Black Number Four (5 page)

Except, I’m not so sure it’s going to be that easy.

One thing I love about this campus – they have coffee everywhere, and damn do I need a cup this morning. I opt for the Starbucks outside of the Student Union, trying the Hazelnut Macchiato at the barista’s recommendation. I sip on the hot liquid for the rest of my walk until I reach the large double doors that lead to my first class – Writing for Television. I was surprised they even offered this class, and even more surprised when I saw that Skyler would be in it, too.

There’s only ten minutes until class, yet I’m one of the first ones here. I guess punctuality isn’t a virtue valued at Palm South. I slide into a desk a few rows from the front and pull out my MacBook Air, opening a blank document to take notes. Syllabus week was always a joke at the community college back home, so I’m hoping it’s the same here, but who knows.

The professor walks through the door two minutes late, his messenger bag overstuffed with God knows what as he balances it along with a folder in his left hand and a thermos in the other. He plops the bag down on his desk and turns to write on the white board just as Skyler comes through the door. She’s alone, and for some reason I think it bothers her. She doesn’t look as confident as she did last night. Her ocean eyes scan the room and when they land on me, a small smirk curls on her lips and she walks my direction.

She’s dressed in a yellow sundress and tall shoes that aren’t quite high heels. My ex back home called them wedges, I think. It’s surprising to me that she’s in a dress, I didn’t take her for that kind of girl. She’s even got pearls on and her hair is slightly curled. But, as she strides toward me, her hips swaying slightly, I notice the uncomfortable way she’s carrying herself. It makes me long for the girl in the distressed jeans and hoodie that I met last night. Seeing the yellow against her skin, I realize she’s tanner than I remember, which makes me wonder if my theory of her being a surfer is accurate. Who is tan in January?

“Where’s mine?” she asks, sliding into the desk next to me.

I follow her gaze to my coffee cup and smile. “Sorry, they didn’t have tequila. I checked.”

“Damn them.” She sighs. “I need to run for Student Council so I can change that.” She offers a wink just as the professor claps his hands together and we both turn to the front.

“Why do we write?” he asks, holding his arms out wide to the class. “Why do we put pen to paper or fingers to keys and make words into sentences into stories? What is the purpose?”

“So other people will read what we write,” a girl calls out from the back. The professor moves toward her a bit, seeming to take in her analysis, just as the kid sitting in front of me passes back a stack of syllabi and I take one and pass them on to Skyler. Glancing down, I see the professor’s name in bold under the class subject.

Dr. O’Neal.

He’s a quirky looking son of a bitch. Tall, lean, his facial hair growing in a little unruly against his ashen skin. He has dark eyes that seem to move a little too quickly and his brown hair is dotted with specs of gray that look a little more dyed than natural. He’s wearing a bow tie, which usually I approve of, but it seems like he did it just to be defiant against regular ties rather than to make a fashion statement.

“Yes, I suppose that’s the end result that we expect – someone to read our work. But, is that
why
we write?” His eyes move across the class, questioning.

Someone else calls out, “I guess maybe because we’re creative and need a creative outlet?”

Dr. O’Neal nods again. “Ah, creativity. I would say that is one of the qualities we possess that perhaps drives our writing, but is that why we write? Is the creativity burning within us or within artists or musicians the reason why we do what we do?”

The class is silent again, and I glance over at Skyler. She’s fidgeting, her left foot bouncing a little and her pencil rolling between her fingers. I can’t tell if it’s because she wants to say something or because she’s insanely bored. I turn back toward Dr. O’Neal and raise my hand.

“I guess I can’t speak for everyone in here, but I write for a purpose – a purpose that changes each time. Sometimes it’s to evoke laughter, sometimes to make people think, sometimes to bring a feeling to life like romance or pain, and always – no matter what the topic – to entertain.”

Dr. O’Neal’s mouth twitches into a smile that falls a little too quickly and he points the dry erase marker in his hand toward me. “That, ladies and gentlemen, is an example of a reason to write. By the end of this semester, I hope you’ll all be able to answer as confidently as this young man.” He turns back toward the board and starts detailing the lesson plan for the semester, covering the grade breakdown and attendance policy along with what we can expect in class.

“You kind of have this all figured out, don’t you?” Skyler asks, tilting her head. I note the way the fluorescent lights darken the blue of her eyes.

“I like to think I know what my passions are, yes,” I reply.

She smiles. “Passion can be a dangerous thing.”

The corners of my mouth creep up as I turn back toward the front. “What’s life without a little danger?”

After class, Dr. O’Neal stops me to introduce himself. He seems taken back that I transferred here, just like everyone else I tell. Apparently no one ever comes to this shit hole half way through their college career.

