Nor did anyone seem to feel alone in the world like he did. No one else found themselves drowning in a whirlwind of confusion. No one had come to the same frustrating realizations that he had. He was forced out of his comfort zone and made to accept the fact that everything he thought he believed in, everything he thought he was had been a lie, or at least, a lifetime of ignorance.
The mulatto girl had won. She got her grade. She made him look like a fool. That was the end of it. There was no use letting it torment him any longer. He didn't like being wrong, but if he was a fool, he was going to be a dignified fool. No apologies would be made on his behalf. There would be no sudden life changing realizations or corny epiphanies about his renewed sense of conscience. He was determined to stand strong by his principles. It was possible for one niggress to pass a Physics class, but one example didn't say anything about the intellect of the rest. That would take a great deal more convincing.
Still, the girl...the lady, if you will, deserved her name.
Chantel. Chantel Pari.
He said the name over and over to himself. Chantel Pari. Pari Chantel.
Not colored. Not bitch. Not devil.
Just Chantel.
He laughed, hardly believing that the acknowledgment of her name was even on the table for consideration. What did it matter to him that she had an actual name? It didn't. What kind of name was Chantel anyway? How was he supposed to take anyone seriously with a "ghetto ass" name like that?
....And how was he supposed to justify his obsession for it?
He wasn't obsessed with her. He wouldn't go that far. She had no influence at all over his decision to take summer school. It had been one of his own dumb drunken impulsive decisions, completely independent of Chantel Pari.
At least that's what he told himself.
Summer school had been a way to enrich his own mind with extracurricular material, not a desperate attempt at redemption. After all, he had nothing to prove anyone. Especially Chantel Pari.
Still, no matter how he tried to justify it, summer school was a done deal. At this point in the semester, there was no bailout plan. When first signing up for classes, he hadn't had the hindsight to develop a backup plan for dropping out of summer school. His GPA would be affected if he resigned.
That's what he told himself to keep going, though it was not his GPA that concerned him most, but something more painful and tumultuous. Despite how badly he wanted to cling to his old way of life, he knew he couldn't go back to Colorado still seeing things the way he used to. He was a reasonable being, after all, and somehow California had changed him. It wasn't a dramatic transformation, but deep inside, he felt that a very small fraction of his persona had been shaken. However, he couldn't stay in California either because home was in Colorado. Ultimately, he was trapped in limbo.
With all this racing through his mind, Eric leaned against the railing, over which he had hoisted his essay on The Souls of Black Folk. He watched the pages twitch and flicker in the breeze as students herded below him, trampling and kicking around his discarded homework. Faithful sheep entrusting the overrated college scam, he thought. Who else but sheep believe that education will solve all their problems, even if it means selling themselves to debt they can't afford?
Slit your wrists now and save your families the trouble, Eric wanted to shout down at them, but wisely kept the words to himself for his own personal amusement.
Gradually, Chantel's socially awkward friends began to appear beneath the balcony, manning their usual post by the north student snack bar. Eric recorded the time. He had been scoping them out for days, noting who they were, what they looked like, where they went, what time they went there, and what relationship they appeared to have with Chantel Pari. Knowing your enemy is a basic concept in any militaristic operation. He became an expert on every one of their lives on campus, knowing that at any given moment, Chantel Pari would be in the company of at least one of them. Knowing her friends and who was important to her would make it easy for him to blackmail or threaten her in the future.
It wasn't long until a gathering of four had commandeered a bench near the snack bar and took out their laptops to exchange notes, talking and laughing as if their lives actually mattered in the grand scheme of things.
As predicted, Chantel Pari joined them moments later at 12:15pm, exactly three minutes earlier than she had showed up the day before. Eric figured she must have found a shortcut from class to be that consistently early, and noted that he needed to check that out and confirm it.
