Literature club ran on an hour over schedule that evening. The new club advisor from the Philosophy department alluded to having a point in the discussion, but he took them around, over, and underneath it rather than directly to it. Chantel was lost on what he was trying to say, and the only clear idea he'd communicated that night was his unhealthy obsession for Greek tragedy. He couldn't say one thing about Titus Andronicus without feeling he absolutely had to add something else about Remus and Romulus. One thing led to another, and somehow the conversation got trapped in a runabout argument about why Rome was not actually built in one day.
Chantel felt pincered between two equally distasteful conversations. She could either go brain dead listening to the dry debate of whether the Greeks or Romans contributed more to modern society, or she could surrender her sanity to the conversation going on behind her, in which the names Eric and Tara popped up more often than she cared to hear them.
"That whole relationship thing was awkward. I'm glad they broke up," a girl threw in her opinion on the abrupt split between the couple. "Can you even call it a relationship? I thought the rule was at least six months."
"I don't think length really matters. There's people who have met, dated, and gotten married after like a month. I swear I saw it on the news the other day. Quality over quantity," another weighed in. "That's probably why it was awkward, now that I think about it. The relationship quality wasn't there. Like they never went anywhere together. We invited them to chill with us a few times, but there was just this weird vibe when they were around. They didn't hold hands. They barely spoke to each other. But then there would always be that awkward stare going on between them, like they'd just had a fight right before they met up with us. I've never seen Tara act like that. It's like he was rubbing off on her, and it just put a damper on the mood when she was around us, even when he wasn't there. I don't talk to her as much as I used to. She's in her own little world now."
"I know what you mean about 'the stare'," her friend replied. "I asked her about it once, and she told me it was sexual tension, not fighting necessarily-"
"Oh God, stop, I don't need to hear any more," the other pleaded.
"That whole relationship was about sex. At least to him I think it was. I don't know about Tara. Maybe for her it started out that way, but gradually she started catching feelings, and then he bailed."
"Or got bored."
"Most likely. She's better off though. I never understood why she got involved with him. She's too pretty for that. Like he's totally different from her. They didn't seem right together."
"Well you got to have one of those at least once before you settle down, just to keep things interesting."
"Not a guy like him. That's just desperate. Like, not because he's dumb or ugly or anything. He's just really deep. Like, no wonder they never had a real conversation. The guy's so far out there. We made fun of people like that in high school."
"Wow, that's kind of mean."
"Well, ya it's sad. People shouldn't be judged because they're outliers, but sometimes it's hard, you know, when someone deliberately chooses to be an outcast. They should already know that people are going to treat them differently because everything you do or wear is a statement. Sad, but it's true."
"Well, then it begs the question why people choose to be a certain way knowing that they'll be treated differently, and then snap when they can't take it anymore? You know, like when those guys walk into movie theaters and schools to ruin people's lives. Those are people they've never even met, and it makes you wonder how they just go off like that."
"I don't know. That's tough. Maybe they act different because they can't fit into an identity, so they create one of their own to be accepted. Or maybe they're just sick. I don't know, but that's depressing. How did we even get on this topic?"
"Why Tara dated a freak?"
"Right. Ask Chantel. She had a class with Tara."
"What do you think, Chant? What did Tara see in him?"
"Why are you asking me?" Chantel replied. "I don't know why she dated Edward Cullen, and I don't care. Maybe she has a thing for vampires and she didn't tell anyone."
"Ow, metaphor. That's good, Chant. I like that," the girl nodded in approval.
"Well, he's German," her friend took a guess, with a wink. "You know what they say about German guys."
"No. Am I supposed to know?"
Finally, the professor tensed, sighing in mid-sentence, and turned to face the girls in exasperation. "Are we done, ladies?" he asked sternly. "I'll wait. I don't mind." The girls kept quiet, pretending to take notes again until he turned back to the white board and resumed his lecture.
"To be continued," the girl said more quietly to her friend. "Mr. H is getting butt hurt again."
