Summer 1968: two six-year-old girls, a hot Long Island afternoon, a wheezing refrigerator, and a suburban kitchen papered in golden burlap and floral trim, beige linoleum peeling at the edges of the floor. Stacy Brown looking at me funny. Because we lived next door to each other in a so-called colored development of tepid Cape Cods, my kitchen looked just like Stacy’s. Except for the shallow bowl of curdled milk on the counter. “You gonna eat that?” she asked. Grimacing, I took a spoonful, and then another. Her eyes never left my mouth.
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