“Bonita,” her mother answered, obviously waiting by the phone.
Juanita Jackson had certain ideas about New York City and worried about her daughter even though Bonita lived on campus. If she had actually seen the pristine grounds with its quads, and courtyards, and fountains, and well-lit pathways, and roaming security guards in golf carts, and emergency call buttons every 100 feet, she probably wouldn’t answer the phone with such a note of relief in her voice.
“You’re back in your room?” her mother asked, seeking confirmation.
“Yes, Mom,” Bonita assured her. A tiny white lie. But the Jackson family was no stranger to lies.
“How are you, Mom?”
“I’m good, mija.” Juanita Jackson was half black and half Mexican-American. The term “mija” had been handed down from her own mother, after whom Bonita was named.
Before asking the follow-up questions, Bonita unconsciously braced herself. It was almost instinctive these days, a habitual set of physical reflexes she was not even aware of: a stiffening of the shoulders; a perking up of the ears; the holding in of her breath; a laser like focus on nothing in particular to erase all distractions.
“And Daddy?”
“He’s fine as well.”
“And how is the church doing?”
“Oh, you know, same as usual.”
Bonita analyzed her mother’s simple responses; picked them apart with the skill of an FBI forensics specialist. By now, she knew exactly which clues to look for: the slight pause before answering; the subtle intonation on the last word; the immediate change of topic from anything church related.
None of these tell-tale signs were present.
All was fine back home.
“Your father gave a very nice sermon today on the Good Samaritan.”
Bonita perked up against the wall, her face getting warm. “Really?”
“Mmm-hmm,” her mother hummed into the phone.
Bonita thought back to Mr. Wright in the bookstore and the way his body felt against hers as he played the “Good Samaritan.” She remembered the way his shoulders looked in that t-shirt while he stood next to her at the register. Then there were those green eyes as they twinkled while he gave her that stupid grin.
“How was Reverend Hawthorne?”
“Huh?” she asked, breaking away from her memory.
“Reverend Hawthorne? You did go to Greater A.M.E Church didn’t you?” her mother asked, her voice getting sharp with reproach.
“Yes, Mom,” Bonita said quickly. “Reverend Hawthorne is alright. Obviously not as good as Daddy,” Bonita added with a smile.
“Well, you’re father is a fine preacher,” her mother said, laughing lightly as she relaxed on the other end. “So you have classes tomorrow. Are you nervous?”
“A little, but I think I’ll be fine.”
“Maybe you should rethink this double major. I know you love literature—”
“Mom,” Bonita sighed with annoyance. “We had an agreement. I’m still going to medical school, don’t worry.”
“Okay, okay,” her mother said on the other end, knowing when to push and when not to. Yes, Bonita loved literature, but literature didn’t exactly scream Future Job Opportunities. So she double-majored in Biology in order to fulfill the requirements for medical school.
Even though nothing about the field inspired the same ardor in her heart that literature did, medicine was financially secure. Bonita had learned the hard way to develop a healthy aversion to financial insolvency. Thus, she had signed up for a double major of Biology, to satisfy her needs, and Literature, to satisfy her soul.
“So have you made any friends yet?” her mother asked, changing the topic of discussion almost innocently.
Bonita smiled into the phone. “Classes haven’t even started, Mom. Can you at least give me a chance to get through my first week?”
“Okay, okay,” Juanita laughed. “Just remember, mija, be careful with the kinds of people you spend time with. I’m not trying to be a prude, but you were raised a certain way and—”
“Mom,” Bonita groaned, rolling her eyes. This was exactly the sort of treatment she had come to New York to escape. She was 20 years old not 12. She decided to put it another way for her mother’s benefit. “The whole reason I came up here is to experience something different from how I was raised. Don’t worry, you won’t find pictures of me swinging naked from chandeliers.”
She heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end and Bonita smiled wickedly, knowing her mother couldn’t see it.
