The flight attendant looked at the boarding passes.
Then toward the seat numbers.
“They’re seated here.”
The White Woman blinked.
“Both of them?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The flight attendant smiled gently toward the child.
“3A and 3B.”
The White Woman’s mouth tightened.
The Black Woman expected that to end it.
It did not.
Instead the White Woman looked directly at the child.
“Interesting.”
The word carried more contempt than a sentence should have been able to hold.
The Black Woman heard it.
So did the flight attendant.
The flight attendant attempted to redirect.
“Ma’am, if you’ll allow them through, we can continue boarding.”
The White Woman lowered her arm.
Slowly.
The Black Woman guided her daughter forward.
The child slipped into 3A.
The Black Woman placed the pink backpack beneath the seat.
Then rested her gold clutch temporarily on the polished center console while she helped the girl with her seat belt.
The White Woman watched everything.
Shoes.
Clutch.
Phone.
Jewelry.
The Black Woman pretended not to notice.
She sat in 3B.
Her daughter whispered:
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Did we do something wrong?”
The Black Woman turned.
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
The girl looked toward the White Woman.
“Then why did she think we weren’t supposed to be here?”
The Black Woman paused.
The child was nine.
Old enough to understand more than adults sometimes wanted to admit.
Young enough that every explanation could become a burden.
“Sometimes people make guesses before they know anything.”
“Was her guess bad?”
“Yes.”
The girl thought.
“Did she know it was bad?”
The Black Woman looked toward the White Woman.
The woman was pretending to organize something inside her handbag.
“I don’t know.”
The girl nodded.
That answer seemed acceptable.
For now.
The Black Woman squeezed her hand.
“Let’s get comfortable.”
The girl opened the blue notebook.
Drawings.
Animals.
Buildings.
People with oversized eyes.
She began sketching the airplane cabin.
The Black Woman removed her sunglasses.
Folded them.
Placed them beside the gold clutch.
She exhaled.
The White Woman looked over again.
“Is that bag real?”
The Black Woman turned slowly.
“What?”
The woman pointed toward the clutch.
“That designer.”
The Black Woman stared at her.
“Yes.”
The White Woman’s expression became almost amused.
“I didn’t ask whether it was designer.”
“I asked whether it was real.”
The flight attendant was now near the galley.
The Black Woman considered ignoring the question.
Then decided the answer mattered less than the boundary.
“Why do you care?”
The White Woman leaned toward the aisle.
“I don’t.”
“Then we’re done.”