A/N: Hi! This is my second attempt on doing a story. I would love read your pov in your reviews. Please, don't fret on leaving one.

Thanks for reading, reviewing, or doing both.


Andrew Armstrong was not a racist.

Actually, in his mind, he was the furthest from being a racist. He lived in a dominantly white neighborhood, but there were a few blacks. His neighbor, Tyrone Jones, lived next door to him for nearly 17 years, and he was black. Mr. Kinchen, the Algebra teacher, had lived in the neighborhood since its construction decades ago. He was okay with it, they weren't any trouble to him, and so he possibly couldn't be a racist. He talked to them on a friendly level, even though the amount was small, there were some he said "hey" and "what's up" to.

So therefore he possibly couldn't be a racist.

However, at his school, it was a different matter. Andrew didn't know how it was possible, but the school he attended was more of a mixture of different cultures. There were the Hispanics, the Blacks, and the Asians. He assumed they were people from all around the school district attending his school, but it didn't matter to him-they weren't a bother.

In the mall area of the school, there was…there was boundaries. The white kids sat in the front of the mall area, close to the main office, and the majority of black kids, Hispanics, Asians and others, if there were any, remained in their section in the back, near the assistant principal's office. He didn't care, he didn't care at all about what they did or where they sat, it didn't concern him.

But, there were some.

Some of his friends, who were probably curious, went on to the other side of the school. If he was able to catch them in the crowd, which was an unlikely chance, he would see them enjoying themselves with anyone. Laughing, talking, and doing normal teenage stuff. He wondered what made them laugh so hard, or what made that side look so lively, compared to the side he stayed on.

Andrew Armstrong was not a racist.

He took classes with Asians, Hispanics, Blacks, and any other minorities out there. Yet again, as stated earlier, he sat on the dominantly white side of the class room. Normally, the classes he attended were usually small: Algebra II (honors) English (honors) and etc. Whenever he made it to French I or French II, anyone who had a brain inside their head could see in plain view. Mrs. Price's French class was probably the biggest class in the school; it was mandatory class, and since the Spanish teacher, Mrs. Garcia, left for a different school, it was the only foreign speaking class there.

The school board was still trying to bring in another Spanish teacher.

Mrs. Price was a cool teacher; she talked to each of her students with causality and friendliness. Yes, there were the others who irked her nerves, on both sides, but it didn't ruin the coolness of her character. In her class, if anyone decided to join, would notice the big split in the center of the classroom. On the right side, near the front door, the white kids from top to bottom dominated the area.

On the left, the Asians sat in the front, in the middle were the Hispanics, and in the back there were the Blacks. Andrew noticed, throughout many of his classes, that it was really the Hispanics and Blacks who chose to sit in the back.

Why? He didn't know.

It was likely to be a cool status, where all the popular kids sat at. But if that was so, why wasn't he sitting in the back too? In French class, being the most diverse class in the school, Andrew would see some of his friends "white" speaking on the other side. They would be clowning other kids, joking, and excessively talking until Mrs. Price would shut them up with a sharp comment.

Andrew never participated in these actions; he normally lingered away and ignored it.

Still, he was not a racist.

He was just…uncomfortable with it all, per say. He didn't understand. There were many racial boundaries in their school, surprisingly, and yet most of his friends found ways to break those boundaries and go with the flow. One girl of his group, Sandra Boudreaux, left them a few years back to go on the "other side". If Andrew's memory served him right, they were still in junior high and some kids (he didn't remember their color) were picking on her. He didn't do anything nor did any of his friends do anything; those kids weren't bothering them-so they didn't.

Someone did.

Henry Louis came out of no where and started yelling and screaming profanities at them. Henry Louis was no small boy; he was never a small boy. Bulky and muscular, standing a nice 5'8 in junior high, he scared off those kids who were teasing Sandra Boudreaux and helped her up. Naturally, she was intimated by him, because he was a big guy being only 13. Amazingly, he was the gentlest one out there. Despite him throwing cuss words and threats out like they were nothing, Sandra described Henry as "Passionate, gentle, and intelligent". He wasn't the smartest kid in school, but Sandra said he always tried, and that was all she asked from him.

After the incident, no one messed with Sandra anymore. Soon enough she started to become distant from Andrew and his friends. She became closer to Henry and casually spoke with his sister and other family relatives who attended the same school with him. Andrew didn't notice it back then, but when Sandra became closer to Henry and others, he sort of…shunned her.

He wasn't the only one.

They stopped having lunch together, speaking with each other, and she didn't go to his family's annual BBQ's anymore. If Sandra noticed it or she just didn't care, it was never shown on her face. When she was with Henry and his friends, Andrew saw something inside of Sandra he had never seen inside of her before.

Confidence.

