THE PROJECT
My best friend was crazy as hell.
I'm the only person who can say that. So, don't judge her. Roxy, but Roxanne for anyone other than me, was the wacko dorm roommate crazy people would call crazy. Let me explain.
You remember that bougie thing I mentioned? Well, Roxy's prissy ass is probably on someone's urban dictionary website flashing her three thousand dollar purse with fifteen cents in it. I'm sure she is the official representative of bougie.
Her family had plenty of money, they just wouldn't give her any of it because she bought three thousand dollar purses, instead of food. She was also the worst person to hang out with financially, but hell-a smart, thus the best person to help me with my project.
Professor Smith taught Understanding and Reporting Social Issues 101. The night before class, I submitted goals for my research and interviews. She usually quickly acknowledged receipt of submissions, that time she didn't. Maybe the problem was the project title: The Long-Term Effects of Domestic Abuse on African American Children.
"She's probably sucking the blood out of some poor child before she devours them," Roxy said as she leaned over my shoulder.
I looked up from my MacBook. This girl had on blinged out Louboutin red-bottoms with her purple flannel pajamas, a charcoal face mask and orange head scarf. She looked like a black faced Skittle. I swear, if my daddy hadn't just sent me that laptop, I would have chunked it at her head. And I knew it was dangerous to ask, but I had to know.
"What in the hell are you wearing?"
She had the audacity to point to her scarf.
"No, Roxy." I angled my eyes toward her expensive choice for slippers.
"Oh, I'm going to the vending machine. Gotta look my best." She laughed and kicked a six thousand dollar heel in the air.
Daddy was about to be pissed with me and Black Jack.
"I don't know where to place my thoughts about this, Roxy. On your appearance, your oversight of logic, or the fact that I saw a tuition notice on your desk. You didn't do what I think you did, did you?" I asked, hoping for a logical answer from a clearly insane woman.
"Mommy put the wrong address on the check, so it came here. I just saw J. Lo rock these, so I was like thank you sweet baby Jesus for the blessing, then ordered these babies, two pair."
Sorry, Daddy.
Before I could get on Clarence's shit list, my message notification pinged. My roommate was literally saved by that notification. Professor Smith acknowledged my submission, but wanted to speak with me after class. She never talked to her students after class, never. Between her and Rocking Red-Bottomed Roxy, I didn't know what to think. So, I didn't. Desperate to evacuate the Twilight Zone, I closed my laptop, pulled my hair into a ponytail, donned my satin bonnet and prayed for sleep to hit me like an Amtrak train.
***
I kept checking the time.
3:10 pm - Lecture ended in twenty minutes. I stared at Professor Smith, terrified of having to be polite like Lillian raised me and not turn up nose during our mysterious meeting.
3:11 pm - Dammit. I had way too much time to create irrational scenarios in my head. I was freaking myself out. So, I decided to people watch.
Roxy sat next to me, texting her mother a shit load of lies about what happened to the tuition money, half the class was asleep and a hundred percent of the class sat four rows back from the front of the lecture hall. The fan was on.
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General FictionThe ultimate celebrity, Avery puts her best face forward while driving herself into depression when her long, healthy hair seems to be fading away. Unfortunately, there are many factors that contribute to hair loss, and Avery seems to deal with th...