"I'll just text you," her friend replied, reluctant to drop such a stimulating conversation. She slipped her phone out from her bag and concealed it between the pages of her notebook.
Moments later, Chantel felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. She glanced back at the girl, who grinned at her, daring her to participate in the three-way group message. Chantel had no choice but comply, as the first text demanded a prompt response from her.
Were you the reason they broke up? You can trust us. We won't tell anyone.
No, no, and no!!! I had nothing to do with that.
Tara thinks you do.
Why would she? I don't even know either of them like that.
But we saw you talking to Eric at the fountain earlier today. It looked serious.
I don't think Chantel's hiding anything. Tara's just paranoid and on edge because Eric didn't really give her a reason for the break up. There's no proof that it had anything to do with Chantel. Chantel's got more class than that. I mean, if Tara and Eric didn't fit, then Chantel and Eric REALLY don't fit. It's ok, girl, I got your back.
Damn, imagine what your kids would look like though.
I don't want kids.
After making that perfectly clear, Chantel left the group message, totally over the conversation. But it did nothing to remove herself from the embarrassment. Why would anyone think that she had anything to do with Eric and Tara's break up? Her name should have never come up in that conversation, and it was only more disturbing to guess where the root of that idea had crawled out of.
She didn't stick around to ask. The moment Literature Club adjourned, she grabbed her bag and marched out the door before anyone else could say something to her. She walked straight to parking lot B where her car was parked, determined to get as far away from campus as possible.
Collision
Eric leaned against the science building, which overlooked the east side of parking lot B. He passed a blunt between two of his friends, both Economics majors. They planned on getting cross-faded and hitting the raves at midnight when the clubs opened. Eric inhaled deeply, looking up at the stars between the barren tree branches above him. Then he exhaled the smoke again. Gradually, he felt his high coming on and he let it become his escape.
She's late, he thought to himself. She's never this late.
It was the same routine every Tuesday and Thursday after Literature Club, and he knew it down to the last detail. She regularly came trotting around the science building promptly at 8:05 pm. Her little yellow beetle was always parked in the same stall by the trees in parking lot B, and by 8:10, she pulled out of her parking space.
Sometimes, at approximately 8:11, it could be counted upon that she would mash on her breaks, remembering that she had forgotten something. In that scenario, by 8:13, she would re-park her car to go get whatever it was she'd forgotten, and by 8:20, she usually returned to her car. By 8:25, she would turn her car on again, and head east to the side of campus where she shared a dorm with Mia in Anne Spencer's Hall. By 8:40, she'd be safely inside and wake again at 6 am for the gym.
Chantel was a Type A personality. Structured, boring, and predictable. Tardiness was not her style, and as it was a quarter to ten o'clock, Eric took notice. He
ran through the possible explanations for her hour and 30-minute delay, and could spare no consideration for his intoxicated friend, who was getting a kick out of shouting "White power!" at passing cars. He probably had a name, but most people called him Mouse.
"White power!" his other friend echoed in response. That was Stevens.
Eric refused to join in. It wasn't that it bothered him, but the idea of shouting it at people for laughs, just to get a reaction out of someone, was not particularly entertaining to him. Mouse was immature like that, and even worse when he was drunk. Eric could care less for him or Stevens, but they always had a stash of good Jamaican, which earned them a small measure of tolerance, at least until Eric had achieved a decent enough high.
"Dude, Eric, what the hell's wrong with you?" Mouse demanded, as he passed the blunt to Eric again. "You could at least say something, man. I didn't even get a thank you for letting you smoke a bowl with us without putting down ends first. Don't be ungrateful, man. What's up with you tonight?"
"Thinking," Eric replied quietly with a shrug.
"Again? What did I tell you about thinking, dude? It's bad for you."
"I don't like your ideas about thinking," Eric answered. "That's the problem with Americans. Too much reaction, not enough thinking."
"Ya?" Mouse said, chuckling. "Don't go all Aristotle on me, son. We're not gonna get any pussy like that."
