Chapter 1: Awfully "Nice" People
Do I tell him?
I fight not to stare in disgust at the saliva that has congealed into a thick white paste around his mouth like Elmer's glue. I can't hear a word he's saying as I watch it web and squish in the corners of his mouth while he talks, his lips somehow bone dry; a gross paradox.
I should probably explain how I got here.
I landed my ass in junior college because I was in need of… incubation.
I struggle a lot with depression: super high highs, devastatingly low lows, feeling empty all the time, sometimes wishing I would just die in my sleep so I wouldn't have to think anymore—you know, the usual teenage crisis.
Growing up was comprised of family interventions, days of hormonal spiraling and constantly (not always successfully) keeping my impulsive self destructive urges under control.
Problem child.
When will Rain ever be okay?
ClearlyI was little busy figuring out what my normal was, that I never quite figured out what I wanted to be, and blundered through my formative years of schooling believing I was useless garbage with no important skills.
My lack of commitment and tendency for trouble led to the decision that I attend junior college so my parents could keep an eye on me but more importantly, to avoid flushing hundreds and thousands of dollars of college tuition down the toilet, just for me to emerge with a degree in communications because I didn't know what the hell I wanted to do.
Which, to be honest was fair.
It's my first semester here. Junior College isn't so different from high school, except now there's also old people in your classes that usually don't know how technology works and they always want to tell you about their kids even though nobody cares.
I'm not great at socializing: I'm anxious, awkward and constantly feel like there's a stop watch counting down the moment when people are no longer interested in me or when I'll run out of things to say. Because for me, approaching someone first and making small talk was just as hard as claiming a public fart: hoping people laugh or just forget you ever existed.
Either way, you're in for a spine twisting cringe.
To avoid this, I usually just befriended whoever smiled at me first.
This strategy was not only lazy, but flawed. It usually got me stuck with the worst people ever. I personally call them: AwfullyNicePeople.
You know: the "different" people that are super nice, but also terrible, but they genuinely don't know that they're disgusting human beings?
Like white girls on Youtube that let rats eat out their mouths.
Or guys that think showers are suggestions.
Or, for example, when I was in 4thgrade I had a friend named Cindy
She had a Beluga whale shaped head, stringy strawberry blonde hair that clung in wisps to her scalp like Sméagol from Lord of the Rings, and on top of that she had really bad acne that she would pick at and eat.
Yep. She would pop the pimple and pop it in her mouth while we would all watch, faces screwed up. Booger flicking was one thing, but pimpleeating?
Gross.
Despite her nasty habits, Cindy was nice, and I felt like I couldn't reject based on her snack preference.
When I was in 5thgrade, I acquired another friend named Molly. She used to spit a lot when she talked because she had braces and rubber bands crammed in her mouth to correct her jacked up teeth. She always smelled of B.O, her hair greasy, slick and unmoving even when she ran, fingernails black crescents, warts dotting her forever clammy hands. But Molly was funny, and she played the games I liked, so I figured we could be buddies as long as she didn't touch me.
I remember the first play date we had at her house. They had 3 dogs, which was fine. I liked dogs, but not as much as these fucking people.
I watched in fascinated horror as her mother knelt and let the dogs thoroughly lick her lips and teeth insisting they were kisses, while all I could think about was the nasty shit dogs did everyday as their tongues tangled together.
Later as we sat at the dinner table, I watched again as her mother loaded the dishwasher. But instead of rinsing the dishes and putting them in the wash, she held the dirty plates out to the dogs and let them lick the plates clean before putting them in the dishwasher.
I vowed never to eat at her house.
Later I gained another friend, Amanda, who was also "quirky" and kind. Her mousey brown hair was always tangled at the crown of head and she always had orange crust dried at the corners of her mouth like she just finished eating an entire bag of Cheetos.
She was also really into opera, which she would demonstrate by screaming directly in your face, breath fowl, and she could hold a note for a long ass time.
But we had a lot of the same interests and despite her annoying tendency to blow her Komodo dragon breath in my face while also making my ears bleed, I thought for sure this would be the start of a glorious friendship
But her house was next level disgusting—like, potential health hazard, burn the whole thing down nasty.
They had a blind and deaf dog that was so old it was arguably cruel to let it live as long as it did. The dog would just piss and shit in the house, and no one would clean it up! Her family would just let it sit there and become one with the carpet; dark crusty stains.
And that's not even the worst of it.
