A/N: Two chapters in one day! I've just felt really, really inspired to write this today. Thanks very much to Lena again for the idea, and also thanks to Chloe for being inordinately pleased with my writing.

Don't forget to review after you read!

"If that Negro is faithful all his days, he can and will enter the celestial kingdom. He will go there as a servant, but he will get celestial glory."

– Elder Mark E. Peterson, Race Problems – As They Affect the Church, 1954

1960

"Uhnh, s-so, y'see, it's—if you wanted to, uhm, y-you could be a Mormon!"

The car is not as good as it used to be, but Arnold is still able to make it to the little store in the place outside his familiar—he found out early on that it was run by Mister Hutchison, who says his great-great-grandfather was named Mister Hatimbi, which is funny because it doesn't sound much like a name to him at all if he's to be perfectly frank and honest. At the same time, he finds it funny that he doesn't even know her name yet, and yet he know her father is Mark, and that every Friday he sits in his store that he owns all by himself (with his beautiful daughter's help, of course,) which is also funny because Arnold wasn't even aware Negros could do things like that.

He also wasn't aware that he could fall in love with one, but now, staring into her deep brown eyes, he can't imagine any way that anyone couldn't, especially her.

"Do you even know what my name is, Mister Cunningham?" she says quietly, interrupting him. She blinks, head tilted to the side as she realizes his eyes are trained perfectly on hers—she's fairly sure it's not just a trick of magnification committed by his thick spectacles, but she can't be sure. "Mister…Cunningham…?"

He's been staring at her—he's been staring at her, and he didn't even notice. Jumping in his seat, he looks away and tries his hardest to collect his thoughts, because he's just noticed that he can see the strap of her brassiere peeking out of the neckline of her dress and oh dear Heavenly Father he doesn't want to have more of those urges, especially not when he's sitting across from the amazing Hutchison girl who he's not even supposed to know.

"Mister Cunningham?"

"Call me Arnold!" he shouts, standing suddenly but, surprisingly delicate and meek, sitting down again in an instant. "Uhnh…hahm, um, s-sorry, m-my father says I need to, uh, work harder on being…quiet, hahnh, yeah—"

She can't help but giggle, and it sounds as clear as a bell, or as the night sky, or as any number of clichés that Arnold has heard maybe in school or maybe on the radio, and he's mesmerized by her smile. This time, though, the touch he usually always imagines is suddenly, frighteningly real—her hand is on his wrist, thin fingers (bird bones, like a wishbone, he thinks) resting just above his pulse. He wonders for a moment if she can feel how the blood is pounding through his veins, headed in one of two directions which is immensely distressing when all he wants is to slow down, to take a deep breath, and to…

To pull her close and kiss her.

It's only when he feels her tongue press against his lips that he realizes he's actually done just that—she's leaning halfway across the table already and he still doesn't know her name, still can see the strap of her brassiere, her hand still resting over the hard-drumming beat of his heart on his sleeve, and all he was there for was to talk a little about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints but oh well, because there is a girl kissing him.

A girl. A real girl, real and sweaty, hair curling from the heat of the room (it has always been that humid, but the heat intensifies as their lips lock) and falling into her eyes. A real girl who he wasn't ever supposed to know, perfect and sweet and he wants her but he has to pull away, tears starting to form in his eyes as he starts to sniffle.

"I-I gotta...uhnh, huuuhnh, I-I'm sorry, uh, M-Miss—" He knocks over the chair he's spent the last hour in in his hurry to leave, running a hand through his own hair, which is starting to spring back into curls in the damp air. "I-I can't—"

Yet he lingers, eyes on her hands as they go up to her mouth, and he wonders if her cheeks are as hot as his own are. They stand across the table from each other, frozen, chests rising and falling almost in unison. Arnold doesn't want to leave – doesn't ever want to leave – but he knows he has to, because he can hear Mister Hutchison starting out from his back room—the sound of chair hitting linoleum must have tipped him off to something going on. "I-I'm—"

"Arnold." She bites down on her lip, eyes downcast as she drops her hands to her sides. "And—and I'm Nadine. Just…thought you might want to know. Mister Cunningham."

"Arnold," he insists, looking up at her shyly. A few more moment of fidgeting pass until he hears her father's footsteps—his signal to leave.

She watches him go, suddenly sad—but only for a moment. The grin that spreads onto her face as he drives off stays there for the rest of the day.