By Any Means Necessary

by Candice Montgomery

  ME: You’re into comics?

  GABRIEL: No, I am actually not!

  GABRIEL: But even if I was, I’d still be infinitely cooler than you and your “burning the midnight oil” lookin ass

  I die.

  I throw my phone, and it lands on our shitty carpet-over-cement floor, and I die and die and die.

  And then Desh wakes up, unlocks his phone, and tags me in another Vine.

  @DESHperateHousewives: @ReturnoftheMcKenzie yo, I’m weak rn

  But he’s actually not. He’s practically comatose. And this time I think he’s probably gonna stay that way because he slides down his pillow, half his body basically hanging off the bed, and drops his phone, too.

  And he still doesn’t wake up.

  I do something dumb. Which is standard operating procedure.

  I lean over, a snoring, mouth-all-kinds-of-open-like-your-loud-Aunt-Ruth’s-mouth-at-the-cookout Desh just behind and to the left of me. Phone back in hand, I snap a quick photo (okay, fine, it’s more like eight or nine photos) of him and me and send it to Gabriel with the cry-laugh emoji.

  ME: Blame his snoring, it’s screwing with my ability to use relevant slang!

  There’s a long delay in his response and if I have to wait however many days or hours for him to reply again, I’m going to lose it and throw a baby llama into the ocean or something.

  But he texts back like ten minutes later, just as I’m about to doze off.

  GABRIEL: You really can’t send me pics like that.

  Shit.

  Shoot.

  Shit. Did I mess up? Do I tell him I was only joking, or would that be super childish? Desh won’t care if I took any number of photos of him. Awake, sleeping, naked, dead. I’m willing to put money on the fact that giving a shit isn’t his style. But maybe Gabriel’s a stickler on stuff like that? Like, taking photos of people without their express permission and sending them to third parties.

  ME: Oh haha. My bad. Desh is my boy tho, he’ll think the pic is hilarious.

  GABRIEL: No

  GABRIEL: I just mean pictures

  GABRIEL: Of you

  GABRIEL: At night

  GABRIEL: With no shirt on

  Oh.

  I swallow my heartbeat.

  I don’t text back. I honestly can’t. Because how do you even respond to that with anything other than “God, you make my heart smile.”

  9.

  Orientation weekend comes and goes, and classes officially start the following Tuesday.

  Desh and CAKE spend the day bumming around Frisco (which, I’ve learned, nobody who is actually from San Francisco calls it “Frisco”), doing all the touristy bits like biking the Golden Gate Bridge and hitting up Ghirardelli Square.

  I know this, not because I make the wise and incredibly social college-student decision to go with them, but because I spend half that day checking their tweets and Instagram stories, and the other half researching what I can do to appeal this decision to snatch my farm.

  The facts are these:

  1. Yes, Lisa did in fact make me marathon Pushing Daisies post cancellation. Which, yo, is a sadness. And so dumb of—whatever network Pushing Daisies was even on, God, I can’t even remember, can you? ABC?

  2. The “notices” Theo would have gotten about the apiary had come on the heels of the state reaching out to him about the property taxes he never paid.

  3. Theo was delinquent on two years’ worth of unpaid property taxes. Which doesn’t seem like much for a passion project turned bee farm in the Los Angeles ghettoes. But, again, gentrification, that sly bastard, had been increasing the property’s value for the better half of a decade. Uncle Miles had swooped in and gotten things started just in time to turn a solid-enough profit each quarter.

  4. There is a Facebook message board or group for literally anything these days, including, to my great pleasure, one where people in the thick of foreclosures can ask questions and/or vent their frustrations. I don’t vent, but I do ask a couple of questions about what my options are, leaving my contact information in case anyone has any information that can help me. (That was some dumbass kid shit. So definitely keep this part in mind; it’s gonna bite me in the ass later.)

  5. I spend all day reading and learning whatever I can for an approximate four minutes and twelve seconds of phone time with the State Personnel Board. Which is to say, I am actually on the phone for three hours. Two hours, fifty-five minutes, and forty-five seconds of that consists of me being on hold, listening to Whitney’s “How Will I Know.” Previously an incredible, timeless song. But now I have time on that bitch. I have two hours, fifty-five minutes, forty-five seconds and a beautifully detailed explanation of how, exactly, you will know that he loves your dumb ass.

