Grey

by Aundrea Ascencio

  "We'd go out." Eric shrugged. "Why does it have to be complicated? It's not life or death."

  "Actually, it is," Chantel assured him. "But if I say yes, you would have to accept my terms and conditions. For one, I don't care what anyone thinks we did, I'm not having sex with you. Ever."

  "Fair enough. And while we're on that topic, don't expect me to be celibate just because we hooked up. If I'm out one night, I don't want you calling me and bitching about who I'm with or who I can't be with."

  "I don't really care who you're with, and I really don't want to know when you are. Just...omit that information for me, please," she said. "And second, no 'L' word. No kissing. No touching. No holding hands. Nothing. Ever."

  "Agreed."

  "And third, it doesn't last more than a month. My plans don't involve you after graduation so let's keep it that way."

  "Two weeks and we're done," Eric swore.

  "Cool. So I guess our work here is done," she said.

  "Ya."

  "You're my..."

  "Ya...."

  "And I'm your...

  "Ya."

  "This is probably the weirdest thing I've ever done," she said.

  "You'll survive," he answered. "Just be cool."

  "Cool. Right....I should go."

  "Ya."

  "Here's your pillow."

  "Ya, thanks."

  She stepped around him awkwardly, like he had some kind of disease she regretted catching. Peeking out the door, she checked to see if the halls were clear before racing out for the stairs.

  Ode to Poetry

  Rain? Eric thought, It's fucking August.

  The last senseless vexation to conclude an already absurd first week of Fall semester.

  Summer had faded like a breath, and so had the parking and just about any free walking space on campus. Every corner of every sidewalk was congested with organization booths begging him to join some club or sign some petition or apply to some swindling sales job. They all had their own version of obnoxious music and two mega speakers at each booth to let people know just how obnoxious they were, which all meshed together into one combined migraine of booming obnoxiousness.

  Yet he could have tolerated that better if it weren't for all the dewy eyed freshman girls infesting the sidewalks, looking for every reason to scream their heads off if they could get away with it. Thunder. Balloons. Trees. Butterflies. You name it, and they'd scream for it.

  Very few of them seemed to care that they were blocking the walkway when they stopped walking abruptly to oww and ahh the most benign phenomena, like a window or a broken drinking fountain. It was even worse when they brought their parents.

  By the end of the day, it took its toll on him. If one more person asked him where the cafeteria or administration building was, he was going to punch someone. He had to find some form of refuge where he could shut the world out.

  Stepping over gutters flooded with rainwater, empty soda cans, and naked Mexican corn cobs, he made his way for the library. The gray clouds glowed ominously as the afternoon darkened with the threat of more distant rumbling thunder. At last the reign of tyrannical heat had been overthrown, and the cold violent gusts reenergized his spirits. He practically skipped through the library door in merriment, oblivious to the fact that he was soaked from hair to boot and that his coat carried in enough rain to solve the California drought crisis.

  The bulldog faced librarian scowled at him as he walked by, and he swore he heard her growling.

  "Sorry," he muttered an apology, but marched on toward the quiet study sections of the library. She, however, would not let the impertinence go unchecked, and wobbled after him in a wide, brown pencil skirt. "Excuse me?" she called in protest. "You need to put your coat in an umbrella bag! Excuse me! Sir!"

  Chantel glanced up from her work to see what had gotten the librarian so upset, and rolled her eyes when she realized who was standing in the lobby trying to talk his way out of an umbrella bag.

  "Why is it always him?" she sighed, shaking her head. She shoved a stack of books in front of her in an attempt to hide her face, and continued working.

  Eric caught the hint. She looked pissed, and she was surrounded by paper. A red flag, if ever there was one. He knew what would happen if he walked up to that table, and he was not particularly willing to ruin the rare and beautiful day he was having. Thus, he steered right pass her table without disturbing her and found a spot in the Reference section behind her. He avoided the chairs, for the librarian's sake, and propped onto the floor in a discreet aisle between two bookshelves. Leaning his head back against the shelf behind him, he closed his eyes and quieted his mind, listening to the rain drumming against the windows.

