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Seventeen | Good Terms

SOTC: Stay Together by Noah Cyrus

Mustafa led me through the labyrinth of hallways until we reached outside. After a short walk we reached the sea of cars making the school parking lot, and a minute after that, he clicked the keys to make a small, bronze Volkswagen light up.

"Uh.." I began.

He raised an eyebrow. "You don't like my car? Brooo—"

"No! I just.. didn't think we were going to drive away from the school."

"Girl, the only way I skip school is getting food. Plus it ain't like I'm finna drive you to an alley and murder you. Fedor is cool with you and it's daylight."

I slowly nodded.

"You don't gotta if you don't wanna."

"Okay," I said after a pause. "Okay yeah, I'll do it."

He opened the passenger's side and gestured inside it. I thanked him as I got into it, throwing on my seatbelt while being careful not to burn my legs on the surely scorching leather seats. Because this is California, bitches; you either hold those legs up for dear life or the thighs get fried.

Mustafa drove us out of the parking lot and into the street. He gripped one of his large hands covered in black rings on the steering wheel, and with the other he made two taps on his phone before he twisted up the volume for music to  play.

Radiant sunlight cast on his prominent facial features as his head nodded up and down to a couple of admittedly good J. Cole songs one after the other.

Then it came on.

I gasped. "Oh my god, I love this song!"

"Damn, not the Noah Cyrus," Mustafa sighed like a parent to their disappointment child, but I was already singing:

I drank straight to my head
I went outside to smoke a cigarette
And I shattered my phone on the cement
But I don't give a fuck

"Lord Jesus," Mustafa managed to get out but I kept singing.

Now I'm not making sense
I'm laughing at a joke that I don't get
I'm acting like these strangers are my friends
But I don't give a fuck

Mustafa scoffed. "Damn, this girl just keeps singing."

"Sing it with me!" I exclaimed before continuing:

Yelling at the DJ, "Bro, your shit is boring!"
Doing things that I will not regret until the morning
I'ma make it rain down, another round is on me
I'm just hear for fun and I don't care about the money

I pointed at him and went, "Hey, Hey!" And belted out the:

Woah, oh, oh, oh!
Nothing lasts forever
But wouldn't it be nice to stay together for the night?
Woah, oh, oh, oh!
We can do whatever
As long as we're together then we're gonna be alright

Don't leave, just wait
You can tell your friends that you're staying out late, singing
Woah, oh, oh, oh!
Nothing lasts forever
But wouldn't it be nice to stay together for the night?

Mustafa rolled his eyes and then began mouthing the next lyrics as I kept on going.

Alright, alright, finish your G&T
The Uber's here, so now it's time to leave
Hey driver, could you pass the AUX to me?
Go ahead and turn it up
Head out of the window
You could call me shameless
Waving to my people now I'm acting like I'm famous
Tell him take the long way, we could see the sunrise
Damn, you look so pretty when the sunlight hits your blue eyes

Mustafa began mumbling the lyrics as I got louder.

Woah, oh, oh, oh!
Nothing lasts forever
But wouldn't it be nice to stay together for the night?
Woah, oh, oh, oh!
We can do whatever
As long as we're together then we're gonna be alright

Don't leave, just wait
You can tell your friends that you're staying out late, singing
Woah, oh, oh, oh!
Nothing lasts forever

But wouldn't it be nice to stay together for the night?

~~~

"Italian bread is poisonous," Mustafa stated. "On god."

"It's not poisonous!" I took another mouthful of my sandwich. "See, I'm not choking my guts out."

He scoffed.

Thirty minutes later, he and I ate our Subway in the car. We had paid for our own food in the store before parking in the driveway. Sunlight induced a sparkle on the crashing beach waves I witnessed through the windshield from time to time to cool myself down at the fact Mustafa thought my bread was going to make me choke and die.

"Why are you scoffing at me?" I gasped.

"Just because you ain't dead right now doesn't mean it'll kill you later. One of the shitload of herbs the guy put on that thing will—"

"It won't kill me!"

Mustafa sighed, putting down his finished sandwich. "Whatever, you do you. But if you drop dead in my damn car it ain't my fault."

I flashed a cocky smile at him as I took another bite of sandwich, craving the sight of his disdainful squint observing my lack of compliance.

"Mawziron!" Mustafa suddenly cursed when his hand brushed against a hot part of his leather seats.

Motherfucker!

I raised an eyebrow. "Did you just speak in tongues?"

"Nah, it's Arabic. It was my only language before moving to L.A." Once he was done rubbing his hand, he stretched out his inappropriately sculpted arms. Like seriously, did God throw away possible people to spend more time creating him?

"So you're..."

"Half Israeli and half Egyptian. I was born in Israel cause that's where my dad's from but my fam moved us to my mom's country, Egypt, when I was two on the Red Sea's border. Then here when I was eleven."

"Huh," I found myself saying. "Do you—"

"Before you ask, I don't read hieroglyphics, worship the hawk head motherfucker, or ride a magic carpet."

"No, do you remember what it was like?" I found myself blurting, having to feel my throat to realize I just asked someone a question about their own life.

Mustafa put his food back in the plastic bag. "My childhood was fun as hell. I swam in beaches and played football with my schoolmates literally every day. My nickname was poonboola— bomb— because we all offensively stereotyped each other, but we all knew it was in good fun. Life was good then."

"That sounds amazing," I answered truthfully.

"If I can ask, what's that rich place you used to live in called?"

An exhale escaped my nose, and I pressed my lips together then said, "Beverly Hills."

Mustafa raised his eyebrows. "You lived in Beverly Hills?"

"Yeah. My Dad was a CEO, I attended to a private Catholic school, and I lived in a four million dollar mansion filled with the best cocaine money could buy." I averted my gaze. "With a private jet landing pad."

"Damn," Mustafa gasped, gripping his steering wheel. "Like daaaamn."

"Before you ask, Andrew Tate isn't my godfather and I did not get ass implants with the Kardashians."

He snorted. "You a funny Beverly Hills girl, that's for sure."

There was a pause.

"Why'd you let me skip school with you?" I eventually asked.

Mustafa shrugged. "I guess this was the best way to show we're on good terms. If Fedor thinks you're cool, then I'll hate you a little less than I do everyone else. I'd kill anyone if he asked me to without question."

"That's quite a vow," I chuckled.

All he did was slowly nod.