  6. I’m sorry, Whitney, RIP. I ain’t mean it.

  7. My next course of action is, I think, going to have to be filing an extension on the allotted time we’re being given to vacate the premises. They give us a two-month lead time. That’s bull.

  8. Emery, my favorite little cupcake (don’t tell Auburn), once mentioned in SFSU’s online forum that she’s been involved with this civil rights group (note to self: remember the name of said group before speaking to Em about it) who might have some resources, know-how, or pull with the city.

  9. So, natch, I stay up until 4:44 (shout out HOV!) a.m. trying to figure out how to put that in motion.

  Now, fast-forward to my dumb ass waking up at 8:16 a.m. the next morning, which is sixteen minutes past the start of my first-ever official college class.

  I barely manage to pull my shirt on and grab my dorm key card before I book it out the door, a still sleeping, did-not-schedule-an-8:00-a.m.-class Desh snoring in a cloud of my dust.

  Ever notice how there’s always this, like, weird rule in life, where if you think you are at rock bottom, you know you had better keep that shit to yourself. Because nine times out of ten, the universe might just show up at your cocksucking house, all A BITCH HAD TIME TODAY! and kick you down rock bottom’s stairs for shits and giggles.

  So that’s me, swearing to Jesus and Madonna and Cher and all them other one-name assholes that if I could just make it to this class and not have lost my spot, then I’d prioritize school and keep bees (haha, keep bees) on the back burner.

  And I’m feeling pretty good about it for the first, eh, nine or so minutes I spend sprinting from the dorms. But then, oh sweet universe, I get lost.

  And after I ask for directions and head in the exact opposite direction I just came from, I get lost again before finally finding the building, floor, and room number I’m supposed to be in for CIV 207: Advanced Civilizations II.

  Which would be wonderful!

  Except the doors are locked. And the only greeting I get is from a sign on the wall to the left of the double doors that reads, “LATE ON THE FIRST DAY? NOT COOL. SEE ME AFTER CLASS, AND I’LL LET YOU KNOW IF YOUR EXCUSE IS GOOD ENOUGH TO KEEP YOUR SPOT. I WOULDN’T HOLD MY BREATH. —Dr. Lily Anderson”

  I spend whatever’s left of the hourlong class sitting on the floor directly across from that ugly sign. I swear that sign is laughing at me.

  Up yours, sign. You’re written in Comic Sans, nobody likes you anyway.

  An exhale leaves me slumped farther down the wall.

  How is it possible that I’ve messed up so royally already? Maybe this is just my life now. Maybe what I just do now is mess things up. Maybe Theo is right, and I’ve been chasing after some “romantic shit” with the apiary this entire time. He thinks I romanticize Uncle Miles’s death by trying to keep his legacy alive in the bees.

  Maybe Theo is right. And it’s the worst thing, like ants crawling under the skin.

  I hate failing. Don’t you? I mean, who doesn’t, y’know? But you want to know what I hate even more than failing?

  Failing while Theo is watching. Failing and proving Theo right. Failing and confirming every stupid thing Theo has ever said about me. That I am a burden. That my sexuality and I have humiliated him
. That everything I do, every way I feel and every part of who I am is inappropriate.

  “I’m going to bet my lunch money that you’re Torrey McKenzie.”

  The woman standing in front of me is very tall. Easily six feet or so. I glance up at her, dressed in a myriad of loose fabrics, half of which are sheer, all of which are dark in color. Gray or black or a mix.

  Her hair is a shade I would definitely name Unnatural Orange. I’m mentioning the hair first so you can get a picture going. Curls. Super tight ones. And there are so many of them shits, it’s ridiculous. This woman is Medusa in the flesh. And you bet your sweet ass I’m afraid of her.

  She sucks her teeth. “Up, kid. Rule number one in my class is don’t be late. Rule number two is don’t ever keep a Latina waiting.”

