His laughter is contagious, and I can’t help but to laugh along even though the joke is at my expense. It’s mid July; the air feels sticky, and I can feel my bra collecting sweat. Gross. Jay’s in a wife beater, his previously worn flannel tied around his neck as his basketball rhythmically bounces on the gravel.

We hear a car come our way, and move towards the side of the road. There aren’t any paved sidewalks in this community, just expensive houses and impressive front lawns. We’re in the heart of Forest Hill, and both of us are completely aware that me with my hijab and Jay with his chocolate skin stick out like sore thumbs in contrast to the white teens and adults passing us in this community. We immediately adjust ourselves and fasten our pace to make sure it looks like we’re headed somewhere and not just walking aimlessly in a rich town.

Our best behaviour is to no avail it seems. The car we heard coming towards us is a cop car and I swear I can see Jays heart beat out of his chest. I struggle to walk in line with him, his long legs creating strides I cannot keep up with.

“Hey you two. Stop where you are,” we hear a deep baritone voice order us.

In unison we turn around and face the voice, which happens to belong to, as we suspected, a cop. But the cops is black and an audible sigh of relief escapes my lips as I steady my breath for the first time since we heard the car coming towards us.

With him is a smaller, younger female officer. She has a straight face and is playing with the Velcro straps on her vest. She seems disinterested by this interaction as she hangs back by the car while the black officer comes towards us.

“What are you guys doing here?” He questions.

“Are we doing something wrong?”

“Answering a question with a question is wrong ma’am,” he retorts. “Now I ask you again, what are you doing here?”

“We’re going over to our coworker’s house,” Jay replies. He looks agitated with the officer, and I don’t know if the bead of sweat on his forehead is from the heat or nerves.

“Your ID sir,” the officer orders. I’m stunned as I watch Jay drop his ball and reach for his wallet in his back pocket. The officer tenses and I quickly compile a list all the headlines I’ve read in the news lately. “Young black man suspected of carrying a weapon shot by officer” is at the top of that list. As the officer relaxes his posture, I feel an adrenaline rush. I scoff loudly and the officer turns towards me.

“Is something funny young lady?” the officer asks as he reaches for Jay’s drivers license.

“No sir, just ironic. A black officer carding a black kid for walking in a rich, white neighbourhood. Are you really that out of touch with reality? Over a badge?” I argue.

I don’t know where I got this burst of courage from. It’s definitely not in line with my hammering heart, sweaty palms and wobbly knees.

“This has nothing to do with race. We’re just doing our jobs,” he insists.

He takes down Jays information and tells us to have a good day, as he joins his fellow, unbothered officer by the cruiser. We walk away, with me struggling again to keep up with Jay.

Jays silent all the way to the get together. And during the evening. And on our way home. I crack jokes and make fun of myself in hopes to hear that contagious laughter before the nights over. But I don’t. It seems like the officer didn’t just take down Jay’s information, but his light too.