Missing Alfonso

Alfonzo smiled when we put tacks in his seat. He knew they were there, pretended to sit and let out a howl with Buckwheat face. Putting the tacks in his seat was a gesture of affection. I loved him, his open smile and the way he talked to me like I was his best friend. He talked to everyone like they were his best friend.
Alfonso was love. His father was a pastor. That's all I know about him. Color held no weight; he was a boy, sitting next to a girl and we were friends. We talked about what it was like to be white, what it was like to be black, how we combed our hair. We decided that was the only difference between us.

We used different combs.