"This shit does that to Eric,” Stevens said, snatching the blunt away from Eric. "We could start a whole fucking religion with the things he comes up with when he's high. I can't never remember any of it when I'm sober though. That's the problem."
"Nah, he's going through a dry spell, man. He ain't had no pussy in a long minute. I feel your pain, bro," Mouse sympathized. "We got to get him laid tonight. There’s drunk bitches everywhere around here begging to suck you off. I know a club with some fine ass bitches, but it's hella far, and this dumbass over here got his car impounded for a DUI." Mouse glared over at Stevens.
“Fuck you!”
"Your mom."
"Your mom?" Eric repeated, lighting a cigarette. "That's mature. Are you twelve?"
"Dude, Eric, what are we doing here anyway? We've been standing here for two hours doing nothing, and you still haven't told us if you're gonna come chill or not. I didn't come here to stand in a parking lot all night, so you better decide what you're gonna do before that city bus comes back around and we dip out of here."
"A bus? Dude! What bitch is going to ride back with us on a goddamn city bus?" Stevens complained.
"Well, we would've had a car, dumbass if you weren't such a dumbass, driving drunk and getting your car impounded, without shooting me an invite," Mouse declared.
"Mouse, stop being a bitch about it and borrow someone else's car," Eric told him.
"Whose, stupid? Does your dumbass have a car around here?"
"No, dumbass, but there are plenty of other dumbasses who got cars around here," Eric answered. "I'm sure they wouldn't mind loaning you one for the night."
"You're right," Mouse said dreamily. "He's right."
“You’re a dumbass. Both of you," Stevens said, shaking his head. "I'm not going to jail over auto theft. I'm out."
"Which car we rollin' in, Eric?" Mouse said, scanning over the parking lot. "What about the Civic?"
"If you're going to steal a car and serve time for it, man, then you might as well do it in style," Stevens said, pointing out a black Mustang.
"A Mustang, dude? Nah, too predictable," Mouse disagreed.
"What he really means is that no straight man drives a Mustang," Eric remarked to Stevens.
"How about that red Tacoma?" Stevens suggested.
"Too red. If the cops start chasing us, we need something that'll blend in. Like that yellow one over there," Mouse decided, walking towards the yellow beetle.
"Dude, you just went from red to yellow. How is that any different? And that's a goddamn bug," Stevens protested. "What bitches are we going to pick up in a goddamn bug? Your grandma?"
"Don't talk about my grandma, Stevens," Mouse warned. "She's a sweet old lady."
"Ya, well she's not the sweet I want to be tasting right now," Stevens answered. "And I don't think a yellow bug is that inconspicuous."
"It is because the cops would never see it coming," Mouse defended, peeking through the windows of the vehicle. "When have you ever seen a yellow bug in a high speed chase on Cops?"
"You're in over your head, man," Eric told him, knowing exactly who the car belonged to. However, that was all the warning or protest he gave as Mouse tried to pry the windows open.
"Damn, how do we get in this mo'fo?" Mouse growled, punching the window in vain. "Give me something to bust it open."
Stevens handed him a rock.
"Ya, that's definitely inconspicuous," Eric remarked. "You guys are idiots."
"You got a better idea?" Mouse demanded.
When Eric gave him no alternative, Mouse muttered, "That's what I thought."
With unnecessary vigor, Mouse hurled the rock through the driver's window. It shattered into pieces, louder than any of them expected. The guys stumbled into each other trying to run away from the scene, and only returned to the vehicle once they were sure no one would come to investigate the noise.
Chantel had just rounded the corner of the science building when she heard the glass shatter. Her heart dropped upon realizing it was her car that had been damaged. Sprinting for the parking lot, or at least wobbling as best she could in high heeled wedges, she shouted, "What the hell are you doing?"
All three of the intoxicated thugs jumped back as she approached her car. Her jaw dropped as she surveyed the broken window and the fragments scattered over the street.
"This your car?" Mouse stupidly walked over to her.
