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Sore Thumb
THE HURRIED rush of people around me going in various directions for their separate reason(s) fascinates my thoughts.
We are all here in this specific spot at this exact millisecond engaging in our own differences.
The glossed sidewalks were overwhelmingly beside lofty Victorian-styled structures with every other person walking in and out of them.
All you could hear were the noisy engines of the red transport buses passing along with the contriving movement of humans striding and chatting along the sidewalk.
Zoya could tell that I was beguiled by the city of dreams and silently led the way to the café.
We enter a place called The Ivy. The outline of the entrance door stood coated with a variety of bright, multicolored flowers, and you acquire the aroma of sweet honey walking into the restaurant.
There were plants in golden hanging planters on the ceilings with white and yellow orchids in vases displayed in different areas of the lobby, expressing an earthly welcome with nature.
Zoya checked in with the hostess about our party, and the person beside them guided us toward the terrace to a white-clothed table surrounded by two other people.
You got this, Aaliyah, for her and for one.
A boy with slightly tan skin and wavy blonde curls that stopped above his ears got up from his orange cushioned seat and jogged over to Zoya, then wrapped her in a yearning hug to which she reciprocated.
"Quiubo?" he asks with his eyes softly shut with a Spanish accent that I can't quite place.
"Nothing much, just the same family drama," Zoya replies while lightly squeezing the tall figure.
There was a girl seated by the unnamed boy, that I had never seen before, or at least in the photo, Valerie had in her phone case.
But, she was ethereally breathing-taking.
The girl had lovely black soft locs flowing down her back, wearing a lime green blouse that compliments her dark skin, with the first two buttons unscrewed, the lower center tucked in her light wash knee-rip jeans, and the shine of her matching green heels as she rises and walks over when the other two pulls away from their fleeting embrace.
I reach out my hand to greet myself, but she looks at my hand and back up at me with annoyance.
Ouch.
I think you could sense the uneasiness in my face because Zoya throws her a don't glare, and the girl shrugged and pulled her in for a longing hug.
The blonde-haired guy comes up to me and gives me a warming smile. "Don't mind Olivia; she's not exactly used to new people. I'm Asher, but people call me Ash. I don't think I've seen you around."
"I'm new to Argon Prep; I arrived here last night. I just go by Aaliyah." I retort, remembering him also in the photo and how Val would call him the carefree person in the group as he was the one that took her to get a nose piercing last spring.
Asher and I both sat down horizontally around the table, then the others sat down opposite of us, and the waiter comes along to ask for drinks.
"We're all going to have a Mimosa," Olivia answers, then looks over at me, "What do you want?"
Her eyes wash over me as if my tethered air in hers remind her that I am currently in their space, like a sore thumb amongst the ones that belong.
However, I'll never let her see me sweat again. My head turns to the waitress with a big smile, "Tea with lemon, please."
As the waitress leaves the table, Zoya asks, "Why isn't there a seat for him? Isn't he coming?"
"I tried guys, he said he had other matters to attend to," Asher groans, lifting his hands in defeat.
"I expected that you know since-" Zoya was going to finish her sentence until Olivia spoke over her,
"I'm sorry, but why is she here?"
Asher whispers, "Olivia quit it."
"No, Ash, it hasn't even been a year yet. I love you, Zo, but now isn't the time to fill in a spot that not even God himself could replace."
Zoya's eyes flicker down, "Out of all people, I know that, but Aaliyah is not replacing anyone. She is my roommate, and I wanted to offer a warm welcome. She would have wanted this."
Olivia darkly cackles, "Yeah? Well, it's not like she can oppose now." Abruptly getting up, Olivia snatches her purse from the table and walks away.
Zoya calls out for her and gets up with her things, looking at me, "I'm sorry. I have to go mend things with her right now. Ash, can you take her back?"
He nods, and I tell her that it is fine and I'll see her back at the dorm, then she quickly rushes after her.
Oddly, I admired the way Olivia reacted toward me because her pain was loud while mine is silent. The crippling agony in her eyes and the quiet voice crack at the unfathomable image of replacing Val was something I too understood, but can't feel. I wish my broken soul could send signals to my body and let me burst into all the emotions of grief, but it won't let me. Is it bad that I envy her for it?
