Tuesday #3
The Tuesday before he leaves for a workshop in Australia, Jerome graced us with his presence during our usual post-thesis class get-together. When we were in the car, Jerome sat alone in the back, which led Drew to reminisce about the first time Jerome ever hung out with the block: sitting alone in the back, two weeks into our freshmen year, when it suddenly occurred to everyone that he didn’t know anyone’s name.
But it’s safe to assume that he knows all of us now—after all, it’s been three years. Jerome still hasn’t changed: still the disturbingly talented asshole that he is, coddling nothing more than a glass of water, while quietly forking away at someone else’s order—but whose name he actually knows now.
A certain bassist had to leave early, because apparently the band needed to practice a “rocked” version of some Atenean cheer before Friday’s cheer rally. But we were reinforced that night: with Khaye, who in two and a half weeks has been the co-culprit in all the CW seniors’ hangovers; and with April, the first junior to hang out with us, who took the liberty to blame me for a sudden increase in “intake.”
And so the night with CW majors went on, depressingly cliché, but still ironically fun. Voices were raised—okay, only mine. Some musings about being unemployed in a year. Khaye and I arguing about going abroad—she wanting to for her MFA, I content with a school down the road. Then Jerome realizing that he actually had a sister he needed to pick up.
Somewhere in between all that, other things were raised: Ursula Le Guin, Hills Like White Elephants, White Elephants, DM Reyes, my story I sent to people, Drew’s story in Abola’s class, Drew’s story idea, Tennessee Williams’ short story, the poem Khaye sent me, April’s being accused of being emo or goth or something else, Drew’s use of conditioner, my preference to wear slippers, yadayadayada…
“So is this how we’re going to be like when we’re seniors,” April remarked, referring to Sasha, Nikay, Yaps, and the rest of her batch.
I hope not, I thought, with a knowing smile.
But it’s safe to assume that he knows all of us now—after all, it’s been three years. Jerome still hasn’t changed: still the disturbingly talented asshole that he is, coddling nothing more than a glass of water, while quietly forking away at someone else’s order—but whose name he actually knows now.
A certain bassist had to leave early, because apparently the band needed to practice a “rocked” version of some Atenean cheer before Friday’s cheer rally. But we were reinforced that night: with Khaye, who in two and a half weeks has been the co-culprit in all the CW seniors’ hangovers; and with April, the first junior to hang out with us, who took the liberty to blame me for a sudden increase in “intake.”
And so the night with CW majors went on, depressingly cliché, but still ironically fun. Voices were raised—okay, only mine. Some musings about being unemployed in a year. Khaye and I arguing about going abroad—she wanting to for her MFA, I content with a school down the road. Then Jerome realizing that he actually had a sister he needed to pick up.
Somewhere in between all that, other things were raised: Ursula Le Guin, Hills Like White Elephants, White Elephants, DM Reyes, my story I sent to people, Drew’s story in Abola’s class, Drew’s story idea, Tennessee Williams’ short story, the poem Khaye sent me, April’s being accused of being emo or goth or something else, Drew’s use of conditioner, my preference to wear slippers, yadayadayada…
“So is this how we’re going to be like when we’re seniors,” April remarked, referring to Sasha, Nikay, Yaps, and the rest of her batch.
I hope not, I thought, with a knowing smile.
posted by M.V. at 10:13 AM
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