Benevolence

Chapter 21: Wildin' Out

"Whooo's that girrrl?" Bryan sings chipping his way over to me at the side of his car. "La, la la, la, la, la, la..."

I laugh at his horrible impersonation of Eve, doing a small twirl to show off my outfit. "You like?" After that episode last night, I'm experiencing all of my emotions in reverse. I can't explain the wide smile plastered on my face, nor the adrenaline coursing through my veins, but I feel good. Really good.

Bryan stops a few feet away from me combing his fingers through his scruff. Those dark eyes of his sweep up from my airforce, to my oversized elastic-band sweats; lingering over the sliver of underboob peeking from my long sleeve crop top. He told me to come cute and comfortable, but judging by the look he's giving me, I've done that and more. "I don't know what got you to change your mind," he says prowling closer to me with that wolffish grin slipping onto his face. "But you look ravishing." He loops one arm around my neck, pulling me into his side. "Giving lil man a run for his money."

I laugh softly, winding an arm around his torso. "How you manage being a gentleman and an ass simultaneously, amazes me to this day."

"What can I say,"—he looks over my head in search of any cars— "I'm a multitalented Black man with one sexy ass best friend to keep him on his toes," he quips. Confident nothing is headed our way, he steers us to the house across the street.

We aren't matching intentionally, but I didn't complain when I spotted him in a loosely fitting black satin shirt with the sleeves rolled up and, of course, the buttons half undone. His signature sequence of chains glistens against his dark skin and his distressed black jeans, which are hung low on his narrow hips are paired nicely with a set of converse. The playa' is out tonight; he looks good, he smells good, and he knows it.

I lock fingers with his hand hanging from my shoulder, excited to see the large greek letters belonging to one of The Devine Nine organizations plastered on the roof of the house. All the smoke coming from its ears is making me more eager to get inside. And the place is loud, as in reeking of weed. Lots of it.

"Glad you could make it Brodie." The boy standing at the door greets Bryan before dapin' him up. "It's been a minute." His eyes flit over to me, giving me a longer than usual once over. "...Damn, this you outta class?" He whistles, swiping his thumb across his lips. "Lookin' like a snack, fo'real fo'real."

"Thanks," I say with a clipped smile. I'm not fond of the saying, and Bryan's soft chuckle says my stiff response is expected but comical. Before the boy and I can exchange any further words, his hand finds my lower back and ushers me ahead of him.

We're ambushed by smoke the moment the door opens, and to say the music is deafening, would be an understatement. It's hypnotic, and the bass, which rattles the walls threateningly and humps the floors, slithers it's way up my body, leaving no room for second-guessing. I'd be dancing all night, and I'd leave here with numb feet and a sedated mind.

The space is much smaller than Simon's rented out lodge, less extravagant, but we make up for it. I smile to myself pridefully. There are only two good handfuls of Black Folk that attend my Uni, one-quarter of them made up of people like me and Bryan, who refused to leave upstate, and the other seventy-five percent belonging to international and city kids who were looking to get away from home.

"You know the vibes, time to get sturdy!" Isaiah says in between cuts, his head bobbing hard to the gruff, road-worn voice of Brooklyn rapper Pop Smoke. The crowd goes crazy, singing the song word for word. There's minimal lighting, but the golden glow from outside lamposts reflects off the black and brown arms that occasionally flare in the air. This is our sacred space. The only place where shoving, as well as sharing sweat and limps, is tolerated. We would dance and laugh and hype each other up relentlessly here. But most of us are only due for a passing glance in the halls tomorrow.