Benevolence

Chapter 16: Reel it in

"How are those journal entries coming along?" Says Professor Laykin.

They're not going anywhere. Like— at all. The crumpled papers laying beneath my bed and at the bottom of my bag can attest to that. I've hit a major dry patch in my writing, and I know it's lack of substance has everything to do with what's been going on in my love life.

These past few days have dragged on like tumbleweed. Drew hasn't gotten back to me, sending all my calls to voicemail and leaving all my messages on delivered. And I'm ashamed, to say the least. I pushed him to that point.

"Ok..." Professor says, nodding off. "You don't have to respond." Her heels tick like clockwork against the polished floors, startling the silence. "I'll just start calling out names."

The whole class groans, including me. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm always down to be the only participant, but today isn't the day. Professor glances up at me in the fourth row expectantly, but I look away. Every student paying thousands of dollars to sit in this stiff ass chair had to learn how to carry their weight.

"A class packed with adults and everyone wants to go play hide and seek. Fine," she says to herself, and we all brace ourselves. "Brandon,"--I release the breath I'd been holding--"share with the class your progress on the assignment."

"Oh come onnnn," he slurs in a heavy Bronx accent.

Poor thing.

"Go ahead. Stand up, we want to hear from you."

"You know you my favorite professor; why you gotta put me on the spot like that?"

She folds her arms across her chest. "Let's hear it, Brandon."

"Shit," he says, pulling up his pants from below his behind for better standing. "You cold for this teach. Fo'real." She looks at him with indifference and he shakes his head, fisting his hands together nervously.

"Take one for the team bro," says one of his friends.

"Mann, go on with that shit."

Intellect wears many faces. It doesn't always wear khaki pants, polo shirts, and oxfords like the kids I'd grown up seeing, but it also sports comfy oversized hoodies and baggy sweatpants. It sometimes sticks up for 24/7 political correctness and it sometimes sticks its head out of cars yelling fuck the world, and fuck societal norms. It's deviant, but with purpose; highly aware but unafraid.

Brandon and his friends are the latter, and I admire them for that. They remind me of an old friend who prefers not to live life by the books.

"Aight, so boom," he resumes. There's a childlike quirk in his lips, and his gestures are wild as he carries on with what I believe is the most culturally expressive narrative I've heard since school started. "I was walkin' downtown with some of my bros, past that coffee spot everybody be at..."

I'm assuming, Jims.

"And it had this cute Lil shawty—

--Where's your journal, Brandon?" Professor Laykin questions and all eyes flutter back to the man in question.

"Um— I'ont need it." He shrugs, smirking. "I remember what I wrote."

I hold my head in my hands. Please, let this end well.

"So, like I was sayin'. It had this cute lil shawty, you know slim waist, thick thighs, cute lil smile. And I ain't tell her, cause you know— a nigga get shy sometimes."

I burst out laughing along with my classmates, and his face lights up, knowing that he was able to get some sort of emotion out of us.

"Yeah. Shit. Shawty was bad. Anyway. My bros started hollerin' at her and shit, and you know, I got hella respect for my ladies so I was like, Nah they gotta chill..." he glances around the room. "I know y'all don't like that cat callin' shit."