After logging away his statistics, Eric proceeded with his observation of the unsuspecting subject from afar. He studied every little detail, from how she greeted all her friends with hugs, to how she smiled and talked, to how daintily she bent one knee while standing and shifting her weight from foot to foot. He watched how she carried herself and how she reacted in her environment, as if she were a newly discovered species on Earth and it was his responsibility to become a scientific expert on her behaviors.
For the most part, these observations were benign and innocent enough. Chantel was really something extraordinary in his eyes, a bizarre contradiction that he never thought existed. It was only natural that he was curious about her. Yet, when he entertained the idea that she might actually be beautiful to him, he found himself at an internal war with his pride again.
When pride took over, he'd get carried away again by thoughts of reprisal and questions like What makes Chantel Pari tick? How far could he push her? How much pain could she tolerate before he completely broke her mind?
Sometimes, he'd pretend to stab her in the back with a pencil as she walked by, but when that did nothing to satisfy him, he fantasized about more invasive plots.
Once, he brought a toolbox to school, and spent an hour in the campus parking lot debating with himself about whether slashing her tires or breaking into her car would make him happier. He never actually touched her car, but he liked the sense of power it gave him sitting in his front seat with that toolbox, knowing at any moment he could ruin her life if he really wanted to.
Now, standing there against that railing with her close in sight, he daydreamed about a new episode of dominating Chantel Pari. Situated in a convenient location above the unwary victim, he could accidentally let go of his bag, and by chance, it'd slip over the rail and poof! No more Chantel Pari. Well at least in theory. The very most it could do was a head injury and slight concussion, but again, it was not really about hurting her. It was all about renewing his sense of power. Nothing defined power like the ability to control what happens to another human being. He could control whether she felt pain or pleasure, whether she was anxious or at peace, whether she feared or loved him, or even whether she lived or died.
Though he entertained these fantasies of power, he still hadn't actually done anything to her. In fact, more than likely, she was unaware that he was even there. She had written him off long ago. After the nightmare of sharing a Physics class with him, she completely and happily moved on with her life. When she passed him in between classes, she was so caught up in her own world that she rarely even looked up at him, unaware of her sovereignty in a perdition that left him powerless.
Nonetheless, he believed that her ignorance would be short-lived. He made a promise to himself. One day, he would overthrow her power by coming to a final decision on how to deal with her. He would wreck her, either physically or mentally, and she would keep him company in the Hell where she kept him prisoner. He would craft her ruin so cunningly that she would forgot all else but him and pain.
And know nothing better than pain.
Still Powerless…
However, that day of retribution was still far off.
Engrossed in his own thoughts, he lost track of Chantel, and the opportunity to drop a bag on her head was lost as she waved goodbye to her friends and turned toward the stairwell leading up to his balcony.
Burning with agitation, Eric ripped his bag away from the railing and threw it ove
r his shoulder. She started up the stairs, and he slipped in his earphones, assuming a casual guise as if he'd coincidently crossed her path. He turned the volume up, allowing his German metal playlist to silence his surroundings. He couldn't hear her footsteps as she drew near and had no reason to even look up at her, but in the end, he couldn't resist the temptation. He gazed at her boldly and unchecked, which made her quickly glance away and take a sudden interest in the old spider webs clinging to the roof above them.
The brief diversion allowed him to steal a few more seconds, and he seized the rare opportunity of being so close to her. Of course, he wouldn't have time to study all of her intently, so he superficially swept over key features of her body. He first focused on her eyes and judged that they were actually pretty, warm and golden under full sweeping lashes, like maple syrup on a stack of pancakes. They might have been prettier if she hadn't been blinking so damn much, a sure sign that she was getting uncomfortable.
