Grey

by Aundrea Ascencio

  Despite Mia's abrupt denial of the whole thing, Chantel had enough evidence to suggest otherwise. She began to see Eric like an apparition wherever she went on campus. She could not go on happily reading at her favorite spot by the fountain without Eric lurking somewhere nearby. Often times, he stood right across from her, leaning against a tree and having a cigarette. Day after day after day.

  It made her stomach turn, but she refused to give him any sign that his presence unnerved her. That's what he wants, she told herself. He was just trying to intimidate her, and ignoring him would be her best strategy. She went on reading and sipping her coffee, giving him no reaction that would boost his ego. Perhaps he just liked smoking by the same fountain that she liked to read at. That was also a possibility, she told herself. It was the only one on campus, after all, and of course she wouldn't be the only person who enjoyed it.

  Still, she could not explain away the fact that Eric emerged into the fountain area at about the same time she did, and left only after she did. To put it to the test, she switched it up on him. She showed up in the morning rather than the afternoon, and left at unpredictable times, sometimes after 15 minutes, sometimes after an hour. It threw him off for a little while, but gradually he fell into sync with her morning hours too, which confirmed all her fears.

  Since day one, she'd had a bad feeling about the guy. There was always something off about him, but stalking took it to a whole new level. He was unpredictable, and his intentions were even harder to guess. She could only assume that it had something to do with that Physics class and his broken pride. Whatever the reason, his objective could only be to harm her. She was absolutely sure of that. She had to tell someone. Someone had to know he was dangerous. Despite how Mia romanticized about it, there is never anything cute about a stalker.

  However, she could not just barge into the police station on mere premonition. She needed solid, sequential proof. She needed to start recording times and details about every incident. She needed to gather witnesses who had heard all the harassment and racial slurs Eric had directed at her in the past. She needed a camera to hide in her bag to record him following her between classes. Those recordings too needed to be time stamped. She needed to do anything she had to in order for people to see how threatened and violated she felt by this stranger. No one but her could advocate for her safety. She needed him to be expelled from that campus once and for all. And she was determined to start immediately.

  Snapping her book shut, she surrendered her favorite spot at the fountain and started for the parking lot. From the corner of her eye, she saw Eric toss his half-finished cigarette into the dirt and slowly follow her. Waves of hot flashes rushed through her body and stress elevated her heart rate. She could hear his heavy footfall echoing behind her, and panic began rising inside of her. It took a measurable amount of self-control to not take off running, or to scream for help. Where would she go anyway? If he knew she was on to him, what would stop him from finishing her off before she could call the cops? She needed to be cool. She needed to be smart. She needed a plan.

  But why not just confront him? Why allow the torment to go on when she could just ask him to stop? It made more sense to do that than to go on living in fear. She would not retreat, despite how much he scared her. She would take initiative and demand an explanation for it all. It could be risky confronting a stalker like that, but maybe the confrontation would show him that she wasn't vulnerable. That she could fight for herself. If she was firm with him once and for all, maybe it would intimidate him into backing off of her.

  Abruptly, she turned around away from the parking lot, and holding her head high, marched back to reclaim her spot at the fountain. Her heart skipped anxiously, but she took in deep breaths and coached herself into keeping it together. She would not run from anyone, especially him. She would stand her ground.

  Though it made her skin crawl, she forced herself to look at him as she approached the fountain again. Through the cascading chutes, she watched him walk steadily along the opposite side of the fountain. Slowly they walked, until they were directly across from each other on either side with only the transparent barrier of water acting as mediator between them. His eyes found hers between the water chutes, and chills ran all over her.

  The way he looked at her... It wasn't a look of hostility, but then again, it wasn't friendly either. His expression was unreadable. He looked human, but at the same time, there was something completely unhuman and dangerous about him. It didn't help that he looked exceptionally freakish either, in a white shirt, dark jeans, and heavy black combat style boots.

  Even then, with a huge fountain between them, Chantel felt the heat of his dark gaze, and was squished into the concrete under the weight of those stony eyes. Again, she was small and insignificant, as meaningless as he had made her feel a year ago when he stood over her desk.

  Then it ended. He lost interest, and turned his attention to something other than her.

  Chantel slowed her pace, knowing that at some point the fountain would curve again and their contrasting paths would meet in the circle. She dreaded the idea of it and realized too late that confronting Eric was a bad idea. She debated whether to step aside and let him pass, or to turn around and go back toward the parking lot. She had no time for hesitation, however, and before she could consider all her options, Eric was right in front of her.

  Ultimately, she did nothing, immobilized by the conflicted thoughts wreaking havoc on her consciousness. She paused in step and did not move until he had passed her by.

  She thought she saw a subtle smile play on his lips, but there was hardly time to consider that before her senses were hijacked by the luring mystery of his cologne. The fact that he was even wearing any was a riddling contradiction in itself. It was even harder to admit that she liked the smell of it. There was an unexpected sophistication about it, and she wondered how he was able to afford that much complexity in a bottle of cologne. Of course, it gave off a darker intrigue than most colognes, but it suggested a certain refinement about the man who wore it. Chantel couldn't help but cast a second glance in his direction.

