Welcome to Braggsville. T Johnson Geronimo

en masse—parents, twin little brothers, and two great-uncles—to deliver healthy snacks, inspect living quarters, and shoot D’aron the hairy eyeball. We were in the neighborhood, they’d say, though according to Chang, before his acceptance to Cal his parents hadn’t driven farther east than the downtown San Francisco Embarcadero for fifteen years. Sometimes they’d offer no greeting, just sit on D’aron’s bed and wag their mysterious tongue. (Was this what Prof. Kensmith meant by cultural relativity? Louis’s grandmother insisting that D’aron sample her homemade candied fruit under her watchful cloudy eye, tapping the bottom of his chin with two fingers to assist mastication. He knew a hex when he tasted one, and packed the sour green resin away with the deft touch of one long accustomed to surreptitiously enjoying Bandits only feet from the chalkboard. Later, he would slip into the bathroom and send the waxy balls to the bay, but not before his tongue grew numb and resentful.) After his family left, Chang would apologize for the stares. They’re just old-fashioned, just old-fashioned, just old-fashioned, he chanted for weeks before admitting that his parents thought the messy half of the room was D’aron’s.

      The real disappointment, though, was that Chang did not know Kaya, and so couldn’t broker an introduction. D’aron was certain that if an Asian introduced him to Kaya, or she saw him with an Asian, she would be more likely to consider him datable. This wasn’t mercenary but pragmatic. At home, whites identified the blacks who would date them by watching who their friends were, and vice versa. He went everywhere with Louis, but the campus was quite large.

      The perfect opportunity arose only a couple weeks into the semester. Some students in his old dorm were hosting a dot party, and Kaya would certainly be there. Per the tweet, one rule: Wear a dot where you want to be touched. Chang affirmed his attendance before being asked.

      Chapter Four

      Under black lights installed in the basement commons for the occasion, Day-Glo stickers radiated warmth from cheeks left and right, aft and fore, knees and elbows for the shy, and hearts for many, though more than one person complained vigorously that they meant breast not heart. Golden Bears milled, glowing smiles, drinking sodas, though some clearly had other substances. Golden Bears clotted in pairs and groups of three, laughing too loudly, though some were obviously looking for a better conversation. Golden Bears kicked it in dark corners, though some wore poses of cool disaffection that were indistinguishable from anxiety. Four people wore dots in the middle of their foreheads, which, oddly, some found offensive. D’aron meant only that he wanted to provoke, in the words of his lit professor, A raging storm of violent thoughts, an explosive torrent that demands channeling lest it destroy you by driving you mad, making you whom the gods would have. Whatever that meant. That was often his answer when asked, but really he thought it subtle reverse psychology. No one seemed to believe that either, unfortunately, and about an hour into the party, he found himself in the sunken courtyard with Louis and the two other dot heads, as he thought of them: a blond female with weepy eyes and a black guy with pig-iron arms, obviously an athlete, like most of theyselves at Cal.

      Louis looked at each of them and made a show of counting on his fingers, One little, two little, three little Indians.

      The blonde groaned with understanding. Shit!

      The black guy shrugged. Fuck them if they can’t take a joke. He pointed to Louis’s forehead. Make that four. Or are you really Indian?

      This happened to Louis on occasion, him being Malaysian. He also caught hell at the airport from the devil in the blue uniform. Yes, he told them in his best Bollywood accent. I am Indian, naturally, not through adhesive like you. How feel would you if I wear Afro wig and gold teeth, and carry pit bull puppy naming Takesha?

      The black guy laughed. You’re funny, dude.

      Hella funny, thank you. And you, he turned to the blonde, you, madam, how would you like when you come to my country and I wear a blond wig like valley girl, speak, you know, you know, you know, it was like. He paused to suck his teeth. You are not liking very much that?

      The blonde went crimson and pursed her lips, clutching her neck as though cut, slashed, hacked even, spewing tearful, spittled apologies through the air.

      Louis reached for her shoulder, which surprised D’aron because it seemed an apologetic overture when Louis himself always insisted that the comic’s job was to wake people up—with a full five-finger slap when necessary. She jerked away, her ponytail splitting the night. It was too late. The tears were in full-court press. She hadn’t meant anything by the dot, only that she wanted a good conversation, and she was from Iowa, and even if she had meant something by it, no one in Iowa would have gotten so upset about it. What is it with Berkeley that you can’t make any kind of joke, even accidentally?

      D’aron hadn’t really noticed her until she began crying. (Louis would argue, The reptilian brain is like a Japanese tourist armed with a digital camera with infinite memory; therefore D’aron had noticed her, but hadn’t yet noticed that he had noticed her.) Now he looked again. She was average height for a woman, her chin at his shoulder, and average build, at least for D’aron, because her physique was not that of the desiccated, squirrely girls who foraged at the co-op, standing in the center of the aisle as still as Lady Justice with a container in each hand while deliberating the benefits of garbanzo miso versus soy miso. No. Hers was a figure forged in the same furnace as the girls he’d grown up with, with full legs and arms, and long straight hair, past the neck, that at night glowed like butter on burned toast. She sniffled and her cheek twitched, tickled by a tear, and he felt compelled to protect her.

      He’s just joking, he’s Malaysian, not Indian, explained D’aron. To Louis, You’ll cut your tongue talking that way.

      Really? The blonde sniffed. Screw you! She flipped off Louis, though she didn’t thank D’aron. But she did look him over.

      What’s the difference, asked the black guy. Welcome to the club.

      The difference, Louis explained, is miles and miles, but that’s about all.

      D’aron laughed and removed his dot. They all followed suit, except Louis, who pantomimed looking in a mirror, dusting his lapels and arranging his hair. How do I look?

      They replaced their dots.

      The Prayer, an old Bloc Party song, played in the background, the band’s prerecorded clapping in rhythm with the strobe light. Their faces flashed in unison as the lyrics drifted out to D’aron, one line catching his ear: Is it wrong to want more than is given to you, than is given to you? For the first time at Berkeley, he felt at ease. He half hummed, half sang the lyrics. Is it wrong to want more than is given to you, than is given to you? No, it’s not.

      Excuse me? hissed the blonde.

      My, you’re sensitive …

      The blonde glared at him. You mean a mite sensitive? She drawled out mite.

      How’s that?

      How?

      How, Tonto!

      The blonde cranked her middle finger up for Louis. I resent that, especially coming from you. I’m part Native American.

      Aren’t we all?

      Thus they became the 4 Little Indians. D’aron, Louis, Charlie, and Candice. It mattered not that Louis swapped statistics for film studies only to be near Candice, and she swapped theater for rhetoric only to be near Charlie. D’aron was just glad to be close to her, and to have friends who were also uncertain about their place at Berkeley, and who were nerds, not that anyone could be a nerd at Berkeley. Besides, he had heard that it was easier to get a girlfriend when you had a girlfriend, so being seen with Candice could only further his cause with Kaya (who that night was nowhere to be seen). When D’aron muttered his frustration, Charlie confirmed his theory: The most important lesson I learned in high school was that banks loan quickest to those who don’t need money.

      But first they reentered the party, and, as Indians are wont to do, were promptly relocated. One by one, D’aron, Candice, and Charlie were tapped on the shoulder. One by one they were beckoned outside by strangers mouthing entreaties