Finally, he too looked away, under the weight of the same awkwardness, but only after pondering the curvy hips that rounded into her cute shapely ass. Admittedly, Colorado summers couldn't top the quality of tail that emerged in a California season. Even Chantel Pari looked bangable in Cali sunshine. She had traded her usual charcoal knit sweaters and leggings for a scanty white sundress which left just enough to the imagination. Though she tried to assume her modesty by adding a lightweight yellow cardigan to the mix, there was no hiding her perky caramel voluptuousness restrained by the fabric. Eric guessed she was probably a 36C, maybe a D if he was lucky.
Before the discovery of porn URLs, he remembered innocently stumbling upon a Jet magazine outside a Denver black hair salon. Vanessa Williams was on the cover and he hid the magazine in his sock drawer for months. Though it had been a solo experience, it was his first sexual acquaintance with a black woman. Back then, at the dawn of adolescence, he hadn't really noticed that she was dark skinned, and for years, she had represented the ideal woman for him. It wasn't until later, when a friend found the magazine in his drawer, that he was told black women were dirty and subclass. Because he was white, he could only date white women. Of course, Chantel Pari looked nothing like Vanessa Williams, but she had a certain black Barbie appeal to her that intrigued him.
He wondered all sorts of things that he shouldn't have. What secrets had she hidden in her sock drawer? How many guys had taken her home? Were they white or black? Who was her first? Who was her last? Was that her real hair? Her real eyes? How did she get her lips so soft and plump like that? Did they taste anything like the candy marshmallow scent of her body spray?
Stuck on that last question, he froze right in front of her, unaware that he was blocking her way to the top few stairs. The look she gave him demanded that he have one hell of an explanation for cutting her off. He didn't. He just wanted to know what her lips tasted like. He believed if he just knew that, the spell would be broken. It would put to rest any fantasies and idealisms about her that had festered inside of him. He would see once and for all that she was nothing more than a black girl with seductive lips and deserved no further consideration. Yet he couldn't know all that by just staring at them. Would he have to kiss her? She wouldn't take that too well. He wouldn't take that too well.
No, he wasn't going to kiss her. He wasn't going to do anything intelligible. He was just going to stand there like an idiot and chuckle, "I threw my homework over the balcony."
Chantel raised an eyebrow puzzled, confused, and disgusted.
"Ok...that's not my problem," she told him. "You think you could move out of my way? I have class."
Daintily, she stepped around him and Eric had never felt so powerless. He could do nothing to stop her. He couldn't make her pay attention to him. He couldn't even get her to respect him. It got under his skin more than anything, but whether he liked it or not, she escaped his sphere again.
As she marched for the doors, she said nothing else. Her facial expression had said it all anyway.
Stay away from me, creep.
Breaking Down Walls
Eric skipped class that day and found his usual dark corner in the basement of the library. It was the only place where he could escape the unrelenting heat and lounge under an AC vent undisturbed. He brazenly perched his feet on a table and crossed his arms against his chest. Typically, he occupied this space alone, but there were a handful of students who had discovered the pleasure of his hideout and were busy studying at nearby tables. On any other day, under any other circumstance, he would have been agitated by the invasion, but he had become distracted by a person of considerable interest crammed in a remote corner across the room. A fan of Chantel Pari, he soon realized. He had done enough study to recognize her kind a mile away.
The nervous, pudgy Mexican guy in outdated dark glasses was a stark contradiction to his own persona, and probably would have served better as prey for his amusement. However, the longer Eric sat contemplating, the more he started liking this timid Mexican and what he represented. He didn't appear like much at first, but Eric gradually began to see what use he could be, an invaluable tool to prying open a door that had long been closed to him. All he needed was a way to gain access to the tool.
Eric figured it wouldn't be difficult. He could see the four eyed Mexican had a weaker personality than his own, and it wouldn't be hard to push him. Nonetheless, he had to proceed carefully. He didn't want to push too hard and make the Mexican clam up. That would defeat the whole purpose. Rather than assume superiority, Eric decided that friendship was a better tactic. What he needed was to appeal to the Mexican's interests, and if he succeeded, he could finally breach the impenetrable walls of Chantel Pari.
