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ONE HECTIC SHIFT—that was eventually Sydney-free—and double two-hour classes later, I made the trek back to my dorm building, on the actual brink of death.
My roommate was blowing up my phone with several variations of are you in yet, my sister had sent me about fifty DEETS! by now, at the top of my notifications was a reminder about my mom coming to Boston in two days, and one from study group about an overnight session in the library the next day. I was tempted to ask our redhead coordinator how much she thought caskets cost just to get a rise out of her.
There were a few basketball courts sprinkled across campus, and while they all were active, there was only one that was both close to a cafeteria and the student gym; a very busy thirst trap for the Stephen Curry wannabes and single Pringles—a term my sister picked up from one of the cousins on the Nigerian side of the family. Unfortunately though, that court happened to be on my way.
We had that comfortable warmth that punctuated a typical August evening in Boston, and spurred feverish interest in the outdoors, so there was a rowdy game on today. Tall college boys in baggy shorts running after a ball, and their so-called fans hanging around, half of which were only there to feed their eyes and tap into the unbridled joy that came with an adrenaline pump.
As I approached, I plugged in the cheap wireless earphones I bought off some online vendor a couple weeks ago, and tapped play on a random afterschool playlist. Instinctively, I smoothed a hand over my hair to tame any stray curls that might've come out of my bun during the rush of the day. I'd been too lazy—and broke—to make the trip to the hairdresser's for something decent, and the only student I knew that could handle my thick curls lived on the other side of campus. The survival of my hair could be owed to the criminally small yet expensive jar of shea butter I'd run out of soon.
Regardless of how loud my music was, the activity from the court and its environs still pierced through my earphones until it all became a mess of sound. I hated noise, and I was aware that this was how it was going to be until at least ten p.m. So I saved myself the anxiety-driven episode I knew I was going to have later if I kept this up.
Barely five seconds after I turned my music off, I regretted it.
In my peripheral vision, I noticed someone break through the crowd and come up to the barrier net in a jog, and I didn't need to look to know who it was. I'd recognize that six-foot frame anywhere.
"Yo, De!" Jason Rivera's voice cut through the noise, but I pretended like I didn't hear him. Unfortunately, that didn't stop him from talking. As per usual. "You seen my boy Syd at all today?"
I spared him a few seconds, once again hating the fact that despite all the mischievous stunts he pulled, he looked crazy good. His thick hair had been pulled into two braids that accentuated his unfairly defined jaw, and his dark skin glowed with a sheen of sweat. He was in a simple ensemble—tank top, baggy shorts, Nikes—a break from his usual cargo pants and sweatshirts and hoodies, but he remained easy on the eyes as always.
