“Sweet Home Alabama” comes on the bar radio.
“I love this song,” Esme says. “I call it ‘Sweet Home Hialeah.’” She starts to sing at the top of her lungs. She may be tipsy. Some of the other patrons at the bar, white people, look at us, and it makes me nervous, and it makes me sad that it makes me nervous. I imagine one of them taking ou an AK-47 and shooting us down, then walking over to our bodies, then shooting us in our heads, execution style, as we continue to sing the pretty redneck song, marveling at the mansions surrounding us, trying not to think of cleaning them, and then, as I feel those white stars on us, I pour a drink on my head. The girls cheer and I let out a bloodcurdling scream. My first ever.
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