Before Juanita could respond, the door to room 147 flew open. Bonita nearly jumped as she looked over at Bobby Parisi pulling the rest of his shirt down over his torso.
He gave Bonita an appraising grin that she was certain Stacey wouldn’t have found so amusing.
“Sorry about that,” he said, his eyes roaming down to her chest. “We got a bit carried away.”
“Who is that?” her mother asked sharply, a heavy mix of curiosity and disapproval coloring her voice. It was almost 10 o’clock after all.
“My roommate’s…friend.” No need to get into a discussion of modern sexual mores this late at night.
The term didn’t go over the head of anyone who had heard it. Bobby just chuckled and shook his head. Her mother simply hummed, knowing exactly what sort of “friend” came calling on girls this late at night.
“Okay, Mom,” Bonita finally said a bit too chirpily. “Classes start first thing in the morning so I should get to bed.”
She could almost see the wry twist of the lips on the other end. Juanita knew when she was getting the brush off. “Okay, mija. I love you. Good luck tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Bonita said, turning away from Bobby, who was irritatingly standing there just watching her. “I love you too. Tell Daddy I said hi and I love him too.”
When she hung up she turned around to find Bobby blocking the door to the room she shared with Stacey.
“Do you mind?” she said tiredly.
“You know, I’m probably going to be spending a lot of time here,” he said, not moving an inch. “We should get to know one another, be friendly and all.”
Bonita just sighed. He had a good 6 inches on her 5’5” height, and he knew full well he was using it.
“What’s going on out here?” Stacey said, a little too casually as she sidled up behind him to wrap her arms possessively around his waist from behind. Bonita noted the way he stiffened with guilt.
Stacey Dunleavy was the same height as Bonita, but that was where the similarities ended. Stacey was all limbs and angles to Bonita’s rounded curves. Bonita detected a slight obsession with dieting. Other than Bobby, all her roommate had talked about in the one week Bonita had known her was the evils of carbs and sugar.
Stacey’s blonde hair hung past her shoulders in hopeful wisps. Bonita’s was flat ironed into thick waves down to her mid back.
Ironically, the one thing they did have in common was a slight similarity in skin color. Stacey had obviously spent her summer baking to a crisp on a beach somewhere. Bonita’s naturally brown skin had actually become somewhat wan from an indoor summer job to earn a final bit of spending money to afford her at least some kind of life in New York City.
Stacey’s hazel eyes peeked around her much larger boyfriend’s body to give Bonita a calculating look.
“Well, I guess since you’re back, you might as well come in already instead of hanging out in the hallway.” It was an accusatory dismissal to Bobby and a warning challenge to Bonita.
She was too tired to deal with placating her roommate’s concerns. “I would if your boyfriend would get out of the way.”
She stressed the term “boyfriend,” making it quite clear to both of them that she had absolutely no interest in stealing him.
“Well, you heard her, you big lug,” Stacey said, smiling and bringing herself around. She pulled Bobby’s head down toward her and made a show of marking her territory in front of Bonita with
an extended kiss.
The only joy Bonita got out of it was witnessing the utter mortification on Bobby’s face.
3
Bonita picked a seat near the front of the class, as had been her modus operandi since high school.
French Literature, a guilty pleasure. Actually, all literature was her guilty pleasure. She unpacked her notebook and pen with anxious enthusiasm.
“Hey, Pretty,” she heard a familiar voice say.
Her eyes blinked up at him in surprise: Mr. Wright.
He gave her a teasing grin and winked with one of those spectacularly green eyes. Then he presumptuously took the seat right next to her. “Looks like we’re stuck with one another for the semester. My name’s River by the way; I think it’s only fair that you know mine since I know yours, Bonita Jackson.” He leaned in closer at the tail end of his statement.
It took her a moment to put River with the name Wright. Her eyes grew wide. “River? River Wright? Son of Richard Wright?”
He gave the same grimace he had when the cashier in the bookstore had called him by his last name.
