to that stuff?”

“Of course. I told you -- I’m a competitor, Kit. I always size up my opponent.” She smiled. “Believe me, you are better off with me on your side.”

“If you’re on my side ... or, if I’m on yours ... Don’t you think it would be a good idea for us to trade phone numbers?”

“An excellent idea...” Nichelle reached into her bag for her cell phone.

The lab instructor stepped into the room. “Okay, settle down, people ... Take out your binder. This lab is about osmosis...”

Kit locked his locker and stuffed papers and his binder into his pack. Nichelle locked her locker, put her keys in a bag she slung across her shoulder. “Say,” he said, “I didn’t have time for breakfast.”

“Neither did I,” she replied.

“I was going to go to the quad snack bar and get a bagel or something. Want to join me?”

“Sure.”

They walked toward the residence halls. “Nichelle ... I want to apologize again about this morning...”

“It’s okay, Kit. I’ve put it behind me. You should, too.”

“It’s just ... you were so gracious when you didn’t have to be.”

“I like to put myself in another’s position,” she said. “You see, Kit -- my great-grandfather was white.”

“Really?”

“Yeah...”

“On your mom or dad’s side?”

“On my mom’s side. I don’t know anything about my dad’s family. Mom and I lived with Great-Gram and Great-Gramp for a while, until Mom got her law degree and we moved to Philadelphia. Now, we don’t see her often. The white side of our family is actually quite big. I have lots of white second cousins so many times removed. On the other hand, my mom’s an only child.”

“Do you have siblings?” he asked.

“No. I’m an only child, too.”

“I imagine that means you were spoiled rotten.”

“I dunno about that,” she said. “Do you have siblings, Kit?”

“An older sister.”

“Anyway, when I was ten or so, Great-Gramp passed away. All my second cousins removed and all came to the funeral. I was the only black child there ... and I felt awfully awkward. So I understand where you were coming from.”

They reached the snack bar in the basement of the central hub connecting four residence halls. Kit stepped to the counter. “Pumpernickel bagel with cream cheese and a small coffee,” he ordered. Nichelle ordered an all-grain bagel with veggie spread. She began to open her purse. “I’ll buy,” he said. “My way of making amends.”

“I told you -- it’s behind me. But I accept.”

They carried their orders to a table in the corner. Nichelle sat across from him. “How did you get the name Kit?” she asked.

“Short for Christopher.”

“I think of Kit Carson,” Nichelle remarked. “It’s the only other Kit I’ve heard of.”

“His name was Christopher, too.”

“For real?”

“For real. It’s a legitimate nickname. How did you get Nichelle?”

“Nichelle Nichols,” she replied. “She played Uhura on the original Star Trek.”

“Yeah, I know...”

“She was my mom’s role model when she was growing up. She named me after her.”

Kit regarded her. Nichelle was quite pretty. Her skin was the color of coffee with cream. She had a high and broad forehead, with a bit of a widow’s peak in her hairline. That, and a strong chin gave her roundish face a heart shape. Her mouth was wide, with full lips and she had a cute, up-turned nose.

“Gee, how old is your mom?” he asked. “If you don’t mind me asking. My mom is forty-two and she wasn’t even born when that show was on. That was back in the sixties.”

“Neither was my mom,” Nichelle replied. “They re-ran it weekday afternoons during the seventies and eighties. My mom was pretty young when she had me.”

“What about your dad?” Kit asked.

Nichelle shrugged. “I never met him. Mom raised me as a single mother.”

“She did a good job. You turned out okay.”

“Thanks ... Just you and me she always said. We’re really close.”

He finished his bagel and sipped his coffee. Kit massaged his finger. “Now my finger has a heartbeat,” he remarked.

“I’m sorry I jabbed you,” Nichelle said. “It was an impulse.”

“You definitely made your point,” he replied.

She giggled. “I guess I did.”

“This lab is the only class we’re in together,” he remarked, “aside from the big lectures.”

“Yeah, we’re both in different recitations.”

“Why did you decide to come here?” he asked.

“They gave me a good scholarship,” she replied.

“I do think they are trying to attract more minorities.” He sipped more coffee. “Do you ever have problems with profiling?”

“Do I ever! It’s always on my mind, Kit. I tell you, being black and being female means I need to work four times as hard to prove myself.”

“I believe you.” He drained his coffee. “I’ve learned a lot from you already, Nichelle.”

“I’m pleased, Kit.”

“I’m looking forward to this year.”

Kit lay on his back in his bed, staring into the dark. “Billy?” he said.

“What?”

“Do you have any black friends?”

“What?”

“Any African-American friends?”