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Sitting in the local library, flat on my stomach, I brush strokes of paint across Amber’s poster. All my art supplies are spread across the carpeted floor. Bottles of paint, watercolor and acrylic alike. My phone’s placed next to me, Amber’s palette’s staring back up at me through the screen.
There’s a signature corner where I do my art. In the crevasse between two bookshelves, at the furthest end of the library, unseen to anyone who walks in. It’s the place where I can do my work and my art unbothered; separated from the rest of the world.
My earbuds are still in, and music fills my ears as I quietly nod my head every so often, making sure to keep my strokes steady against the poster board.
“That looks lovely.”
My head shoots up to see the librarian, Ms. Knox, standing in front of me, hovering over my poster, a smile tugging at her lips.
I pull my earbuds out of my ear, glancing between the poster and the librarian.
“Thank you,” A small smile floats to my lips.
Ms. Knox is one of the few people in this town that I resonate with on such a deep level. She has an aura that I gravitate to. Simple, calm, invested in fictional worlds.
She’s three-quarters white, and I doubt anyone except the few black people that live in this town actually know that. She has a mess of curls, constantly pulled into a bun, rounded glasses that stay perched on the edge of her nose, and a toothy smile that’s hard to not return.
The first time I met her, crawled up in this exact corner some years ago, I’d known she was black. However, the fact didn’t garner much of my attention, as I’d been too busy hiding out in that corner away from the world. My older brother, Nat, had already left for college, meaning I couldn’t walk home with him by my side, the iconic brother and sister duo that everyone needed. He was busy most days after school for extracurriculars, but walking home with him always felt safer. More protected.
Although, the week before, he had left for college. I was alone. I had no one to talk to about the everyday crap I’d had to go through, and the specific hatred that I’d faced at school that particular day felt thousands of times worse than any other day.
Then Ms. Knox showed up.
And in that soft voice of hers, she’d sat down next to me, voice comforting as I cried.
She’d told me her own experiences. Told me about the family she grew up in, divided by race and class. Told me about things as light as her favorite colour. Teal. Told me stories of everything.
The library became a safe haven from the rampant storm around me. Ms. Knox became a safe haven.
Ms. Knox grins again, pulling me out of my reverie.
She squints at the page. “Amber, huh?”
I glance back at it to see the name written in all caps, bubbly and visually stunning.
“Yeah, Amber Wesley,” I say, as she stoops down next to me, taking in the poster at a closer look.
“Amber’s a popular girl, right?” Ms. Knox asks, glancing at me.
I let out a laugh. “I guess you could say that.”
“You’re making posters for her?” Ms. Knox asks, knitting her eyebrows together.
“She’s paying me for it. Apparently she thinks I can make some good art.”
Ms. Knox laughs melodically. “Obviously.”
I let one shoulder fall into a shrug as a faint grin appears on my lips.
“Taking your braids out any time soon?” Ms. Knox asks, gesturing towards the dark braids that make their way down to my forearms.
“I guess so,” I reply, “It’s just hard to find people who can do it, and Mom doesn’t have all the time in the world.”
Ms. Knox nods.
“I’ll probably have to wear it out... it’s just...” I trail off, nightmares of the students touching and messing around with my hair crashing down on me like a ton of bricks.
“They’re going to treat me like some exotic animal, and don’t even get me started on the type of comments Brett’s going to make.” I mutter, rubbing my temples.
Ms. Knox rubs a circle onto my back. “You’re too young to be stressed. If anyone tries anything, report it.”
I give her a look. “When has reporting ever done anything in Elkwood?” I don’t add, for me, but I know that she hears it.
She sighs. “I can’t imagine the joys of being the only black girl in the entire school.” Ms. Knox says, raising a hand to her forehead, and pretending to swoon at the romanticness of the whole situation.
“Oh, the joys are endless, Ms. Knox.” I repeat in a bougie accent, holding a hand to my chest and letting sarcasm drip from my tone.
Our eyes meet, and soon, laughter escapes both of our lips, filling the little cranny for a few moments.
“How about coffee?” Ms. Knox finally says, rising to her feet, as I rise to mine as well.
“I don’t drink coffee when it’s not Monday,” I reply, still smiling as I shove my things into my backpack, hanging the poster on a window to dry.
Coffee is a necessity to get through Mondays. However, I actually want to get some sleep throughout the rest of the week and not have my heart pounding at 100 beats per minute.