It all made sense to her now. No wonder he was such a cad. His father was the billionaire who was currently on his fourth wife and had been involved in a sex scandal that had ruined his run at mayor of New York. Even people outside of the city had heard all about it. Bonita had been 15 at the time, but she had seen the sordid photos. Fifty Shades of Grey, a book she had also managed to read under her parents’ nose as a teenager, had nothing on River’s father.
Bonita took in the well-developed body and handsome face, which was almost brooding when he wasn’t sporting that annoying grin of his. She briefly wondered whether or not River liked to tie girls up and blindfold them while he—
She shook her head and frowned, closing her eyes to squeeze out that mental image.
“What are you doing here?” she asked instead. She wouldn’t have pegged the boy from the bookstore as a French Literature aficionado.
The classroom was small, as befitted a subset of a major that led to absolutely zero career opportunities. Now that she looked around again, she found the room was actually quite full.
“Je parle français,” he said with a wave of the hand.
“I speak French,” he explained. “The rest is just pretentious interpretation of Camus, Sartre, Dumas, yadda, yadda, yadda. I figure I’m halfway there already.”
Bonita stared at him, imagining a semester of hindered concentration as his mere presence next to her, not to mention any flirtatious advances he might throw her way, destroyed her GPA, or worse, her defenses.
No. It was time to make it clear in no uncertain terms: she wasn’t interested.
“No offense, but….” Without another word, she pushed her glasses up her nose, packed up her belongings and looked around the room for the seat furthest away from him.
For the first time, Bonita found herself heading toward the back of the classroom, completely foreign territory to her. She saw an empty seat next to a girl whose crowning glory was a lush mass of silky, auburn hair; that, and the long porcelain legs that stretched out before her, ending in a pair of brand new, green Converse shoes.
She was the kind of girl who became increasingly pretty to look at, the closer you got. Mischievous green eyes. Playfully amused smile. A pert nose, touched with a light spray of freckles. Right now it wriggled in a way that would make Samantha of Bewitched envious as she eyed Bonita up and down.
“Bravo,” said the girl, giving a slow golf clap of appreciation. “There are very few females in the world who can withstand the charms of our little shooting star. My hat’s off to you.”
She gave a plucky twirl of the hand, mimicking the removal of a top hat, as she gave a slight bow of the head, causing Bonita to instantly like her.
She stuck out a hand as Bonita slid into the desk next to her. “Marianne Potter, and you are?”’
“Bonita Jackson,” she said, shaking her hand.
They both turned their attention back to River Wright, who had followed Bonita with his eyes, a slight frown on his face.
“It seems as though you’ve bruised the poor boy’s ego,” Marianne noted.
“Frankly, his ego could use a little tenderizing,” Bonita responded. She watched as a pert little brunette plopped down to fill the seat she had just vacated, her body language all but flashing a neon sign in River’s direction: Take Me, I’m Yours!
“Besides, it doesn’t seem as though he’ll have any problem finding aspirin to soothe the pain,” she added.
Marianne laughed appreciatively. “The girl has wit. I like it,” she said, giving Bonita another once over. Then she followed Bonita’s eyes back to River, who had turned back to face the front again, ignoring the girl who’d found herself lucky enough to take Bonita’s spot.
“He does have this whole Aiden Turner thing happening doesn’t he?” Marianne observed.
“Who is tha—?”
She was interrupted by a boy squeezing past them to sit in their row. They both pulled in their legs and twisted in their seats to accommodate him. Bonita looked around the rapidly filling room.
“This class is much more crowded than I would have thought for French Literature,” Bonita observed.
“Unfortunately, you’ll find a lot of Gascony Academy graduates taking this class. French was quite mandatory. And Professor LeFlor is notorious for sucking up to us alumni. There is something to be said for being forced to read The Count of Monte Cristo in its original language.”
