Cedar Valley High students struggled to balance lattes in one hand and kombucha in the other. I was lucky and had one of those backpacks where the side pockets were deep enough to fit a small tree. My own mango-turmeric kombucha remained half-finished in one of said side pockets.
Clusters of teens gathered on the front lawn animatedly describing their summers. Someone filmed a Nalorn in the parking lot while her unbothered friend rolled a blunt. It was 7:30.
All of us wore variations of the uniform. I wore the lime green short sleeved shirt with the matching shorts. Wyatt wore the burnt orange shirt with the lime green shorts. I enjoyed uniforms. Less time spent on picking an outfit and more time sleeping.
We moved as far as the herd of students shoving each other into the double doors of the main entrance would go.
"Freshman," Wyatt pretended to barf. "This is not a mosh pit."
"Why are they so happy to be at school?" I replied.
Once we made it into the building, we took the stairs two at a time, eager to claim our lockers before the seniors snagged them. One could have an assigned locker but if someone else put their lock on it, one was screwed.
My locker was across from the boy's bathroom but close to the school's main staircase. Instead of relying on other staircases in the four corners of the school, the main one was in the center of the building and prevented major stairwell traffic.
I stuck a magnetic mirror on the door of both of our lockers.
Wyatt used his to adjust his beanie for the twelfth time, "I hate this. Make me feel better!"
I couldn't convince him not to wear a hat. He hated the short hair. He said it wasn't right for the shape of his face. In my case getting bantu knots led to everyone referring to them as mini buns. Thanks a ton, Kardashians.
"You're a white boy. Society sees you as perfect."
You sound like Zeriah.
"Okay Zeriah."
In an instant, his mouth was covered by my hand, "Don't ever fucking say—"
A patch of saliva coated my palm.
He licked you.
I rubbed my hand on the sleeve of his shirt over and over, "Why are you like this?"
"A little spit never hurt," he winked.
He sprayed Belus : Mango and Arugula on his wrists and shirt—in authentic high school boy fashion—in the middle of the hallway. Unsuspecting students were misted up in the process. Good for them, they were not wearing deodorant.
I could tell.
My uniform shirt was loose around the chest leaving an awkward pocket of air in its place. I pushed it down only for it to rise again.
I was insecure about how small my boobs were compared to other girls.
Especially other Black girls. We were supposed to be curvy. Big boobs, tiny waist, big booty. I couldn't cheat my genetics and magically grow bigger boobs.
Out of nowhere he said, "Don't get a boob job."
"WHAT!" I slammed my locker shut.
"It's like squeezing mangoes."
"How do you?"
"My dad," he shrugged. "His ex went under the knife."
"I'm not going under the knife."
"Good,"
I accepted the fact that they were small and I would stay a B cup for the rest of my life. Even with that radical acceptance, it didn't stop me from comparing mine to others.
Wyatt walked me to my first period class—AP Physics.
"Traitor," I whisper yelled, pointing to my schedule on the back of my ID.
We could've had three classes together instead of two. He chose AP Chemistry over AP Physics at the last minute without telling me.
"Who am I supposed to talk to?"
He put his hands on my shoulders. "Zayyyyyyyyde, what did we practice?"
I straightened my posture. "Have you seen Euphoria?"
"Less April, more Leslie."
I said it once more, this time with a smile.
Wyatt spoke in a reassuring tone, "You got this! See you at lunch."
He left me behind for dumb AP Chem.