Bianca Villamayor

I was mean to that kid, Michael, but I couldn’t help it. I hate small talk.

I wish I were getting paid, or at least compensated for the gas expense. My dad’s 2001 Toyota Tundra consumed more gas than the trip was worth. When I saw a flyer advertising this program nailed to a tree, I was immediately drawn to it. I screenshotted the phone number and called it during my work break.

Spending the summer investigating racial relations through the eyes of minorities. That sounded smart—smart enough to compensate for being a high school dropout. I needed something to fill my time. The less hours I spent at home, the better.