  ~

  Chantel sighed and threw her pen down. "I can't do anymore," she swore, holding her throbbing head. "I'm going crazy. It's five o'clock and we're not even half way through these."

  "It was your idea to read poetry on a Friday," Mia said dryly, writing a literary critique in the margin of a submission. "What is up with the submissions this semester? How the hell do you spell the word 'the' wrong? I'm not even joking. Look at how he spelt it."

  " As 'da'. I know. They all spell it like that," Chantel said, putting her head down miserably. "Or 'duh'. Or 'th'. Or 'tha'. Seriously, I've seen everything but T.H.E. It's sad."

  "Well he's out." Mia tossed the paper aside into a discarded pile.

  "So no winner yet?"

  "A second grader could write you a better poem," Mia replied. "And who's idea was it to hold a poetry contest?"

  "Yours truly," Chantel sighed, glancing at the clock again. "If I ever come up with another idea like this, slap me."

  "I'll slap you twice, girl. This is bad."

  "Hand me another stack," Chantel groaned, reaching lazily for the three towering piles at the corner of their table. Mia grabbed the closet one and slid it over to her.

  Chantel shoved it back. "That stack's too big. Give me another one."

  "You're dead serious, aren't you?" Mia eyed her skeptically. "We're really going through all these today?"

  "Hell no!" Chantel cried. "If we don't find a winner after this pile, we'll pick one out of a hat."

  "Should've done that four hours ago," Mia remarked, slapping another submission in front of her. "Ow, you're going to love this one. Listen. Her eyes are brown like chocolate. Her hair, it curls in mounds. I put my hand in her pocket. Her ass is juicy and round. Blah, blah, blah. I think we got a winner."

  "At least he wrote complete sentences."

  "We're going to be here all night. Let's just do the drawing and get this over with. First three we draw gets the column."

  "But it really isn't fair to the people who actually deserve to be in the column," Chantel informed her.

  "Like Shakespeare here and his ‘juicy ass’ poetry?"

  "You're right. Forget it. Let's just do the hat thing," Chantel said, folding all the submissions into squares as quickly as she could.

  "But we don't have a hat."

  "Use my sweater." Chantel tossed her the yellow cardigan. "But don't put the juicy ass poem in there. I don't want to catch Herpes."

  "Notion carried," Mia agreed, tossing the submission into the trash.

  "You want to do the honors? First pick," Chantel offered cheerfully.

  "You're the editor."

  "God, you're so lazy," Chantel rolled her eyes, and began shaking up the submissions in her sweater.

  Mia slouched in her chair and glanced around the library, which had gradually emptied out over time. The only student left standing nearby was Eric Chandler, of course, skimming through encyclopedias behind them. Mia furrowed her brow, wondering how long he'd been standing there and how she never saw him walk in. She eyed Chantel again, who was still busy shaking submissions up for the drawing.

  "You know you're my best friend, right?" Mia asked suddenly.

  "That depends on what you say next," Chantel replied.

  "We've known each other
for how long exactly? Since Freshman year?"

  "Approximately."

  "And we tell each other everything, right? Because even if one of us doesn't tell the other, the other eventually finds it out anyway, and the other can usually tell when the one is lying."

  "Will you just say it already?" Chantel demanded impatiently.

  "Alright," Mia said, tilting her head in Eric's direction. "What's he doing here?"

  "I don't know," Chantel shrugged, indifferently. "Just ignore him and he'll go away. That's what I do."

  "So I take it that police report you told me about never got filed?"

  "I've just learned to deal with him."

  "Deal with him? Nah, that's not something my best friend Chantel would say about Eric Chandler," Mia said. "You're not telling me something. You know I'll keep bugging you."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "No? Maybe I should go ask him then."

  "No!" Chantel grabbed Mia's sleeve before she could stand up. "Are you crazy? Don't talk to him. Then he really won't leave."

