Devoid [Bruno Mars]

Chapter three

Chapter three

The rest of the final school weeks were the busiest of my life, it turned into more of a blur. Exams were near and study groups were consistent. Michelle, Brooklyn, R.J, Drew, and I would pile in the dorm picked for the day, form a circle and study our asses off. R.J would emulate a teacher, answering questions, assigning us practice problems. Michelle was right, the guy was smart, but I wasn't enticed. I don't know. I always believed if you really liked a person, there had to be a part of them, tiny or large, that drew you in and you just didn't know why.

Summer finally appeared. Everyone was packing away, heading for different directions. I hugged R.J goodbye. He was spending his summer in New York where his mother worked as a wedding planner. “I'll call you as soon as I get there, okay?” He had said, giving me a friendly peck on the cheek. Drew lived in a small town three hours away, but Brooklyn was the only one not to go home. She was staying on campus for a week until her boyfriend returns from Arizona. Until then, she was with us.

Michelle and Brook followed behind me to my apartment in Michelle's silver Range Rover—a birthday gift we named Tank. In thirty minutes, my Corolla was left in the parking lot and I was in the backseat of the Tank. Brook was in love with music, so was I but when I suggested songs they all booed my selections away, calling it mundane. Michelle even told me, “Fuck off Adrian and don't touch my radio. My grandma listens to younger music than this.” Brook plugged in her iPod and we sang along to anything from Kings of Leon to Beyoncè.

I was feeling happy, really. I hadn’t had this much fun in quite awhile. I wondered if it was the pleasure of leaving, but the thought disappeared before I could grasp on to it. As the song changed to Janelle Monae, I was louder than everybody else. “Brook,” I laughed. “please, for all man-kind, stick to anything other than singing.”

She was grinning, fixing her bun that was slightly distorted from the wind. “Oh, the lovely words of a hater. Michelle, though, those lungs on you. . .”

“All black and wrinkled probably.” Michelle plucked out a cigarette, lit it, never taking more than one hand off the wheel. She winked. 

“Brook's not lying,” I said. “You're voice isn't half bad.” Not exceptional, but not bad, compared to mine and Brook. Michelle shrugged, urging for the next song to play. “Okay! Okay!” Brook tapped the iPod's screen.

I leaned forward so abruptly. “Turn.”

“What?” Brook craned her head around to look at me, her eyebrows drawn together. “You don't like Bruno Mars?”

“I'm serious.” My voice had gone very low, a venomous whisper. “Just turn.”

Brook's eyes dragged to Michelle's, a look that said what's up with her? Michelle met my eyes in the rear view mirror. The corners of her mouth lifted. “I don't like him that much anyway. Do what the girl says.” Michelle doesn't know anything about my history with Bruno—I have told her nothing.

I rested my head against the window while Michelle and Brook talked about something I wasn't paying attention to. I just had to do that thing I always do. Once I'm feeling some sort of happiness I do something that crumbles it all down. I don't know why I do it. Pretending that I was a fan of Bruno's would have been a better route to take.

My thoughts turned to R.J., friendly and sweet and smart R.J. I felt like I could go out with him, and maybe I should. Get away from you know who.

Thinking this made me feel better.

As we merged off the highway, we passed a homeless guy whose shirt was white, designed with splattered red and, dirt, that wasn't part of the design. It read, ‘BLOOD IS BLOOD.’