It was weird really, how it all happened. It was some normal day, where they virtually ignored the girl, and then she find herself and they rejected her because of it.

Weird.

Still, Andrew Armstrong was not a racist.

He was just uncomfortable…that was it.

After Sandra, more of his clique started to venture out. He had to admit, he was pretty sour about that, they were with him first after all. If he did say something about it-or dare do something about it, what kind of person would he be-what kind of person people would think he was?

Not a good look.

There were still some who didn't choose to leave outside and venture off: Andrew himself, Chelsea Leblanc, Thomas Small, and he were sure there others. They were the ones who chose to eat on their side of the cafeteria, if they went to lunch. They were the ones who chose to stay in the front of the mall area, and they were the ones who personally chose to not really associate themselves with the other kids, except those of their own color.

As they would sit on the steps near the auditorium, Andrew would watch other kids his age walk up to the water fountain that was placed right beside the steps. They were mainly girls of the race, and even so-he really couldn't change his direction. Asian females were slim, with nice shiny dark hair, and even darker eyes. He would normally hear them speak in different languages or their native tongue; he couldn't tell if they were Chinese, Japanese, or Vietnamese. He didn't talk to them; he only watched them for a few seconds before they went on their way back to their clique.

Hispanics and African-Americans (even though they didn't just being called Black) barely went to the front. Unless, they had to go to the main office for something or if they were really, really thirsty. When they did, as with the Asians, it was mainly the females. Now, unlike the Asians who often had very slim and nice figures, Hispanics and African-Americans body ranges differed with each person.

Andrew was aware it was the same for Asians, but he found very few large Asians in school and his town-it was Louisiana anyways.

There were big ones, middle ones, and the slim ones. Andrew preferred to stare at the middle ones, not that there was anything one with being "big" or "thin". He just found them a bit more appealing. There were more curves and they were chunkier then the slim ones, but they didn't hit the line of being fat or obese. Their hairstyles varied too. Some girls had pony tails or let their hair go straight down, and there others whose hair was tied into tiny, which he later learned, micro braids. Others used their own hair for braids, but it wasn't often these days. One little factor Andrew was able to easily spot out was the texture of their hair. No, he wasn't some sort of stalker; he was only a silent observer. Even though they came rarely to the front, Andrew was able to spot out that there were different textures. He and his friends had smooth, easy locks that could be easily combed or brushed. But with Blacks and Hispanics, their hair could either be smooth or really curly. He even saw girls with "White Girl Hair", meaning their hair seemed to be the same texture as their own.

His friend, Taylor Lege, had told him "Some get press and other gets perm, more often to get press though, perms are risky."

Andrew didn't know what it meant with press, but he knew what perms were.

Taylor Lege had the same amount of black and white friends. He had a few Hispanic and Asian friends too; he dated a Mexican girl name Lucia when they were freshmen in high school. He was the type of care who said "Hell to boundaries" and dated who he wanted. Andrew didn't know what his parents had to say to that, but being Juniors now, they either learned how to accept it or ignore it.

Getting back to the point, Andrew Armstrong was not a racist, he really wasn't. He was only a bit uncomfortable with it, and he didn't know how to… (What's the word) accept it? Go with the flow?

He couldn't-it wasn't in his nature.

Taylor Lege, whom had noticed Andrew's stares, confronted him about it a few weeks ago at his house.


"Do you like chocolate?"

"What?"

"Do you like a bit of spice?"

"I don't get…what the hell are you talking about?"

"Just asking…do you like black chicks or those spicy Hispanics?"

Andrew looked at him incredulously, "What the hell?"

"No one else has seen it, but I have-you like to stare at them long and good."

Andrew's face turned a deep shade of red from embarrassment. "You know?"

"Yeah I know, every time they pass, I see ya, which one ya like."

Taylor had this smug look on his face. A face that said "Come on, I won't bite." Andrew knew better, Taylor may be his best friend, but the boy could be a real-bastard at times.

"I don't like either of them, they're not my type."

Taylor rolled his eyes, "God, don't be so damn judgmental, a girl is a girl, regardless of her color."

He threw him a dirty look, "Are you implying something."

"Yeah," Taylor grinned devilishly, "we may live in Louisiana, part of the Dirty South, but I thought we got over this…color problem."

"I don't have a racial problem!" Andrew jumped off his couch, glaring dangerously at Taylor, who appeared not to have a problem with it. He was playing the Xbox 360 with little interest, and glanced up at his friend and rolled his eyes again.

"Yeah you do." "You and the others, its not like we haven't noticed…"

"Noticed what?" Andrew hissed.

"Noticed that you distance yourself from us, and any Black, Hispanic, or Asian person-judgmental."

Andrew narrowed his eyes; he knew who Taylor was talking about. He knew all too well.

