"Where?" Ripton asked.

"Ben and Jerry's."

"Let's take cabs," Ripton argued.

"Let's walk," I answered.

"Cabs," Ripton insisted.

"Listen to your dads." Will said to Ripton. "It's not far."

Twenty minutes later, walking into the ice cream store, lining up between the ropes, I was acutely aware of how un-White we were, the only Spanish and Black people in Ben and Jerry's. This place of friendly Holstein cowherds, shining stainless steel counter tops, childlike graphics and eccentric ice creams named for an assortment of chic middle class concerns wasn't made for inner-city people without means. Wholesome college-age boys and girls gleaming with limitless possibilities smiled and said hello, asked what we wanted, scooped, sprinkled and poured for us. Customers glanced at us, courteous in looking away and back to their conversations when I made eye contact, except for one man in one couple. He gaped. The boys joked and poked. "He keeps lookin," Carlos said in a gentle voice, licking his double scoop Chocolate Fudge Brownie in a sugar cone.

"We're unusual," I said.

"Now you see," Carlos said.

"What?"

"What it's like."