Each room of her house had its own theme of garbage, the air heavy with the musty but distinct smell of urine. The living room was so cluttered you wouldn't have been able to tell there was furniture under all the chaos if it weren't for her step dad, casually reading the newspaper, sitting where the couch probably was.
The hallways were littered with dirty clothes and shoes, as if everyone would just open their bed room doors and toss their shit out in the hall, like a butler was supposed to come by and get it, but never did because he's probably buried under the river of fossilized, dirty laundry and no one noticed.
The kitchen was cluttered with greasy pans, dirty plates and ironically new and unused dish towels, probably just too lazy to wash their own pans, so they just bought more.
Amanda's room was a desecrated place. You couldn't see her floor because it was hidden by creepy porcelain dolls whose eyes were supposed to close when you lay them down, but they didn't, so there was a million glassy eyes peering up at you from underneath fossilized underwear, sticky Barbie dream house toys, used tissue, and wads of human hair, a true Toy Story nightmare or a gross version of Eye Spy.
I remember Amanda diving into the abyss of trash where her bed must have been eons ago, sprawled out like a pig in it's pen and me, standing stiffly in the one spot I could see the soiled carpet, fearful a roach might skitter across my shoe. We were talking for a few minutes before she laughed loudly in surprise and reached under her blankets, pulling out a log of dog shit that was so old it had turned white and chalky.
"I thought there might be poop in my bed again!" she chuckled, casually waving the fecal wand around before nonchalantly chucking it to the opposite corner of her room.
Returning a simple smile with these three girls unknowingly signed a contract that allowed them to sink their claws in me and I couldn't shake them for years, andbecause of this, I promised myself that from now on, I would make friends I could be proud of: smart, funny and cool, bathes regularly, always smells nice, likes the things I like and is loyal.
And not like Elmer's.
I never would have been stuck with him if it weren't for that stupid group project the first week of class—which, by the way, is something that I hate.
I don't like being forced to talk to people in settings where I normally wasn't expecting to talk, especially when I can't escape. There's nothing worse than impromptu elevator small talk, or in this case, talking to someone on the first day of class then wishing you hadn't, but it's too late because now there's that awful silent understanding that they're your partner for everything, which undoubtedly leads to awkward outside of class encounters like having to walk with them between classes, or having to wave at them if you ever cross paths.
'Why don't you try talking to someone else' you may ask?
And risk going through that whole scenario twice? I think the fuck not.
This is precisely what happened with Elmer's Glue. I haven't been able to shake him all month. And he insists on talking to me even though I stopped politely nodding weeks ago.
I'm pretty sure I have Resting Bitch Face.
And I don't know anything about this computer game he's talking about.
Maybe if I just go into the girl's bathroom, he'll go away?
I abruptly excuse myself and retreat down the hall to the restrooms. I end up using the toilet for real and spend a little time making faces at myself in the mirror before deeming enough time has passed for him to get the message. I push open the door and wince.
God damn it he waited for me.
"Hey, what are you doing after this?" he asks, his hands uncomfortably shoved into the front of his jean pockets that were clearly too tight for such an action, because it made his knuckles ashy.
"Oh wow I have to go…" I say, fumbling with my head phones and sidestepping him and speed walking away before he can say anything else, my bag banging against the door embarrassingly, the glass rattling from my hasty escape.
I brisk walk to the other side of campus to avoid running into him again and sit on a bench partially in the shade.
I fish around my purse for my sketchbook and begin to draw to pass the time.
Since as far as I can remember, I never really liked being in a class full of other kids. I had a lot of anxiety about suddenly being called on, and I didn't find the topics interesting. School for me was basically being on the verge of an anxiety attack, but also being so bored that I could die.
I would draw during class to pass the time, soothing my racing thoughts.
Sometimes if I don't have paper I draw on myself.
So here a sat on the bench, sketching away, hoping I would come off as a thoughtful artist instead of the loser I felt like inside.
I didn't have any friends after a whole month of being here. Junior college was full of all types of different people—but more importantly, black people.
I grew up in the suburbs, where the only black people I knew were my family. I was the only black kid in my classes, and if there ever was another black person, it was like a competition of "Who wants the be Token Black Kid?" where we fought to be the most stereotypically black because that's what all T.v. and media taught us to be:
If you weren't loud, outspoken, a good dancer, sassy or athletic, you weren't "Black enough". And ironically, the white kids were the ones telling you you weren't black enough. Willy White Whiterson had the authority to critique what made you you. And we followed because they were the majority.
My parents worked hard for their house on top of the hill, and taught my brothers and I not to be "Too Black".
Don't give these white people a reason not to respect you.