  I wait for that stupid third rule, but it doesn’t come because she turns on her Birkenstocked feet and walks back into the room.

  Do I follow?

  Duh! Of course I follow, weren’t you just there, listening to what she said? Don’t. Keep. A. Latina. Waiting. Bitch.

  I add the bitch part because it felt implied. Like, she definitely wanted to call me a bitch, and you know what, I was gonna let her.

  “You can call me Coco. Take a seat, McKenzie.”

  I take the seat immediately to my left because, honestly, I don’t know what would happen if I took my time making it to the front of the decked-out auditorium-style classroom just to park my Black ass right in front of her.

  Buuuuuuuut … then she comes at me with a single raised brow, and I have no choice but to get up and basically sprint to the front of the class.

  How does she do this? Like, I’ve only met one college professor in my life so far, and if they’re all this intimidating, I’m going to have to rethink my interest in higher education.

  In front of her now (and seated, yes), I don’t dare speak.

  “You want this class, Torrey?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You want to remain a student at this university and in this class in your ‘Hello, I’m Green’ clothing?”

  Damn, like that? I didn’t think I looked that young. How does someone wear the same shit they’ve been wearing for two years and still show up to college on a wave of lame-ass First-Time Freshman vibes?

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. Grab a syllabus off the table on your way out the door. Before you come to my class each week, you’re going to visit me in my office an hour prior, until further notice.”

  [extremely Lin-Manuel Miranda–as–Hamilton voice] I’m sorry, what?

  “That’s, like, 7:00 a.m. I’d have to be up—”

  “On time. Yes.” She nods. Steeples her fingers. I love her and I fear her and I hate her and I’m low-key trying to be her.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Good. Haul ass out of here before my next class shows up.”

  I don’t hesitate, except then she’s shouting, “¡Ya! ¡La pinche sílaba!” and it doesn’t take a genius to interpret her Spanish and realize I never grabbed a syllabus.

  I double back. Grab it.

  Do not make eye contact. And then I book it out of there.

  College is stupid and emotionally exhausting but also kind of a thrill.

  10.

  I’m on my skateboard, doing damage to my trucks and bearings, the street half jackhammered apart as a result of too many years with no county aid, and I’m heading toward the apiary.

  I kick my regular leg out and slow my speed down to greet Mrs. Jericho, who everyday, regardless of the weather, is outside watering her garden at exactly this time. Her very dead garden that probably won’t ever make a comeback. But still, she’s out there, back bowed by an unseen struggle and humming some soulful rendition of what is either “Wade In the Water” or Jon B’s “They Don’t Know.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Jericho,” I call as my wheels click by.

  She glances up slow, like molasses. “Oh, Torrey, hi, baby. How you doin’?”

  “I’m okay, how are you?”

  She rubs a spot low on her back as she stands upright. “Oh, don’t you be out here worrying about me. You need to be better than just ‘okay.’ How we gon’ get you a good woman otherwise?”

  Yikes. Never fails. “Alright, Mrs. Jericho.” I’m almost out of earshot now, but Mrs. Jericho didn’t survive in this neighborhood for forty years by being quiet.

  “My granddaughter would be perfect for you. She’s a lawyer,” she calls as I’m almost at the end of the block.

  “I’m only eighteen, Mrs. Jericho.”

  “I’mma have her call your auntie,” she shouts. “You be safe on that board!”

  “I will, Mrs. Jericho.” I take the left a little too hard and know internally that my body is falling toward an injury that will be catastrophic, my bones twisting in on themselves in some futile effort to save something. My balls shrivel up into my stomach and somehow I’m naked now because I land facedown and break my face in front of Coco’s entire class.

  I come awake in what I know is the most horrific fashion. The lights in the dorm are all off, save for Desh’s reading light, a lighthouse across the way.

  I’m trying to make this metaphor work for you, but I almost just used the sweat that’s covering my body as some painted image of the ocean. So. I’ll stop there.

  You’re welcome.

  “You okay, Torr?” Desh is trying so hard not to laugh. I feel like I should commend him for this tremendous effort.