It was an opportune moment, as opportune as such moments come, for at that moment, the Mexican seemed quite distressed. He sat with his head in his hands, a pile of discarded wads of paper surrounding his tattered notebook. A row of sharpened pencils lined his elbows on either side. It wasn't until his watch chimed the 5 o'clock hour that Eric causally approached him.
"Don't take this the wrong way. I'm just saying what everyone else in here is thinking," Eric told him. "It's hard to study when you got some inconsiderate asshole ripping out pages in a notebook. You think you could unleash that angst on something else for a while?"
Eric thought it was a perfectly legitimate request, but the Mexican looked at him as if he had asked to be sodomized. Ok, maybe he could've phrased it a little better and left out the asshole part, but sarcasm always got in the way, no matter how goodly intended he was. He really was trying hard to make nice, but it never seemed to come out that way. Why was it that everything he said to anyone always make him sound like an ass?
He quickly flashed his most winning smile to make himself appear more likable, and in his politest, sweetest voice, he added, "Please?"
"Sorry, didn't mean to bother you. I'll move somewhere else."
"I don't care if you sit here. I don't give a shit about trees either, but for the sake of fuck, do you think you could tone it down a notch?"
"I'm moving," the Mexican said determinedly, grabbing his book bag and standing to leave.
Eric was losing him. He decided to triage pass all the niceties and get straight to the point. "You know Chantel Pari, right?" Eric asked, before the timid guy could retreat. "I've seen you walk her to class. Open doors for her. Pick up everything she drops. Is she your girl?"
"That's none of your business," he replied, swinging his backpack over his shoulder.
"Ya, I get it. We don't know each other," Eric said, holding out his hand to shake his. "I'm Eric Chandler, pronounced with a long A. The American short A pronunciation is also acceptable, but if you choose to use that pronunciation, I'll probably call you a dumbass behind your back. So what name would you like me to use to your face?"
The Mexican made no attempt to return the handshake. He appeared speechless and dumbfound, looking around for a quick excuse to run. Nothing would come to his aid. If he was a person who prided himself
in being the paragon of politeness, which he was, he would have to stay and humor Eric as long as was socially appropriate. However, he was unsure about what answer to give in response to Eric's question, wondering what he could say that wouldn't betray Chantel.
"I don't mean to be rude," the Mexican said finally. "But I really don't see anything good coming out of this conversation. I should get going."
"I haven't even said anything yet," Eric said, chuckling. "You look tense. Am I scaring you? Boo."
"I just don't think I should be talking to you," he said, evading Eric's eyes. "It doesn't benefit anyone and I don't want people to think that I'm associated with...you know."
"No, I don't know."
"It's just bad business all around."
Eric laughed. "Relax. I'm just having a conversation. You don't have to tell her if you don't want to," he said. "So what's your name, or would you rather I keep calling you 'the Mexican' in my head?"
"My name is Robert," he said firmly. "And I'm not Mexican. I'm Guatemalan."
"Everything south of the border is Mexico," Eric joked, though he was the only one who found it funny. "So it's still ok to call you Roberto then?"
"Did I say my name was Roberto?"
"I can call you Rob if that's better. Or Berto."
"My name is Robert."
"Ya, but you don't look like a Robert. That's the problem," Eric said. "What are you working on here?" He seized a wad of paper from the table before the Mex- or rather, Robert could snatch it back.
Robert's reticent, slightly crossed eyes scurried away. He wrung his fingers around his pencil, increasingly uncomfortable and desperate for an escape. "Can you not do that?" he asked patiently.
Eric unraveled the letter anyway. "Is it a love letter?" he asked, half joking. He had not yet discovered who Chantel Pari was sleeping with, and it intrigued him greatly that out of all the guys she could date, this timid nerd could potentially be her sole love interest. Of course that hadn't been confirmed yet, but any guy who came in contact with her was a suspect to him.
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