TEN

Clara Addas












My legs start to cramp and I fidget. I'm in Mr. Moodley's biology class. Half of the class is either sleeping or fighting against it. The other students sit with their shoulders slouched, skimming over their thick biology textbooks with eyes that can barely focus. Mr. moodley's voice is lazy and soft. He talks as though he's under the influence of Inhalent. It's like he's singing a lullaby. I guess every school has one of those teachers. Boring to its every extremity.
The bell rings. I jump to my feet and roughly shove my things into my backpack. I wait a moment even though I'm in a hurry too and watch the other kids stampeding towards the door, outside they linger waiting on friends.
While I wait for the last herd to push through the door, I text Papa to let him know a friend of Zoe's is dropping me off later this afternoon. I tell him it's because of some assignment we must do in pairs. Papa would freak if he found out Zoe had set me up with a guy named Steve, ugh no, I think she said he's Kevin. Guilty as charged, I forget names the second I hear them. As they say there are exceptions to every rule. So unless you have something that sticks out, like that girl from Biology whose lopsided boobs are more famous than Kim Kardashian's booty. Not that I remember her name or anything but for now let's call her Pamela Anderson. She's not really important. That's why we should forget her and move on. I don't even remember the point I was trying to make. Oh, well.
As I walk through the door, a good looking boy with a Mohawk is leaning against the wall. He's trying to be sexy like those male celebrities you might find on the cover of a sports magazine. Stroking his chin with this hand, racking his fingers through his hair with the other hand. He's trying too hard. When he catches my gaze an effortless grin spreads through his baby face. Okay, Zoe, not bad. Not at all.
I was worried it'd be some guy into dark clothes and performing ridiculous satanic rituals much the same as Zoe herself. I try not to but I stare at his feet. They're abnormal. Too small even for a guy so short. The Kevin Hart kind. He winks, under all that layer of colour, I'm probably blushing.
This must be Steve or Kevin. He's too cute to be a Steve, nowadays when I picture a Steve it's always a black male in his early sixties with a mustache covering his swollen lips. Blame that on my unhealthy obsession with Steve Harvey.
I walk towards him but jerk my head behind me as footsteps clatter towards me. A boy with nondescript afro is running towards me. His hair is in such knots I'm sure it'd be very difficult for a girl to run her fingers through. I shudder, nausea engulfing me. He's too hairy.
He steps in front of me, flushed and breathless. "Whassup, lil Mama, I'm Stevin."
Oh fuck no! I think I'd take a Steve over a Stevin any day. Stevin's choice of words, and actions: licking his lips while looking at me as a dog might look at a bone, make him sound insubstantial, and worse, a pervert. Not someone I want to spend a couple hours with, even on a boring Wednesday afternoon.
Besides, now his name makes me think of a Steve Harvey with a Kevin Hart height. Which wouldn't be so bad if Stevin had a healthy dose of their wit and sense of humour.
His hair twistes into coils. (Greek God Medusa, anyone?). His milky eyes sit close together. His smile. Shocking. Does the guy even know what a toothbrush is? His teeth have stained yellow and plaque has collected near the gums.
When Steven speaks he breathes forth a cloud of rotten mushrooms and uncooked onions.
Oh hell no! Just no.
"Daniel's beautiful sister, correct?"
Zoe's ugliest friend, right?
I laugh for I don't know know what else to do. If not I might have started crying. Even if his button-down shirt and jeans weren't mapped by coffee stains and dried... Is that sauce? I still would've caught his Uncleanliness by the foulness of his armpits. Oh man! I can't go out with this guy, not if I want a good reputation in highschool. And I do.
Our eyes meet. His are actually quite nice, an unusual grey. Quite unique for a black guy. Maybe it's contacts. With a thorough bath and a fresh set of clothes dipped in fabric softener he might have potential. Potential. He winks at me and wiggles his bushy eyebrows suggestively. I'm actually staring at the boogers at the corner of his eyes, he must think I find him attractive.
I want to puke as I speak. "Zoe didn't tell me you were so... Unique."
"I'm flattered."
He fishes in his backpack until he finds us both a hamburger each. It's from Wimpy, a local diner. It's still wrapped, thank Goodness! But I won't eat it. If he has the guts to proudly showcase a body that's in need of serious grooming then what state is his bag in? There might be old pizza slices in there or worse yet, cockroaches and maggots. I shudder and mumble a no thanks.
He takes my hand and plants a wet kiss. Fish kiss. Ew. I have no doubt that hiss saliva stinks as well. His nails are two weeks overdue for a cut, a black, thick layer of dirt has collected in them.
What have I gotten myself into?
As we walk to the parking lot, I'm careful to keep at least two feet distance between us so that people don't see us together. He nods to every other guy he passes on the hallway. When he greets a brunette and she doesn't answer he halts his long strides, whips his head towards her so fast I fear he's paralysed himself and says, in one of the loudest voices I've ever heard: "I wasn't asking for your loose ass. Twas just a simple hello."
She looks him up and down with a look that says he shouldn't even be talking to her because he's not in her league.