“Right,” Ms. Knox says, lips twitching. “I always forget that you’re a hot cocoa addict.”
Then we’re off, teases filling the air as we head out of the library and to the coffee place next door.
***
The cafe is warm, the smell of coffee beans filling the entire space. It’s almost been a ritual between Ms. Knox and I ever since we first met years ago.
I clasp my mug of hot chocolate, allowing it to warm my hands as Ms. Knox speaks to me about new visitors to the libraries and reads that she highly recommends.
Our conversation is light, and a few minutes later, Ms. Knox and I are rising from our seats, Ms. Knox paying for our drinks despite my usual protests.
The chime jingles on our way out of the door, me holding the door open and allowing Ms. Knox to walk through before following behind her.
“Thanks for the hot chocolate, Ms. Knox,” I say, a half smile rising to my face as the warmth from the hot chocolate settles in my chest.
Ms. Knox waves a hand. “This is our ritual, isn’t it?”
“I guess,” I say, as we make our way down the sidewalk, towards the library.
My eyes drift over to the side, and leaning against the wall is a man. He’s hunched over, skin rough and dirty, calloused hands linked over his frayed jeans. His grey eyes stay on us, not much of a contrast to his pale skin.
I almost want to stop. He seems like he doesn’t have a home, but he might just be under the influence, something that his bloodshot eyes indicate. He opens his mouth in a sneer, scarce teeth being revealed.
I tell myself to walk faster, but my legs refuse to cooperate. Noticing my halt, Ms. Knox slows down, still several feet in front of me. Her eyes drift over to the man leaning against the wall, and she gives me a nearly imperceptible jut of her chin, an indication to keep walking.
The man’s eyes meet mine. Cold and unwavering. He smiles. Not a nice smile and not a friendly smile. This is a leer more than anything. It twists his lips into a sinister grin.
I step back, discomfort curling at my insides, anxiety steadily rising as he meets my eyes, cigarette held between his fingers.
Then, “What’re you looking at?”
I don’t respond, breaths coming in and out, quicker and quicker.
“Hey,” He drawls. “I’m talking to you!”
I beg the universe to leave me alone. Just this once. And isn’t it just my luck that he’s staring right at me. A shaky breath slips from my lips and into the cool air. Not today. Please not today.
My feet move faster.
Then a cough, a scuff of a cigarette, a raspy scoff.
Then he says it, the word.
My heart stops.
Everything seems to slow down infinitely. The rest of the world becomes a blur of nothing. Life freezes into ice.
The first time I remember being called that word, I was five. I was spinning around in a floral dress on the wide expanse of field near our house in the city my family used to live in.
There were white men on the field, all decked out in t-shirts and shorts, playing an impromptu game of football. And as I was running by, my Dad laughing as he followed after me, they watched us.
Their game hadn’t started yet, so Dad was following me off the side of the field, guiding me towards the exit so they’d have the full expanse of field, despite them only needing about half of it. There were flowers, one in my hair that Dad had put there, and I was spinning and singing as the end of the field came closer.
And it was then that one of the men sporting the cold, watching eyes had spoken up. His head was shaved, eyes pale, lips pulled into a dark scowl. Unprecedented anger curled up his face, and in moments he was yelling. Profanities and other things. But the thing that I remember vividly was him turning in the direction of my Dad, many feet away as he yelled, “get that [slur] girl off the field!”
I had never seen someone so angry before, and for no apparent reason. I stopped spinning, stopped moving. Dad shook his head, exhaled. There was a tug of war in his eyes as his shoulders sagged and he lifted me up onto his shoulders, proposing that we get some ice-cream later as we left the field.
Now, I feel the exact same punch I felt that day, back when I didn’t even know what the word meant, but knew it was meant to cut right through my soul.
My breaths come in and out, quicker and quicker and quicker. I can’t stop them as my chest heaves violently.
My heartbeat skips, trips over itself, stutters, pounds harder and harder and harder.
My gaze falls to trembling hands as my body shakes, and I can’t stop it.
I can’t stop it.
Don’t let it get to you. I hear my mind say. Don’t let him see you cry.
Everything cuts through my mind in flashes. Shackles. Someone pushed to the ground. Someone set on fire, hung, violated in every aspect of their humanity.
The last word my predecessors heard before their life was wrenched from their blooming chests.