"I'm in football, we play football together."

Taylor shrugged, not swayed by the words, "Yeah, there are Blacks in football as well as Hispanic, but it doesn't mean you talk to them-establish anything with them." "All you see is a player behind the helmet, and once the helmet is gone-nothing."

All those words were true, they were. Because of that, he didn't say anything in reply, he didn't defend himself. What was there to defend? That was how he saw it. When he played, when they played, they had their helmets on. Sure, he knew they were Black or Hispanic, but he couldn't see it, and therefore he couldn't acknowledge it. His mind was entirely focused on the game, on winning the game; it didn't matter until the game was won. Once the game was won, life was reverted back to its old formalities, and they were nothing to him. A habit of his frowned upon, but a habit he had been unable to break.

Taylor didn't play football. He enjoyed baseball and video games. He was a thin dark haired boy who didn't show much interest in things. He wasn't the best student, but he made fairly average grades. Grades that would send him to a decent college; that is, if he was aspired to go to college. Out of all his friends, Taylor was the biggest loud mouth. He didn't care what came out, and it didn't bother him to whom he was speaking to. Evidence, the way he was speaking to Andrew.

"See that my words have taken effect."

"Just play the damn game."

"I'm just saying," Taylor shrugged, "one of these days-you'll have to be more open about this racial thing, you know."

Andrew didn't answer him. Moving to the lazy chair his parents bought recently, Andrew played the game in total silence, not bothering to hear another word from Taylor's mouth. Taylor glanced at Andrew; then he went on to defeat him at the game they were playing, in a calm, collected manner.


Even so, Andrew Armstrong was not a racist.

On a particular day, however, he felt that he was close to it.

"Good morning class," Mrs. Price entered the class with a bright smile, "I have a surprise for you!"

The class in union said "Good morning" and then there was silence. French was the first class in morning, and no one actually went to bed on time. Mrs. Price ignored the muffle good mornings and the tired atmosphere that was sweeping across her classroom, and went on with her presentation.

"We really need to work on our development skills in French." "I'm going to give you a project."

The class groaned.

Mrs. Price rolled her eyes, "Good to know you all have something to agree on, but you're still getting the project."

They groaned again.

"Here's the good part, at least-I say at least you get a partner," they perked up, "but there's a catch-in this box there are various names."

"Its girls' job to pick out their partners, male partners, the idea of the project is to get a view on how your partner lives their life, and then translate it in a two page essay-in French."

My God, she's trying to kill us.

"Come on ladies, your men await." The girls giggled as each of them, on both sides lined up to the bucket where the names of their male partners waited for them. Andrew watched with little interest as the girls picked their names. Keiko Kawaguchi, one of the top students in school, got Lorell Parker-a slacker with tight dark braids who could care less about how the Kawaguchi family lived. Keiko didn't seem pleased with her choice. Josie Landry ended up having Joshua Mendez as her partner. She didn't seem to care, probably because she had a crush on the handsome devil.

"Ayana Hollins, come on up."

Andrew stared up at the young (black) female. She wasn't thin, but she wasn't big either-just in the middle. Her shiny dark brown hair, that truly looked black when not in the light, contrasted with his high blond locks. Her equally dark brown eyes glanced down at the bucket and then at her teacher, she laughed. Everything about her contrasted him-everything. Her hair was pinned up in a high ponytail, with clips on each side to keep her hair in place. She wore medium size hoops, hoops that were legal in their school, and had two more piercings on each ear. There wasn't much talk about Ayana, on either side. Andrew had seen her a few times in school, but that was it. A quiet, meek person, Ayana was heard much...

that is, until now.

Moving her hand around the bucket, Ayana pulled out a white sheet of paper and in a clear, fine voice she read: "Andrew Armstrong."

Andrew felt his mind snap up back into reality, and inside he prayed what he heard was only a dream. Then he noticed her eyes were staring straight at him, her near black brown eyes meeting his bright baby blue, and he felt the hush talk from his male friends and a few females. Mrs. Price either didn't notice or ignored the quick turn of heads and gasps in her class, all she did was simply smile.

"Ayana, may you please repeat your partner's name."

Ayana, whose own face seemed to lose color after saying it the first time, firmly repeated her words: "Andrew Armstrong."

Andrew Armstrong was not a racist. He didn't hate the blacks, he didn't hate the Hispanics, and he didn't hate the Asians. He didn't hate any other minority out there. Yet, when he had to work with them-in such a close diameter, Andrew did have to admit-he didn't like it.


A/N: I hope no one is offended with this beginning. This was purely out of entertainment and fun. If it reassures anyone who may feel troubled with this fic: I am a black female, African-American if I must. I thank who ever decides to read this fic, and much appreciation to those who decided to review.

Have a bless day.