  Before I answer Desh and tell him I’m kind of not okay, I pick up my phone and see a text that came in about forty minutes ago. It’s just past midnight now.

  GABRIEL: #whiteflagemoji

  “Yeah.” I hear the relief in my voice. “Yeah, I’m good.”

  I break promises pretty often.

  Not on purpose. It’s mostly because half the time, when I make the promises (to myself, or other people, doesn’t really matter who), I’m in survival mode. Being a Black kid does not leave you with a lot of value or utils to barter. So you promise shit you know your ass can’t deliver on.

  I hear my mother’s voice in my head. Don’t write checks your ass can’t cash.

  So, needless to say, I don’t prioritize school over my bees. I try to, at first.

  That lasted, oh, I don’t know, all of twelve hours.

  Luckily, I make it to my second day of college classes on time. And though this first one’s at 11:00 a.m. and not early as all who-knows-what like Coco’s, I’m still taking the W.

  I meet Gabriel at one of SFSU’s many vendor locations, a coffee shop called Café 101, which seems like lazy branding if you ask me.

  Wish I could say it was by design, but I get there before he does. Which, for me, isn’t ideal because then I get all dumb and nervous and start thinking up random scenarios involving us—I celeb-named us, too: Torriel. Doesn’t it sound like some kind of angel that’s been cast from heaven?—and that’s not conducive to, like, annnnything. Because he’s attached, and so am I. To LA. To the bees. To the very same place that never ceases to feel like both my vice and my savior.

  But aside from all the catastrophizing I do, it turns out that arriving first and getting to watch him arrive has a pretty large payout.

  He smiles the second he sees me, and it’s weird because I was so stressed out that I somehow wouldn’t recognize him or he wouldn’t recognize me and then we’d just be these two completely unintentional Catfished dudes who no longer look like our social media photos but still think we do.

  But that’s not for London. Gabriel. Gabe.

  He strides through the student marketplace like he is meant to, pivoting his head only a fraction to seek me out before, boom, finding me.

  And he lights up.

  And he seems relieved?

  And he is coming toward me.

  And he does not say a word. He pulls his canvas bag up and over his head to take it off and when he does, his T-shirt rides up a little, though he quickly pulls it down, like, way rou
gher than he needs to, as though he’s self-conscious about it.

  About his happy trail. Or maybe—maybe—he’s self-conscious about how happy his happy trail makes me.

  Food for thought, food for thought.

  “I didn’t think you’d recognize me,” he says. And his voice kicks the crap out of my ability to function. Until he reaches up and deftly ties his mane of multicolored hair up into this thing on top of his head, sliding the tie on his wrist around it without a single thought.

  Probably something he does all the time. He’d have to. His hair is long as sin.

  But in my head, it’s a miraculous thing. The way his arms, toned with the kind of muscle that couldn’t have existed in eighth grade, push up and pull, to complete a seemingly simple, completely mundane task. He’s all sinew and lean muscle, and my goodness—ass!

  The ass on that boy.

  Okay wait, sorry. We’re back online.

  “You okay?” he says. “Did I sit down at the wrong table? Are you not Torrey Mac?”

  I laugh. It’s this huge, obnoxiously farm-animal thing. “No one’s called me that since middle school. But yeah. It’s me. Fleshy and all that mess.”

  His smile is quiet, and I like the way his eyes turn into these tiny slits displaying his lashes like a fan.

  “You want coffee or something? Tea? Smoothie?”

  “They have too many options here.”

  “I was really about to say that.” He fiddles with a second tie that’s still around his wrist.

  Gabe crosses an ankle over his knee as the barista comes to our table. He has another tie around his ankle. How many does one person need? Jesus Christ.

  I realize suddenly that I am staring too long at his ankles. But I’m not even sure I can help it. I can see them perfectly as his foot bounces up and down, his seen-better-days Vans just dancing. He’s got a huge vein that runs up the top of his foot and the tiny, light brown hairs visible, peeking out of the bottom of his tight black jeans, are somehow incredibly sexy.

  This is not me. This is not who I am.

  I mean. With Gabe. Back then. It was a month. Two months. Not even—fifty-nine days to be exact.