Palindrome

Forty-Eight

Chapter 48

I'm in the middle of texting Nagi after finishing my two roleplay rounds for the day when I hear a familiar groan of agony. Glancing up, I see Blake and Bronwyn coming over to where I'm seated on the floor.

"We're not making it," Bronwyn announces loudly, sitting down beside me.

Blake rolls his eyes, setting their presentation material against the wall. Fiddling with his cuff links, he stares wearily at his partner. I want to ask how it went, but judging from the way Bronwyn is, anything could set her off right now.

"She's been saying that since we finished," Blake informs me.

"Because it's true," she whines, toying with her straightened hair.

Blake sighs loudly; he looks exhausted and in dire need of a break. The two of them practiced the entire evening until Ms. Edison reminded us of the eleven pm curfew set in place. They got me to critique each of their performances based on this rubric on their website. Simultaneously, I was also forced to study the entire evening under Bronwyn's watchful eye. At the same time, Paxton quizzed me on performance indicators after he was done with his state officer duties for the evening.

"Hey Blake, didn't you want to check out the spirit store?" I wonder out loud, hoping he would take the bait.

Blake's brows furrow in confusion, staring at me when I tilt my head towards Bronwyn, who's staring with vengeance at a spot on the floor. His mouth forms an O in understanding, and he nods.

"Oh right, I'm going to go do that," he says quickly. "B, do you want to come?"

"Do you think I do?" she asks moodily.

"Right, sorry I asked," he responds.

Turning to me, he quirks an eyebrow up in question as if to ask, Are you sure?  I nod back, gesturing for him to go. Before Blake or any of her other friends, I dealt with Bronwyn for eight years. It seriously couldn't be as bad as the braces tantrum she had circa sixth grade. Blake mouths a quick 'thank you' before practically sprinting in the other direction from the two of us.

Hugging my knees to my chest, I give a Bronwyn a side-eye. Her blond hair hangs around her face, concealing those stormy eyes of hers. Despite all the scowling, her makeup is perfect as ever, and she manages to look put together, even regal.

Weirdly enough, rooming with her hasn't been so bad. She forced me to eat instant oatmeal with her claiming that an iced coffee from Starbucks wasn't enough to sustain me. Yesterday she made sure Paxton, Blake, her, and I got a picture together for her Instagram story. Last I checked, I haven't been on any of her profiles since deca distracts freshman year. These past few hours, at least, there hasn't been that same cackling resentment from either of us. Almost like there was some sort of camaraderie there.

"You're staring," Bronwyn states, a slight accusatory edge to her voice.

"I'm trying to understand why someone would bring a straightener on a two-day trip," I deadpan.

At that, she snaps her head up to look at me. "A straightener is essential."

"Your hair's already nice," I say, pointing at it.

"That's easy for you to say. You woke up today with zero bed hair. How does that even work?" she demands, sitting up straight, her hands flying all over the place so that she nearly ends up knocking her presentation board.

"I don't know, oil it the Indian way," I suggest loudly, trying to match up with her booming voice.

People are giving us weird looks now. Then I realize the ridiculousness of this conversation, freezing in place, and Bronwyn does the same. Silence stretches out between the two of us before her red lips curl up into a smile. A single snicker comes out of her mouth. She lifts a hand to cover it but to no avail.