❝Why do you have a tongue piercing?❞ I asked, observing the other piercings he had and the designs inked on his skin. I'd never seen so much work done on one person before. ❝What's the purpose?❞
A playful grin quirked on to his lips, cha...
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Sophia's P.O.V.
"You're blushing." I teased, poking Brooklyn's cheek.
"I don't blush," she grumbled, swatting my hand away and hissing at me. She hated it when I teased her about her obvious crush on Conner Blackwell.
Today, Conner and his friends circled around the tall oak tree in the quad, throwing around a football and occasionally laughing louder than a studio audience on a sitcom. They were known for making a lot of noise. The only thing you could do was tolerate it. No one was stupid enough to actually tell them to quiet down. You'd be writing your own death sentence if you crossed any of them.
Their group of friends were pretty exclusive and they've always been close for as long as I could remember. I had shared a class with Conner during my freshman year at Lincoln University. I knew him as a reserved guy, rarely raising his hand in class, but always having the right answer if he was ever picked.
Brooklyn feverishly trembled in her seat, combing her fingers through the curly hair she had inherited from her African mother. "Tell me if he's looking over here or not."
"He's not," I assured her after checking to see. At Lincoln University, the quad was hectic around noon on weekdays. Since it was a Tuesday, we didn't have any classes to attend and neither did Conner. It was the perfect opportunity to stalk monsieurs.
Ever since we started middle school, Brooklyn and I decided we would use the French word for mister in replacement for guy/boy/man. Putting this guy we were currently crushing over on a higher level, a pedestal even, made them more exciting to talk about. Almost as if we were adults in some sense.
Whenever people over heard our conversations and asked why we used monsieur, Brooklyn would always answer by saying: "Because we don't date boys, we date misters."
This was a complete lie.
Now looking back, the pea brain jerks who had elevated to "monsieur-hood" weren't all that special. When we used the word these days, it was more because we were holding on to a habit that had somehow become the identity of our friendship—it was a part of us.
But lately, I was never fully engaged during our monsieur stalking. I would give her my thoughts, saying who was a good match with her and who simply wasn't.
Conner Blackwell was walking on a thin line.
I didn't have enough dirt on him, but I had heard a lot about the sketchy people he hung around. At this very moment, I couldn't put any evidence behind these claims. If I did have some dirt on him, Brooklyn wouldn't listen to me. She was hung up on him.
I brought my backpack on to the table we were sitting in front of and started to unzip it, retrieving as stick of gum. "I don't know why you keep drooling over Conner as if he's all that and a bag of chips."
