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A quick look of mischief in her eyes. “Who’d you vote for?” I was getting a six-pack of beer, the obligatory I Voted sticker an emblem on my shirt. The young clerk couldn’t have been more than seventeen. Tall, thin as a rail, her skin unblemished and glowing in the supermarket light. I could barely look at her. “Hilary.” “I’d vote for Bernie,” she said. “Yeah, I get that. I almost did too.” She hovered the six-pack over the scanner. “Then why didn’t you?” I chose my words carefully. “I’m not sure he’d make an effective president.” She grinned. “Better than Trump.” “Oh yes, much, much better.” The woman behind me in line shifted her weight from foot to foot. I didn’t care who heard me. Nor did the young woman, who went on a brief but passionate diatribe about Trump’s standard dirty tricks. I slid my card and tapped the yesses and nos. “That white man is evil.” I was taken back—not by the sentiment, I whole-heartedly agreed—but by the way she attached the adjective to the noun. She threw me a worried look. “Not that you’re like that...” I looked her straight in the face. “If that’s being white…I don’t want to be white.” She ripped off the receipt and handed me the beer. I thought she was going to say something back but instead she nodded and turned to the impatient lady behind me. I walked out to my car, shaking my head in confused joy.