In Time (Bwwm/ Interracial)

Class

“Wake up,” Shay yelled, as she pulled the fluffy blanket I was wrapped up in off me. The blanket fell to the ground in a heap leaving me cold and irritated. “What?” I asked as I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. “You have been here for three days. It’s Thursday. You have class.”

What?

It couldn’t have been three days already. It felt like it had only been one day. The days must have all mixed together in my mind. I looked over at the clock by the couch, 9:30 p.m. January 20th.

Fuck!

Not only do I have class, but I’m about to be late. I hurriedly put on my shoes. My outfit of sweat pants and an Iron Man shirt was what I would have probably worn if I hadn’t of woken up late. I grabbed my phone and keys and ran out the door. Ok I’m not going to lie I slowly jogged out the door. I don’t like running.

I got in my car and sped off it was already 9:35 (you see how slowly I move?). My class started at 10, and campus was 20 minutes away. Mr. Thomas hated two things; lateness, and answering for those who can answer for themselves. Those two things where cardinal sins in his Holy Bible. If you broke those two rules then you should be happy if he just banishes you to hell. Once this nice girl named Sydney Board tried to help her roommate. I remember the incident like it was yesterday. Mr. Thomas asked Sydney’s roommate Gloria Lopez what OJ Simpsons wife name was. Now Gloria was obviously hung over; her eyes where blood shot, her hair had chunks of the food she had been throwing up still in it, she had sunglasses on in the middle of winter, and was chugging Gatorade and coffee at the same time. After Gloria’s sixth ohm, sweet, innocent, Nebraska, farm owning, middle class, Christian, Jesus is my boyfriend Sydney blurted out Nicole. Mr. Thomas’s eyes flashed red. Not only did he make the whole class write a 5 page essay on the pacification of the American youth, but he also went into an hour long speech out how you defend the weak and defenseless not the strong and defended. Which was kind of ironic, because that was basically what Sydney was doing. She was standing up for Gloria in her time of need, but what do I know? Mr. Thomas is cool as long as you shut up and show up.

I got to class with three minutes to spare. I felt like I was forgetting something really important. I scanned the room looking for Peter. I found him in the very back of the class where he usually is under the cover of the dim lighting.

Peter sat in the back so he wouldn’t get picked to answer questions. It’s not that he didn’t know the answer he was just so quiet and shy that having to publically speak would have stopped his little heart. He was majoring in forensics where he could just sit in a lab with tubes of blood and chemicals. That was like a wet dream for Peter. Once I ate his Halloween candy and told him his little brother Bert ate it. He dusted the room for prints and finger printed 12 year old me and 3 year old Bart. Then when the finger prints matched me he told my mom, and she made me give him piggy back rides whenever he wanted and I had to give him all my Halloween candy the next year. It sucked. We are only two months and five days apart, so we have always been close. He’s is my brother.

“What ya drawing?” I asked as I sat down beside him. Did I mention that Peter is a hell of an artist he got a scholarship to an art school, but turned it down. He said that he’d rather go to college with me than across the country with strangers. “It’s a dragon I’ve been sketching. When I work out the kinks I’m going to put it on canvas.” He said with what some people might misconstrue as a flat even voice, but was his form of enthusiasm. I smiled at him, “Can I have it when you are done? It would look great by that picture of us from High School graduation we painted.” We was not really the right word I painted the background while he worked on me Mike, and himself. My minimum artistic ability would have been fine if Peter wasn’t so good at art, it is because of that fact that the back ground looks like a 5th grader high on sharpies painted it, and Peters work looks like Jesus kissed it himself.

“Sure.” He shyly smiled.

“Ok class,” Mr. Thomas said clapping the class into attention. “Now could someone tell me what the murder weapon was that killed Martha Moxely?”

Before he could pick someone the door to the room swung open. What idiot decided to stroll in late today? This poor bastard should have just stayed home. I thought as I slowly looked up from my note boot to see that Mike was standing in the door way looking like a deer in headlights.

Mike looked like a homeless man. His usually clean shaved face had a weeks’ worth of five o’clock shadow on it. His shirt had a stain on it bigger than my fist (I had man hands). His eyes looked heavy and red his hair was a mess, like not the cute mess it usually is. I mean like he hadn’t seen a brush or shampoo in forever. As I looked at him my heart broke, and he was already down and Mr. Thomas was about to bury him.

“Thanks for volunteering for my question Mr. Preston. What was the murder weapon in the case of Martha Moxley?” He asked casually with the same flash of harw in his eyes that I saw when he macerated Sydney. I was telepathically screaming golf club. No one in the class said anything they knew if they were to throw a life jacket the whole boat would begin to sink. If Mike was the deer than Mr. Thomas was the car that was about to impale him on his hood. “A gun,” Mike said with no confidence.

“A gun what?”

“A gun killed Martha Moxley.” Mike said agitated and more than a little embarrassed.

Mr. Thomas rolled his grey eyes,” Don’t be late if you didn’t do the research then don’t be late. Now sit.” Mike sat 3 rows in front of me. “Does anybody have the right answer?” some girl sitting in the first row answered the question full of enthusiasm.

Peter gave me a look that read what the hell happened to Mike I shrugged my shoulders.

The next hour or so wasn’t as interesting. I sat there in my seat watching Peter draw and Mike sat there looking like a deflated basketball. I knew that his whole appearance had something to do with me. Everything now a days was basically my fault.

It wasn’t my fault Mike is in love with me. How was I supposed to react to that? Was I supposed to fall in love right there? Was I supposed to fall right in bed with him like some type of porn? Where we supposed to get married and I wake up three years from now in the suburbs with a kid and a minivan?

I’m a logical person and I don’t want to risk our friendship for something he thinks he feels for me. Why couldn’t we just go back to being friends? My life is more complicated than I ever wanted it to be.

“Eva.” A voice said dragging me out of the dungeon of my thoughts. “Huh?” I replied looking up. Well if it isn’t the devil himself. Mike loomed over me as I still sat in my seat.

“Hi Mike,” Peter said.

“Hay Peter. Nice dragon dude.” Mike said halfheartedly. He never broke eye contact with me and Peter never looked up from his drawing.

“What up?” I asked.

“I think we need to talk.”

“I agree. I need to pick some clothes up anyway so I’ll stop by tonight.” Mike face flashed with concern.

“Why don’t you come home?”

“That’s not my home anymore. There’s a stranger living there.” That sounded meaner than I meant it to be. Mikes face somehow got sadder and it made me feel like the biggest dick ever. “Anyway I’ll be there at 7.”I said getting up and pushing passed him. I didn’t want to be in the room for a second longer. I felt sick.