Exceed their expectations.
Be the farthest thing from the stereotype you can. Be better than them.
That's how you become successful.
I didn't know how to be—I didn't know what to be.
I was Black but shouldn't act like I was, even though I didn't understand what Black even meant and if it meant anything at all.
Clearly, I didn't know shit about black people. I was intimidated and intrigued.
But I also noticed that not many black people I saw reminded me of…me.
The junior college I attended was on the edge of Inglewood on Crenshaw. Which meant that the black people were from the inner city—a place I was not familiar with.
I quickly noticed that there were differences. They had their own language. Fashion could make or break you. They were trendsetters. Having a big butt was a good thing. Verbal harassment was apart of friendship, and they would break out into dance, or rap to a spontaneous beat. They were color: the creators of everything cool.
It was glorious.
It was fascinating.
It was terrifying.
I didn't know how to befriend my own people out of fear that Willy White Whiterson was right: maybe I'm not black enough.
On top of being scared to make new friends, if you haven't noticed, I haven't really had practice initiating contact with other humans. I just smiled; it was always up to them to make the next move.
What kind of questions do you ask?
How many questions is too many questions?
What do I do if there's a lull in conversation?
What if they're boring?
How do I cease contact if they're a weirdo?
My eyes flit around me, taking in groups of friends, people chatting in pairs; friendship and comradely all around me, yet it feels so far away.
There's no recess to help bridge the social gap! No games you can inch towards until you're eventually apart of, no more sitting at tables of 4 facing each other so you had no choice but to eventually become friends with the people around you. No more role call so you knew everyone's name and no one was a stranger.
Clearly I miss being a child.
The draw back of junior college was, there were no dorms or orientations or meet and greets to help bond us together like a 4 year university. Everyone wasn't 17 or 18, excited and desperate to make friends, they were between 17 to 60, attending classes for various reasons and then theygo home at the end of they day because none of us live here and we all have lives.
If you wanted community, you could pay to join a club or fake sports team.
But in college, clubs are just extra responsibilities in disguise, and I already served my years in the sports field; I have the scars to prove it.
I sigh in frustration, pressing the tip of my pen into the side of my leg.
I'm almost 20! Aren't I too old to not know how to make friends? I feel like that's a basic human skill that we should all pretty much have down by now.
I feel a little pinch in my chest as my shoulders sag.
Why is being a person so hard?
"Is anyone sitting here?"
I startle and glance up. A pretty girl with fair skin, wide hips, blonde curly hair that flares like a halo around her head is smiling at me. I scoot over a little and tense as she sits directly next to me, our thighs touching.
Is she gay? This wouldn't have been the first time this has happened.
Would it be rude if I scooted over more? I feel like she's rude for invading my personal space!
I close my sketchbook and try to casually gather my things and find a new spot to dwell until class since my solitude has been compromised.
Two taps on my shoulder from sharp nails.
I take out my earphones, annoyed that she's insisting on communicating despite the fact that I had my music in—the universal sign of "don't talk to me", but practiced polite smile is in place as I turn and raise my eyebrows expectantly.
"Doesn't this place suck?" she grins at me, and I find myself mimicking her, the expression contagious.
"It's the 6thcircle of hell." I joke, worried she might not laugh. I release a breath I didn't know I was holding when she cackles, nudging me with her shoulder like we've been best friends for years.
"Oh wow! We have the same ring!" she grabs my hand, the familiar action disarming me. She holds the back of her hand in my face so I can see the same blue eyeball ring that gazed at me from around her slender ring finger.
I feel my stomach jump at something we have in common and how easy this conversation was.
Just like grade school.
"Wait, when's your birthday?" she asks, her hand still holding my fingers.
"October 24th."
"No way! I'm the 25th!"
"Scorpio!" we shout in unison, making stinging motions with our hands before bursting out in laughter.
I find myself relaxing the more that I talk to this strange girl that seemed to appear out of nowhere. We ended up talking for an hour, not once exchanging names. We had the same birthday and liked the same things. She was confident and full of energy. I felt like the moon basking in her sunrays while time permitted it.
I glance at my phone, vaguely aware that I still had responsibilities.
"I gotta go. I have class." I begin to gather my bag. She holds out her hand expectantly, wiggling her fingers, cherry red nails winking.
"Give me your phone."
I try to act casual. For the first time in forever it seems like someone normal who appeared to shower regularly wants to be my friend.
She hands my phone back and I read her name:
Shannon.
The light skinned devil that would soon make my life the 7thcircle of Hell.