Romantically Entangled

Chapter 4

TT manages to make the best of every situation. No matter what, she always comes out on top.

It's something I admire about her.

But sometimes she likes to jab at me, like she's jealous of me.

Ok bitch stop ignoring me. I'm sorry about the family remark. Jeezus you are so fucking sensitive

My phone dings again: HELLO????

TT drives me crazy sometimes. But there's nobody I'd rather hang out with.

And I think she feels the same about me. I already miss her.

I could have gone with her to OU. She begged me to.

We could have gone through freshman year together. But I wanted Ikana.

I send her a whole row of eye roll emojis.

Then I put the phone down and blink away a couple of tears.

It's ridiculous, to feel like crying right now.

I'm finally here, at my dream school. I'm finally ready, after all the turmoil of the last couple of years, to make a fresh start.

So why do I feel so mopey?

I guess because I'm beginning to wonder if I can actually pull it off.

After I fought so hard to get to here, what if I fail? What if I disappoint my dad?

Worse, what if I prove my grandmother right?

I miss my mom so much. If she were alive, I'd be calling her right now. And like always, she'd make me feel better.

I stare up at the full moon and the stars and remember how she told me, while she could still speak, that she'd be looking down on me from above.

I'd like to believe that's true.

A few more stinging tears run down my face.

And then, right on cue, like she knows I need it, TT texts one of her standard lines, in all caps of course: CALM YOUR TITS.

Impossible not to break into a smile.

After a moment, another text comes in: even from a hundred miles away i can feel you getting all tense. U are SO predictable, NicNac. But I love u to pieces.

I wipe my eyes.

"Thanks, TT," I mutter out loud, sending her a kissy face text.

Then I grab my journal, pulling out the Mont Blanc pen I keep inside it.

The journal and pen were a gift from my mom for my 14th birthday. I haven't missed writing in the journal even a single day since then.

Maybe it's childish. But it's become a comforting routine for me.

I doodle in the margins for a few minutes, pondering how to start describing the day that began with an early-morning drive through the rolling hills of eastern Oklahoma.

A day that included meeting Bey and Kelly.

And Megan, who barely acknowledged me as we passed on the stairs this afternoon.

Drenched in some perfume I didn't recognize, she was wearing a short, swishy dress with glittery sandals. She paused to look me up and down.

"You're the new girl?" she asked, frowning.

Then, before I could even respond, she shook her head like I'd done something wrong and kept going up the stairs.

Not exactly friendly.

I don't want to waste time right now thinking about Megan, though.

I'm still doodling, but I'm not really seeing the ink on the page.

Instead, I'm seeing the beautiful front and scarred back of Beyonce Knowles. I keep replaying my meeting with her and wondering about her.

Where is she from? Has she been in the military?

How did she end up at Ikana College and in this house? How did she get those scars?

There's something about Bey, something that gets to me. It's not just that she's sexy. Or that she obviously has a story to tell.

There's something between us. I can feel it. Even if I don't want to.

I try to steer my thoughts back to what matters: doing well in all my classes and getting a reporter job at The Daily, Ikana's award-winning student newspaper.

All the beginning reporter slots on the paper are already filled, as I was told last week in an email from the paper's editor-in-chief.

He was responding to my multiple phone messages. I'd figured if I bugged him enough, he'd see how badly I wanted the job. How motivated I'd be to do well at it.

Try again sophomore year, the email said. But that's not part of my plan.

I take a deep breath, looking out into the night, noticing how loud the cicadas are.

"Dammit, Onika," I growl at myself, "Focus."

I shake my head to try to clear it. Then I begin to write.

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