The Void Between Hearts ~~ongoing~~

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   I thought I was miserable, and kept counselling myself against moving, or speaking to anyone, until a tiny 7-year-old-looking-girl with shiny milk chocolate skin and huge glasses stood up. 

   That girl was Chinny. She's not so tiny anymore but that day, her uniform was worse than mine: the blue pinafore was the length of her ankle, and her white shirt was the size of a flag, all of that plus her knee-high socks. She was epic and it would have been more difficult for us to become friends if it had happened that Chinny wore her uniform any other way. 

   She stomped past me with a frown worse than mine and it made me giggle so hard I forgot how miserable I was. When I finished laughing, I followed her to the cafeteria.

   'Hi, I'm Boma, your uniform is horrible.' I said 

   She simply replied, 'I'm Chinny, I hate my mom for that reason.'

   We became instant friends. She moved to sit beside me, and the rest of the day, we talked about the other students with fitted uniforms. 

   Of course, in a typical JSS1 class, there were "the" kids and "those" kids. 

   The kids—Overachievers, had siblings in senior classes—Bright-the-headies (the most brilliant boy in my class) and Chinny.

   The kids—Always talking, Pretty or handsome and spoilt—Quincy, Jacklyn, Tambari, Justina, Mabel and the rest of their clique.

   The kids—Front seaters—Albert and Ugo.

   Those kids—Dirty kids—James, Andrew and Jackson, we called them greenmen from day one.

   Those kids—Loners—Fatia and Jessica. 

   Those kids—Occupied middle to back row and didn't understand shit about high school.

   I was supposed to be part of that group because I had no clue what high school was about, but since Chinny was now my friend and her older brother, Obinna, was the Social Prefect, I moved up faster than a fox.

   "Boma are you up yet?" Mom knocks.

   "Bathroom!" 

   I look in the mirror. There's no puffiness today. I check again; it's not puffy at all. My eyes are also not as yellow as they were yesterday. 

   "Doesn't sound like it!" she yells.

   "Just getting in!"

   "Hurry. Should I make the nood–"

   "YES! Please," I say. I hear her laugh. She hates it when I cook noodles. I hate it too. Basically, I hate when I cook anything aside from plantains.

   "Have you called Chinny?"

   "Yes, she said you should tell her mom."

   "Alright let me do that now. Don't take too long." 

   In front of the mirror while I brush, I reminisce about everything that has gone wrong and right in two days. It's been one heck of a couple days.

   I open the shower curtain and step into the tub, pouring more than required shampoo on my hair and running my fingers through each curl until they're all super saturated, then I rinse off with warm water and proceed to sponging my body. I notice I'm more delicate and intentional. 

   What is going on with me?

   When I'm done, I wrap myself in my blue towel and step out of the bathroom. I consider going back in and leaving a bit of shampoo in my hair. It smells so good.