  He was definitely smiling then. Coolly and in triumph. He had got her to look twice. For one tenth of a second, he had captured her attention. He had stopped her world, and that was enough of a victory for him.

  Her blood churned in agitation of her own weakness. What was she doing? How could she be so shallow? She was smarter than his psychological games and his high end cologne. She was better than this. He could smell like an Abercrombie and Finch store all he liked, but nothing would change the repulsive stench of his attitude.

  She had lost, but she wouldn't accept it. Confrontation was now the only way to turn the battle. Determined to take back her power and reclaim the upper ground, she whipped around again to confront him.

  "Excuse me?"

  Don’t Scratch

  He kept walking.

  "Excuse me?" she called louder. "You're Eric, right? We had a class together. Do you remember me?"

  "If it didn't happen yesterday, I probably don’t.”

  "Well, I'm Chantel," she said, holding her hand out to shake his.

  "And?" he replied, ignoring it.

  "And I thought it was time we introduced ourselves politely and officially," she informed him.

  "Because you assumed I wanted to be introduced?" he replied.

  "Because we need to talk. Now."

  Sizing her up briefly, he muttered, "I don't got anything to say to you."

  "You will if you intend to stay in our Fiction club," she warned him.

  "I don't give one fuck about your club."

  "Ya, I noticed that, but..." Before she could get another word out, Eric turned and walked away, meaning that to be the end of the conversation.

  Chantel wouldn't have it. His complete disregard for her only made her more determined to put him in check and she obstinately pursued him. Whether it was a conversation or a fist fight he wanted, she would give it t
o him. She didn't care what she had to do to make him hear her, but he would hear her.

  She shoved herself back into his path, blocking his walkway. Her heart raced. He could almost hear it. But she wouldn't back down.

  "I guess you can see why that part is a little confusing to me," she went on. "Why do you come to our meetings if you don't participate in them?”

  Chantel expected him to make a scene. She was clearly cornering him, which was unacceptable even by her standards. It would not be unjustified for him to defend himself against her aggression, and she waited for him to shove her back or call her some unforgivably obscene name in regards to her skin color. He did neither, which was even more unsettling. He kept his calm reserve and flipped open his pack of cigarettes, offering her one.

  She scowled at them resentfully. "That's disgusting."

  Eric shrugged at her remark and took one for himself. He cupped his hands around the lighter to block out the breeze as he lit it. Inhaling deeply, he blew the smoke out in her direction and Chantel choked.

  "So what's your point?" he asked her finally.

  "Will you please put that out?" she coughed, her eyes reddening and watering against the cancerous cloud of toxins.

  "This is a designated smoking area," he answered. "No prudes allowed."

  Chantel stepped away from him, frantically waving the smoke away from her face. "I didn't come here to start trouble," she said, wheezing for fresh air.

  "Well you did," he said. "Typical of you blacks. Always looking for a fight. I told you I had nothing to say to you and you kept pushing. You couldn't just leave it alone."

  "I don't like it any more than you do, but it's my responsibility to address this issue," she said. "Can you just answer my question so I can go?"

  "I don't bother anybody," he snapped at her, losing patience. "I'm not interfering with anyone's business while I'm there. I have the same right as any other student to come to those meetings if I want to. So what issue are you trying to invent here? There is no issue."

  "You have the right to be there. You're absolutely right about that, but you can't just sit there and do nothing," Chantel pointed out. "We need that space for people who actually want to be there."

  "Oh, because they're all just breaking down the doors to be there, right?" he replied. "Nobody gives a shit about your club and it's falling apart from under you. Your writers suck. Your articles suck. Your PR sucks. Everything about that club is a waste of space. I show up every day for the pleasure of watching you sweat because no matter what you do you can't save it, just like Tara couldn't save it, but you're the one who's going to take the heat, and that's enough reason for me to stick around. To watch you crumble. To watch it completely shatter that high-headed opinion you seem to have about yourself. That's the best story that will ever come out of your worthless magazine."

  Chantel struggled to keep her breathing under control, resisting the urge to rip that permanent grin off his face. With all her strength and dignity, she swallowed the real words she wanted to say, and instead replied, "If you continue to show up at our meetings and not participate, I will have you banned from our organization. Consider yourself warned."

  "You can't do that."

  "I'm president. I can do whatever I want."

  "President?" He tried not to laugh out loud, but failed miserably. "All grown up now, huh?"

  "I see you haven't even tried," she remarked. "You can manipulate Mia and Robert into thinking otherwise, but to me, you will always be the exact same inconsiderate asshole you were a year ago."

  "I knew you couldn't let that shit go. So is that the real reason you're here, Madam President? I knew there was more to the story than just your lame ass club."

  "It's actually really simple," she said. "Stop following me."

  "You think I'm following you?"

  "I know you're following me."

  "You're demented."

  "You think I'm making it up?" she demanded. "Why are we here now?"

  "Coincidence," he shrugged.

  "And yesterday? And the day before? And the past three weeks? Was that coincidence too?"

