You were jamming out to Motion Party when you felt her tap you on the shoulder. You turn around to see her – a white girl dressed in a red tank top and leather shorts. You can already tell from the look on her face that she’s about to ask you a favor – or really demand one. 

“What?” you ask. “Sorry, sorry–” she begins. Just great, you think. This is how white women seem to start off most of their sentences. She continues, whinily asking: “My friends are right up there and I’m trying to get to them.” She extends her sunburnt arm to some general area in the crowd in front of you.  

“Where are they?” you press, not willing to give in to her rehearsed spiel and smile. “What are they wearing?” you continue. She’s gonna have to give you some evidence. 

But, she’s ready for your line of questioning: “They’re like 5 or 6 rows up. They’re wearing red jackets.”  

Fuck. There are some girls 5 or 6 rows ahead of you wearing red jackets. In fact, there’s tens, if not hundreds, of them.  

You begin to think, Maybe she is telling the truth. Maybe she’s been separated from her friends and is finally about to complete the treacherous journey back to them. Who are you to stand in the way of her quest? 

You take a deep breath, before letting her know of your decision. “Alright, go ahead,” you tell her. She smiles widely and squeezes tightly past you, so tight you can feel the hidden shooters in her tank top. 

You step back, feeling good about yourself as you listen to the final lyrics of Motion Party. And once that’s over, you prepare yourself for the indie melodies of Malcolm Todd. And then an hour later, as you’re swaying side to side, you see her on the screen.  

Your heart skips a beat. You almost fall backwards into your friends from the shock. There she is, the girl you believed, the girl you trusted, the girl you let go past you: She’s at the barricade, with no friends in sight. She’s all by herself, and in this moment, you realize: You can never trust anyone… well, especially, white women.