I can’t imagine why.

When I walk out of the Visual Arts Building, Skyler is waiting, leaned up against the brick wall with her hair blowing softly in the breeze.

“You really are stalking me.”

She shrugs. “You should be so lucky, Four Eyes. Speaking of which, where are your specks today?”

I laugh. “Contacts. I’m heading to the gym after my last class today and they don’t fare well with sweat.”

Her eyes challenge mine as she chews the inside of her cheek. “You’re weird.”

“You like it.”

She rolls her eyes and turns, heading toward Greek Row.

“Skyler!” I call out and she turns, waiting. “How do you take your coffee? For next week.”

Her smile returns. “Trying to be a gentleman now?” I shrug and she shakes her head, still sizing me up. “I only like one thing on the Starbucks menu. You seem to have everything else figured out, let’s see if you can guess what it is.” She presses her lips together, fighting against a smile, and turns to leave again.

“Will I see you before then?”

She shrugs and keeps walking, turning just enough to let me see her blue eyes one last time. I’ve always thought my eyes were a unique shade of blue – exactly like my mother’s – but hers are on another level. It’s almost as if they change with her mood. I wonder if they’ll be the key to what gives her away at the table.

Shit.

Did I really just think that?

I adjust my bag on my shoulder and turn in the opposite direction toward my next class. I need to disconnect, to uncomplicate this situation – and fast.

I just have no idea how to do that.

“Damn these shoes,” I mumble, making my way back to the sorority house as gracefully as I can. Ashlei and Cassie helped me get dressed this morning, as per usual. I’ve been in sorority land for a little over two years and I still fail miserably when I try to dress myself appropriately. I’m more of a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl, but when you’re in a sorority – especially the top sorority on campus – you don’t really have the casual jeans option very often. If they do put me in jeans, it’s always with heels or wedges and some flowy top that makes me feel almost as alien as a dress does.

I want to be president next year, to take my Big’s place and carry on our Greek line’s tradition of holding that office, but I’d be fooling myself if I thought it was going to be easy for me to do. For my Big it was, and for her Big, too – but they’re nothing like me. We’re close, and I love them both, but everything about us is different. Our style, the way we speak, our hobbies – I think my Grand Big almost fainted the first time I told her I play poker professionally. She called it a “man’s thing”.

But, I
want
to be like them – I want to fit in, to blend with my sisters in one unified band of color. In high school, I was like a deep red in a sea of yellow – an eye sore, if you will. But when I rushed, my sisters took me in and made me feel like a part of something. They saw the “potential” in me, as my Big put it, and they still do.

I just hope I don’t disappoint them.

Jess meets me at the door, tugging on my arm and dragging me through the house. “Ex just texted us and said to meet in her room ASAP. Sounds important.”

I laugh, yanking my arm free so I can stabilize myself in my four inch wedges before walking up the stairs. “Crisis with Spring Break planning?”

Jess laughs but tries not to. “I’m sure it’s something equally as serious, knowing your Big.”

She pushes through Erin’s bedroom door first, jumping into the bed to join my Little. Ashlei is propped in the beanbag chair and my Big has her desk chair pulled up to make a circle with the three of them. I kick off my shoes and plop down on the floor.

“Ew, put your snatch away, Little.” Erin laughs and Jess throws me a pillow from the bed. I glance down, realizing I’m sitting cross legged in a short ass sundress.

“Did you just call my treasure box a snatch?”

“Did you just call it a treasure box?” Cassie chimes in.

“Would you prefer I say vagasaurus? That’s my personal favorite nickname,” I say, propping the pillow on my lap to cover the goods.

Cassie and Ashlei crack up while Jess looks at me appalled. “Do you really call it that?”

“Among many other things, yes.”

“Like what?” she asks, clearly diving into new territory with vagina names.

“I don’t know… hoohah, muffin, pink canoe.”

“Juice box, kitty, hot pocket,” Cassie chimes in.

“Tampon tamer, magic bean, cubby hole. I heard someone call it a finger hut once. My personal favorite is vajayjay,” Ashlei says.

“Oh! That’s another one I use frequently, Lei. Nice.”

Jess still looks taken aback. “I seriously have never used any of these. I say vagina. Or occasionally I get a little Jersey Shore and say co-cah.”

“Or cho-cha like Missy Elliot?” I pipe in.

“Yes!” Jess and Cassie say at the same time. We all laugh and Ashlei snorts a little before Erin cuts us off.

“Can we stop talking about penis fly traps for like two seconds? This is serious!” She tries to say it with a straight face but fails miserably, which just makes us all laugh harder. She reaches behind her for her desk and grabs a handful of highlighters, pegging us each in the head with them.