For most of high school, Jasmine barely noticed him.
They shared one sophomore math class.
Nothing memorable happened.
Senior year changed that.
Connor reached for ketchup beside her.
Jasmine moved.
He looked at her tray.
Beans.
Rice.
Chicken.
Then smiled.
“School finally serving something your people like?”
One teammate laughed.
The other did not.
Jasmine turned.
“What people?”
Connor looked surprised she heard.
“You know.”
“No.”
“Relax.”
“That is not an answer.”
He squeezed ketchup onto fries.
“It was a joke.”
“What was the funny part?”
Connor laughed.
“You really want me to explain a joke?”
“I want to know which people.”
His smile thinned.
“You are making it weird.”
Jasmine nodded.
“Then it should be easy to make normal.”
Leah arrived.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” Connor said.
He walked away.
Jasmine watched him.
Leah looked at her.
“What?”
“Apparently lunch is racial now.”
Leah sighed.
“It is September.”
“I know.”
“We have eight months.”
“I know.”
“That is too long.”
Jasmine laughed.
The incident lasted less than thirty seconds.
She almost forgot it.
Then Connor began appearing more often.
Not dramatically.
A comment in the hallway.
A joke during lunch.
One afternoon he saw Jasmine leaving AP Government and asked whether the class needed “representation points.”
Another time, when she answered a question during a senior meeting, he muttered loudly enough for friends to hear, “Here comes CNN.”
His friends laughed.
Jasmine ignored that one.
Then he commented on her hair.
She had worn braids for most of September.
In October she arrived with her natural hair pulled into a high puff.
Connor looked at her in the cafeteria.
“New character unlocked.”
Jasmine kept walking.
He followed.
“You change hair every week?”
“No.”
“How does that even work?”
She stopped.
“Why are you asking?”
“Curious.”
“You own Google.”
His friends laughed.
Connor’s expression changed.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
Enough for Jasmine.
He disliked being made ridiculous in front of other people.
That pattern would matter later.
Jasmine met Walter Bennett at a coffee shop on a Sunday afternoon.
He arrived fifteen minutes early wearing khaki pants, a blue windbreaker, and hearing aids connected to his phone. He carried a thin brown envelope.
Renee came with Jasmine.
Walter recognized her immediately.
“You have Elijah’s eyes.”
Renee smiled cautiously.
“People used to say that.”
Walter looked toward Jasmine.
“She has his patience.”
Jasmine laughed.
“You’ve known me thirty seconds.”