  "He'll tell me what's going on. You know he will," Mia said, grinning.

  Chantel sighed and pursed her lips tightly. There was no getting around it. "I made a deal with him," she said, lowering her voice. "We're kind of together, but not together. For like a month, but not really. Like you know what I mean? It's kind of a long story, but it doesn't matter. The month is almost up."

  "You're going out with him?" Mia cried.

  "Sh! Not so loud."

  Mia glanced around to make sure no one was around, before whispering fiercely at Chantel, "I thought you hated him."

  "I do, but even people you hate have their uses. Sometimes. To get the things you want. It's complicated."

  "To get what you want? What do you want from him?" Mia smiled deviously. "You hit that yet?"

  "Yuck. No. And gag."

  "That's too bad," a deep voice said from over Chantel's shoulder.

  Neither of the girls had noticed the tall and burly dark young man that had approached their table. Chantel stiffened. She kept her eyes on the pile of folded poetry before her, and refused to turn and meet the gaze of the man standing behind her. The color drained from her cheeks and her fingers grew numb. She felt him on the back of her neck and found it harder and harder to breathe. Mia quickly picked up on how her friend clammed up and how uncomfortable she looked sitting under the heat of his breath.

  "I was hoping I could still get in on this contest," he said, smiling at them, which could have been a handsome smile if he weren't the devil. "So, ladies, can I leave these with you?"

  He slid a stack of crumbled lined paper in front of them. Everything was written boldly in block letters of black and red ink, in the same fashion as that of a Los Angeles graffiti artist. None of it was legible.

  His eyes were on Chantel again, and Mia's eyes were on him. "It got dark in here all of a sudden," Mia remarked. "Someone needs to turn the lights back on."

  "Nobody was talking to you, demon. Be gone," he told her. "I'm just here to submit my rhymes."

  "Poetry," Mia corrected him. "How sophisticated of you."

  "You got a problem with me, dyke?" he asked.

  "Trey," Chantel spoke up quickly before it got out of hand. "I'm sorry, but we're not taking any more submissions. The deadline to submit was yesterday."

  "Come on, Chant." His attitude flipped like a light switch, and he flashed that sickening smile again at her. "We go way back."

  "Did you not just hear what she said?" Mia asked.

  "We have another contest next semester," Chantel offered, before Trey could reply to Mia. "If you want to put something in then, I'll keep in touch with you about the details."

  "I'd like that. Very much," he said to her with his toothfull grin. "It's good seeing you again. I'll be looking forward to your text. My number hasn't changed, you know. You ladies have a good day."

  "Also keep in mind that we base our evaluations on actual artistic talent," Mia informed him before he walked away. "None of that thug life bullshit."

  "I got an album out, Mary Macho. 57 copies sold the first week it released," Trey bragged. "And they still counting."

  Chantel's foot pressed hard on Mia's under the table, begging her to drop it, but that was wishful thinking.

  "Just 57?" Mia laughed. "What, did you have to slip them into people's bags out the drive-thru at Burger King? I doubt anybody actually bought that shit."

  "I don't work at Burger King anymore," he said. "Not since my album sells started picking up. I'ma be on a track with Tech N9ne in a minute. For real, though. My boy Scarecrow's workin' on gettin' me signed on wit' a record label. It's only a matter of time."

  "Boy, please. You gonna be in that welfare line come next week," Mia dismissed him.

  "I don' even know why I'm talkin' to you. You irrelevant."

  "Well you're not here to talk to Chantel either. So who you here talking to?"

  "Not to you, obviously. For real though, somebody 'bout to get backhanded in this mutha."

  Mia shot up from her seat, ignoring Chantel's protests for her to let it go. "You gonna swing at me?" Mia got in his face. "Hit me. I dare you."

