As we munched on hard, flavorless cheese cubes and drank cheap boxed wine, the boy (let’s call him that, “the boy”) started flirting with me. I don’t remember exactly how it came up, but I do remember what he said to me in the midst of his flirtation: “It was easier for you to get in than it was for me.” “What do you mean,” I asked, genuinely not understanding. “Well, you’re a Latina from Florida,” he continued. “I’m a white guy from a northeastern suburb. Obviously it was more competitive for me.”