  "It's a public space," he answered. "It's not your fountain. Once again, Madam President, I have the right to go wherever the hell I want on this campus, and you don't have the right to make me leave, just like I don't have the right to expel you for being black. I deal with you; you deal with me."

  "Don't pull the race card on me," she warned. "That's not even what I'm talking about. Stalking is illegal and creepy, so can you please stop doing it?”

  "Why would I follow you?" he demanded, the aggression rising in his tone. "Give me one rational reason as to why I would go out of my way to stroke your insecurities. Maybe it isn't even me. Maybe it's you inventing this sick twisted fantasy in your head. Maybe I should be scared."

  "Ya, that's exactly it, isn't it?" she shot back. "Because I like the idea of a psychopath following me around.”

  "You're a sick bitch," he said, shaking his head at her. "Stay away from me."

  "Reverse psychology, huh. Classic move. You can't turn this around on me, Eric. This has nothing to do with my insecurities. I'm fine. I've been ok. I've gone on with my life. This is really all about you and the fact that what happened last year has got you so fucked up that you can't even look at yourself in the mirror without wondering who's looking back at you," she declared, jabbing her finger at him as if it made a difference. "Your personal issues are not my issues. It's not my problem you're an outlier. So man up. Grow a pair. And leave me out of your personal issues, or I'll get the police involved."

  "They won't believe you," he remarked. "The police aren't on your side."

  "I am not afraid of you!" Chantel shrieked, unable to restrain her anger any longer. "I proved that to you last year, and I'll do it again. Don't mess with me."

  "Then you're dumber now than you were then," he said. This time, he wasn't smiling.

  "Is that a threat?" she asked. When he didn't answer, she demanded again, "Are you threatening me now?"

  "I feel threatened," he answered. "I was minding my own business before you came over here and started screaming in my face. That's harassment. Not to mention all the other instances of slander directed at me from out of your corner. I have been wrongly accused of being a racist, a fag, a devil worshiper-"

  "You are a racist!"

  "Racism and science overlap. Those are the facts, babe."

  Chantel roared with irritation. "I don't have to listen to this. You're not worth it, and if I stay here any longer, I'm going to kill you. I'm an honors student. I'm a Christian woman. My mother raised a lady. I am above this. You're not worth it."

  "You're free to leave whenever you want, babe," he said. "Sooner rather than later, please."

  "Don't call me babe," she declared. "Enough is enough already. Forget about what happened last year and move on. I don't see you anymore. You don't see me anymore. That means you stop showing up at our club meetings. You do that, and you'll never hear from me again."

  "Alright," he said, shrugging. "Deal."

  Chantel marched away from him, now free to take a breath and forget about it all. Yet when it all came down to it, she felt worse than she had before she talked to him. All she wanted was an apology, but he never offered one. In fact, he had the nerve to call himself the victim. It unnerved her. He had a way of derailing her composure, making her want to fight him harder. Even if in the end fighting would only made her feel worse, like an insect bite you're not supposed to scratch.

  Her eyes stung with tears and her face burned. She wanted to destroy him but she had nothing except words to use as a weapon against him. He had those too, but at a greater magnitude which stung deeper than the average insult. He had a certain mastery over the art of hate that she was too nice and too decent of a person to achieve. What words she did have against him were few and impotent. She grappled desperately for a way to burn him, and in a desperate attempt, turned back to him, adding, "And one
more thing."

  "Dammit, will you just let it go?" he ordered.

  "Why do you dress like that?" she demanded. "Seriously. Grow up. You look like a freak. No wonder you feel alienated. And by the way, if you're stalking me for the same reason you fucked Tara, you're making a dumbass out of yourself. There's this thing called a standard that I set for myself, and you're not it. I would rather put a gun to my head than allow myself to stoop that low. Literally, you make me sick."

  It was low, even by her standards, to end an argument in ad hominem, but again, it was desperation to jab back at him somehow, someway. He grinned again, and that's all he had to do to make her blood curdle.

  Unlike her, he wasn't desperate. He understood the value of a rightly timed pause.

  Chantel waited for him to make a move, but he had remarkable self-restraint. All he said to her was, "You talk too much. I may be doing you a disservice by letting it go unchecked, but your issue isn't my issue."

  He bid her farewell then, told her that he hoped she enjoyed the rest of her evening, and then he walked away.

  Outlier

  The day dragged on uneventfully to the bitter end.

  Literature club was last on the agenda, which should have been a welcome end-of-day treat discussing Victorian Romances, but somehow it had evolved into a biweekly torture in the Greeco-Roman Classics.

  The clock inched forward bit by bit, and when one has lived off nothing but granola bars between classes, that round benign object hanging on the wall can be a source of madness. Of course, time progresses at a constant speed, neither speeding up or stopping for anyone. Except when one is hungry, of course. Time will definitely move at snail pace then, simply for the pleasure of watching one suffer.

  Chantel squeezed her abs tightly to suppress the growling and groaning of her stomach, but each wave of starvation ripped out of her belly, determined to be known by everyone in the room. It was fifteen past nine, and there was nothing she could eat that late without feeling fat and guilty.