Bonita frowned. So it would be that kind of class. The kind where a good portion of the students half-assed it, ruining it for everyone else. The fact that River Wright—the same boy who couldn’t be bothered to buy his books until the eleventh hour, with his drunken girlfriend on his arm—was in the class told her that much.
“Oh, don’t look so down hearted,” Marianne teased. “You seem like the type who could have a little fun trying to ruin the curve for everyone else.”
Bonita laughed despite herself. It was nice to kick off her time at Pierre University in the company of someone who was actually amusing.
“Bonjour! Bonjour!” a man’s voice rang out at the front of the class, signaling everyone to perk up and pay attention. It was Professor LeFlor himself, a tall, lanky man with a very pronounced nose and to match the pronounced Adam’s apple. He had an amicable air about him that, despite his awkward appearance, made one warm to him.
Both girls gave each other one last look and then turned their attention to the official start of the fall semester.
“Oh no, you’re not getting away from me that quickly, my dear.”
Bonita was stunned as Marianne hooked an arm into hers when she made her way out of the classroom.
“I want to know what’s up with you and our little shooting star.”
“Why do you call him the shooting star?” Bonita asked curiously.
“His astronomical rise to the top of the Gascony alumni food chain,” Marianne laughed, waving a hand in the air. “If you’d seen him during the first part of high school, you wouldn’t recognize him.
“Now he’s the brightest star in our, rather large, yet somehow still quite cliquish, constellation. He must be if Tiffany Brookstone has her feisty little claws dug that deeply into him.”
Bonita caught enough of the metaphors to understand what Marianne was getting at: Ugly Duckling Syndrome. It made her extremely curious about what River was like during those years. It also painted a different, and slightly less unfavorable picture of the boy.
Marianne saw the look on Bonita’s face and gave her a devious little smile. “One day, when I’m feeling rather wicked, I’ll have to show you our yearbook. It’s full of all sorts of delicious skeletons in the closet.
They were approached by a 6-foot-infinity giant of a man that instinctively made Bonita think of Moose from the Archie comics. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, and built like a tank, he towered over the two girls in his snug t-shirt and jeans, with an op
enly pleasant expression on his face that made him seem almost goofy.
“Hey Marianne,” he said as he came closer. Every part of his being was solely focused on the redhead standing next to Bonita.
“Hello, Brad,” Marianne said blithely, though Bonita homed in on the girlish tuck of an auburn lock behind the ear, the edges of which deepened into a shade to match the color of that hair.
“So are you going to be at the GA party Friday night?” he asked.
“Well, I am an alumn,” she responded. “So I suppose it’s my cross to bear.”
He gave her a confused look, not sure if the answer was a yes or no. She finally smiled and clarified for him. “Yes, Brad, I will be there.”
His face brightened so broadly that Bonita actually found herself smiling in an almost maternal way.
“Great! Then I guess I’ll see you there.”
Marianne watched him jog away just long enough for Bonita to confirm that the girl was also quite smitten. Then she quickly turned her attention back to her new friend.
“Sorry you had to witness that bit of nepotism,” Marianne said in her glib manner. “GA stands for Gascony alumni, by the way. I suppose now I have to invite you to the party.”
Bonita laughed. “I just met you. You don’t have to invite me to anything. Besides, it sounds like it’s a bit above my pay grade.”
“All the more reason for you to come!” Marianne exclaimed. “Too much inbreeding is never a good thing. Fresh blood every so often keeps the lineage healthy and robust. And, no offense, but you are about as fresh as blood can get.”
From anyone else, Bonita would have bristled at the implications on….race? Class? From Marianne, it sounded overtly complimentary for some reason.
“I just started here and I really need to focus on my studies,” Bonita said, though she was flattered at the invitation.
“Oh no, no, no,” Marianne responded. “That just won’t do. Do you have any idea how many people would love this opportunity to get an up close look at the seedy underbelly of Pierre? This entire university is pretty much supported by the families of at least half the people who will be in attendance. Trust me, a Gascony alumni party is nothing to pass up.”
So Wrong Page 2