imperfectly blue [poly bl]

07 | popping candy n quizzes

The pop quiz nearly made me pop my own head off. Rodney, however, already took the quiz since he came to the night class. Between basically running Splittsvile Café and juggling day classes, he still managed to go to most night classes. Which to me only made sense after he told me it was so he could stay on top of studies since the night class is always one class ahead of ours.

I finished the quiz, did the First Person to Hand It In walk of shame and the dismissal of pleading eyes for the answer to number one, two, and the whole quiz. Plopping down next to Rodney with a dejected sigh, I buried my head in my arms on the desk. "I think I only passed because I have PTSD of my mom's meatloaf."

Cold air breezed by my ears as Rodney closed his book and used them to hit me on the head. "I really like your mom's meatloaf, actually. If I had your mom I would fail all the time."

"Drink your fancy coffee," I grumbled.

He wasn't wrong, if I could fail and go back to my mom and her world of hugs and love of horror movies, I wouldn't mind it. But the concept of a 23-year-old still living with their mothers never sounds appealing when said aloud.

"You still have glitter in your hair," He used his binder to harshly mess up my hair even more, "from the children's volunteering place?"

"Yes, but the glitter isn't from the children's place-" I stopped myself short before I could admit the truth. Our friendship was an odd one and only blossomed to best friends when we both realized we actually want to do well in school. "It was a creative night, to say the least."

"Hmm, well the glitter's a good change, disco ball." Rodney caught my drift and let it drift further upstream. He followed one of the unspoken rules of our friendship: 1. No-one cares about your love life unless there's a ring on it, so do not marry.

Once everyone finished, the lesson continued. Rodney reviewed his notes from last night, filling in missing notes and scribbling out any mistakes, not that there were many. I was nothing like Rodney's neatness today. I typed quicker than a madman escaping an asylum, one big mess of a rush.

My fingers kept slipping onto the wrong keys, numerous times I had accidentally nudged Rodney and made him spill his drink all over his sweater. Which then meant scrambling through his bag for napkins in my frenzied mess. In conclusion: Wren es muy loco.

Rodney let out a sigh of frustration when I slipped and nudged him, again. "What is up with you, dude? You're acting weird."

"I'm fine, I'm just a bit preoccupied," I murmured, gnawing at the end of my pen like an icky caveman.

"With?"

"Everything."

"Share." Rodney, a man of very few words. A man who didn't care about your emotions but still cared about you.