Prejudice & Racism
"You’re supposed to be my friend, Jas," Mitsu said matter-of-factly, but there was hurt in her voice. "If you’re not going to act like one, I want my bracelet back."
"Fine!" I said. With one sudden movement, I tore the bracelet off my wrist. Too late, I remembered the clasp. The bracelet caught for a moment on the width of my hand, then gave. The red beads flew from the broken string, bouncing with tiny plops over the boardwalk and off into the mud. Mitsu burst into tears, turned and ran.
"Mitsu!" I called. The shock of my own action had stopped the flow of anger with a sudden, sickening bump.
"I’m sorry!" I called after her. But Mitsu was gone.
The red 4x4 spun sideways as the driver slammed on the brakes and yanked the steering wheel. The truck skidded toward Dakota's truck. I couldn't see the driver because the passenger side was sliding toward us. I could see the passenger though. He wore a mask over his face. And he was pointing a rifle at us through the open window.