"You broke my window!"
"Sorry, baby, we didn't know this was yours," Mouse tried to explain quickly. "I thought it was my friend's car. He asked us to pick it up for him. We thought it was his."
"Do you realize how much it's going to cost to fix that?" Chantel shrieked at him.
Eric, who stood in the background with Stevens, tried so hard not to laugh or make a sound. He couldn't manage it. Some kind of stupid noise escaped his lips, which set Stevens off laughing, and Stevens's stupid laugh finally forced it out of Eric. It wasn't Chantel they were laughing at specifically, but Mouse, who had his own version of stupidity glued to his face as he tried to talk his way out of the situation. Chantel turned to Eric and Stevens fiercely, and when she finally realized Eric was there, she quickly jumped to conclusions. Unsurprisingly, she arrived at the assumption that she was the butt of the joke and that Eric had been the lead perpetrator.
"This is it. This is beyond crossing the line," she told Eric firmly. "I'm calling the cops."
"Wait, baby, chill. Relax for a second," Mouse said, progressively invading her personal space. "Obviously you've had a bad day. Let me buy you drink or something."
"No! Buy me a new window!" she cried, rummaging through her bag for her phone.
"Did you hear me? I said relax," Mouse ordered, forcing his body up against hers until she was sandwiched between him and the car. His eyes fell on the rounded curves of her cleavage. "It'll hurt less if you don't fight it."
"You need to back up off of me," she warned, struggling to break free, but her frame was no contest against the 290 pound, vodka saturated flesh that pressed the air out of her lungs.
"How did a girl like you get a car like this anyway? Financial aid doesn't pay out that much. You must be doing something a little extra on the side. You know what I'm saying? I'll give you the money for your window, if you give me a little something else in return." Mouse pressed her harder against the car making it painful to draw in air, let alone scream. Mouse pressed her harder against the car making it painful to draw in air, let alone scream. “You scream and I’ll crush your lungs in. You understand?”
He pinned her neck down with one elbow, which gave his other
hand freedom to explore her thighs and climb up her skirt. “You like that? Ya, you do, 'cause you're a little slut, aren't you? We’ve been waiting for something like you to walk by. You want to be our chocolate play thing, huh? I always wondered what it felt like to be with a black girl. Should we strap you to the hood or the backseat?”
"Mouse," Stevens finally spoke up. "She can't breathe."
“Give me a belt,” Mouse ordered. “We’ll hog tie her in the backseat and drive out of town.”
Mouse wiggled his tongue at Chantel, teasing and tormenting her as his greedy mouth gradually approached her neck. He inhaled the smell of her perfume and his mouth watered in anticipation of her soft caramel skin.
Before his lips could touch her, Eric patted his shoulder. “Ok, that’s enough, Mouse. She’s going to pass out.”
Mouse laughed, taking it for a joke, and turned back to Chantel. He yanked at the hem of her shirt and tried to rip it from her body, but Eric tapped his shoulder again before he could succeed. “Enough,” Eric said.
“Don’t touch me, man,” Mouse warned him. “You still owe me a bowl. Back off.”
Eric then yanked his shoulder back so roughly that Mouse stumbled backwards against the curb. “I said enough.”
Now free of her attacker, Chantel gasped for breath and tried to run, but her knees trembled for fear and lack of oxygen. Her surroundings tipped and swayed with her dizziness and before she knew it, she had tripped over her wedges and scraped her knees against the pavement. Mouse saw it as another opportunity to recapture his victim, but Eric stepped in between them.
"Leave her alone. I'm not going to say it again," Eric said, all play and joking gone from his voice.
"Dude, what the hell!" Mouse protested. "This ain't none of your business."
"It is when you cross the line," Eric told him. "You don't disrespect a woman that way. Any woman. I don't care who she is."
"You think I was gonna fuck her? Nah, man, I was just gonna play with her a little bit," Mouse answered, as if that was a better moral alternative. "No harm done. Relax, man."
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