  Chantel saw Eric slam his encyclopedia shut and slowly move toward the scene. She frantically shook her head at him, pleading with her eyes that he stay out of it. Things had already escalated out of control, and she knew adding Eric to the equation would only add gasoline to the fire. Eric halted where he was, but if Trey didn't get out Mia's face and start making his way out, not even Chantel could keep Eric from intervening. She prayed that Trey would back off and leave, and that Eric would get lost somewhere and stay there. Please, lord, I don't need this now. Make them both go away. This can't happen right now, in the name of Jesus.

  God must have been listening. Trey stepped away from Mia. "Nah. A lesson for another day," he told her. Then he looked at Chantel. "I'll catch you later, boo. Like I said, I'll be looking for that text. And leave your pet bull dyke in the cage next time."

  "Call me a dyke again!" Mia dared him, but Chantel held her back this time.

  Trey only laughed, stuck a toothpick back between his teeth, and walked off.

  Grey

  "You shouldn't have said anything to him," Chantel scolded Mia.

  "He shouldn't have came up on you like that," Mia defended. "Of course I was gonna say something."

  "I'm so sick of guys," Chantel said irritably, turning back to the table. "And their poetry. Let's do the drawing and get out of here." She shook her sweater aggressively and drew the first winner. "Gael Mendez, Green Chili."

  Mia wrote the name down. "Ok. Next."

  "Vanessa Harris, Death of a Bird."

  Mia took note. "And last, but most certainly least? I'll do it this time. You take a break."

  Chantel gladly handed the sweater over and Mia drew their third winner. Her eyes scanned the paper repeatedly, first in puzzlement, then amusement.

  "What?" Chantel asked.

  "There's no name," Mia replied. "Anonymous."

  "What's the title of the poem?"

  "There is no title."

  "Then throw it away. Pick another one."

  "I think you should read it first," Mia said, handing the note to Chantel.

  It was only a single line written across the paper and when Chantel read it, she was less than amused. "What a waste of paper."

  "What's that about?" Mia asked.

  "Who cares?" Chantel said, tossing it aside. "Pick another one."

  "I think it's the most talent we've picked up so far," Mia replied. "We have our final winner."

  "Pick another goddamn poem," Chantel muttered through gritted teeth.

  "It's only fair, Chant. Anonymous is our third official drawing. We have to publish it."

  "Minimum length is 20 lines, 4 stanzas. That was a rule. The writer didn't follow the rules, therefore he's disqualified."

  "How do you know it's a he?" Mia asked.

&n
bsp; Chantel glanced over at Eric who ducked behind a bookshelf, snickering.

  Furiously, she snatched the note up again and marched toward him. He struggled to gain control of his laughter as she approached him, but that was always impossible when dealing with Chantel. He couldn't take her seriously when she acted tough with him. She just looked so adorable pissed off. Finally, she stood right in front of him, and he took one look at that cute little angry face and lost it.

  She perched her hands on her hips, giving him a minute to gain his composure, before saying very firmly, "It's not funny."

  "No, it's not," he agreed. His face turned red as he straightened up and tried to catch his breath.

  "You told Mia, didn't you?"

  "Told Mia what?"

  "You know about what. Our agreement."

  "Don't drag Mia into this. She had no clue."

  "Then what's this?" Chantel shoved the note into his chest.

  "Obviously, some sad bastard trying to ask his girl out."

  "Mia would've never let this submission get through unless you had told her about," -lowering her voice again- "about the agreement."

  "Relax. She had nothing to do with it," Eric replied. "It's not murder, by the way. Nothing wrong with me asking my girlfriend out."

  "I'm not your girlfriend. You know the conditions."

  "Oh, right. Those damn conditions."

  "What are you doing here?" Chantel demanded.

  "Reading. Duh."

  "Since when do you read?"

  "I'm not illiterate. I read everything," he replied. "But you know that."

  "You're not here to read. I know that."

  "Fine. You got me," he surrendered. "I came to say hi. You know, just because. Maybe ask you out on a date. What are boyfriends for? We may not be dating, but the whole point was keeping up the facade. We should probably go on at least one date."

  "No," she said flatly. "Go home."