Awkwardly getting up, Asher leaves a hundred pounds on the table and gestures his head discreetly toward the door like we are in a top-secret mission that just got compromised.
"Run," he mouths.
My eyebrows furrow in confusion but quickly disband as he runs to the exit of the terrace door. Out of reflex, I move back from my chair and grab my purse all in one go and run after him. The adrenaline rushed into my veins as people sitting were watching us both act like little children fooling around in a formal setting. Almost to the door, our waitress reached into my peripheral view holding a black tray with our drinks in her left hand.
Fuck.
Her eyes grew fearful seeing me come her way that she instinctively swayed her tray to the side while I dunked underneath and poured it all on an elderly couple's table. "I'm so sorry," I yelled back.
We made it outside, and the bright sun encircled us back into its orbit. "What the actual fuck, Asher?" I spoke exasperated, placing my hands on my bended knees to calm my heart from violently racing.
"Ash," his voice says lowly,
I look up at him, "What?"
"You sound like my máma before she scolds me when you say my name. Ash, yes?" He says humorously and starts walking the way we came in.
Following him, I ask, "If you don't mind me asking, where are you from?"
"I do," he blankly states, and my face flush in embarrassment til he looks over and chuckles,
"I'm only joking, newbie. I am from Colombia, which has one of the best music festivals in the world." He says matter-of-factly, "You carry a heavy western accent, but in some words, you sound like an Americana."
"I'm from Jamaica, which also has one of the best music festivals, but moved to America a couple of years ago because of my dad's job."
He stopped in his tracks, "No way. Where in Jamaica?"
"Montego Bay," I answer with no hesitation.
"That is a coincidence. I went there at the beginning of summer break for a friend," He weakly smiles at the end of his sentence,
Did he go there for Val?
"The culture there is something you can't quite describe; a nostalgic reckoning that you never knew you needed. I know you miss it dearly." He continues walking as do I,
"Every day. It reminds me of the feeling of doom as your gut clenches as you get ready to leave because you know you will never feel that anywhere else."
His eyes glint with understanding at my words, "I think you and me are going to be great friends, Aaliyah."
"Me too," I grin, mentally starting my list:
POA (Plan of Action) #1: Gain Asher's trust
☽ ◯ ☾
I asked Asher to show me the nearest convenience store and he agreed and said that it was only a block away from the school.
During our walk, Asher was telling me all the wild stories of his childhood in Colombia, one of them being how he ran butt-naked down the street in the shattering cold of winter. He spoke of all the secret make-out spots around the school and the continued myth of a secret club that he regarded as bogus, but I found it interesting to keep at the back of my mind.
We reached a tiny chic market called Anne's Little Shop, where the double doors were painted bright red as the windows on each side were shaped like hearts. I wondered how the owner decorated the store for Valentine's Day.
"Voila," Asher sways his hands to the door. "They have everything you need from groceries to personal hygiene items-" His pocket buzzes with a notification sound from his phone. He takes it out to check and his hazel eyes slightly widen,
"I- I have to handle something right quick, but I'll meet you back here in thirty," He walks away as soon as I said okay with his hands tucked in his pants.
Weird.
The bell above the door chimes as I walk in letting the owner know a customer is coming in. To my left, a black woman with red shoulder-length locs welcomed me by the register, briefly telling me all their deals from each aisle.
Thanking her, I grabbed a basket and went straight to the hair section: selecting two silk black bonnets and a few hair styling products. I spent the next twenty minutes grabbing a few school supplies since classes start tomorrow morning.
Then I realized, I needed food and chocolates, but not just any chocolate.
I needed Scottish chocolate.
On every trip back from Scotland, Pàpa would bring us these milk chocolate boxes called Tea Cakes, and it was a chocolate-covered marshmallow with a biscuit in the middle that oozes in your mouth as you bite into the sugary snack. It was my comfort snack that reminded me of Jamaica, a home within a home.
Going into the candy aisle, my eyes are in laser vision looking for the chocolates until I beep it on a shelf, but it is on the top rack.
I am five-foot-six but the rack is a few inches taller. Putting my left foot on the bottom shelf, I stretched my right hand to the yellow box. My fingers almost grasp the chocolates until a taller figure from behind snatches them away.
What the fuck.
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