The man’s smile never drops.
The word tears right through me, and familiar spots cloud my vision. Not again.
Ms. Knox grabs my wrist, tethering me back to the world. She turns to the man in a way I know my mom would never be able to afford to as someone who doesn’t pass, “that is disgusting.” Every word is cuttingly emphasized from her lips.
The man laughs.
Ms. Knox tugs me away. I trip over my steps, the world becoming a hazy blur.
I vaguely see the man pick something from the floor. A newspaper of some sort. He flips through it, going about his life. Because that’s just another day in life to him. Meanwhile, the incident will plague my nightmares for years.
It’s a word that I can’t even utter when music fills my universe. A word I push to the back of my mind. A word that I want to be eradicated.
Ms. Knox sits me down in the library.
I curl in on myself, arms clutching my legs, legs pulled to my chest.
“Sweetheart,” Ms. Knox must be saying.
I can’t hear anything. Not a word. Chills. I feel a cold rush through my body.
Sobs. I’m sobbing.
I rock back and forth. Back and forth. My face is damp, but I don’t know how.
“I called your parents,.” I hear again.
I still rock back and forth, my lips quiver.
I slow down.
“Breathe.”
I can’t. I can’t find my breath. I struggle to even inhale, because my chest won’t allow it. Breathe. My breaths come out shaky.
“You can get through this.” Her voice is gentle, trusting. Comfort rings through it.
“Is there anything you need?” She asks.
My eyes glazed, I shake my head.
“Focus on your breathing,” She says. I count with her up to ten, my rocking slows, I release shaky breaths. Her figure comes into view.
Last exhale. My entire body sags. Ms. Knox rests her hands on my shoulders, then after a beat, pulls my fragile body onto hers, rubbing my back.
***
I barely say a word for the rest of the afternoon. Ms. Knox hovers near me, and I let myself draw strokes along the poster. I don’t think about it.
I drink water.
My parents arrive minutes later.
They rub my back, give me reassuring smiles and soft words. Maybe I nod.
They talk to Ms. Knox, standing off to the side, hushed voices, gazes drifting towards me every few moments.
“Panic attack,” Is what I hear them say.
However, I barely register it, just keep working on Amber’s poster.
By the time I’m done, there are beautiful strokes of blues that mirror the sky. AMBER is spelled at the top in all capitals. Her slogan is positioned right above the bottom, all in cerulean cursive. A circle is smack in the middle of a poster, empty for a picture of Amber to be placed.
I don’t smile as I scope my work, my eyes roving over the board, but I think Amber’s poster looks beautiful.
And it poses a welcome distraction from the sweat trickling down my spine, or the words echoing in my mind.
Amber’s poster is beautiful. Everything’s fine.
I wonder how many times I’ll have to repeat that before I believe it.
Everything’s fine. Everything’s perfect, I assure the universe.
Hail hits at the glass windows from outside. My bottom lip trembles as lightning slices through the dark sky.
The universe doesn’t seem to believe me either.
Moving is a strange concept.
Not just strange, but otherworldly. It sounds like a strange concept in theory, because moving means that my entire world will change or morph into something different.
And would that necessarily be a bad thing?
After the sneaker incident, the juicery debate, and the n-word debacle, moving doesn’t sound like the worst idea right now.
I peer over the shelves, eyes glazing over bottles of paints, fingers finding poster boards and stickers.
I’d been hesitant to accept Amber’s invitation to the art shop today for those reasons.
It honestly seems like wherever I go, something bad is bound to happen. I was looking for sneakers. Literal sneakers, and then I had someone follow me throughout the store. I’d been trying to get juice for Claudie when Brett decided to bring black on black crime into a conversation. I’d been walking to the library from the cafe when some old white man decided he was going to call me the n-word just because he felt like it.
But what would I say to Amber? Can’t. I’ve recently had a flurry of racist interactions that have been extremely detrimental to my mental health, so I’m gonna have to pass on this one.
Something in me kind of wanted to go to the art store, anyway. Plus, with Amber right next to me, I almost have a shield of some sort.
“This one’s gorgeous.” Amber says, and my eyes drift from the shelves to her.
She’s holding a pastel blue background with white swirls of clouds touching the blue. She purses her lips, slipping another one from the shelf.
“This one?” She asks, holding it up.
It’s a bright poster background, abstract with a variety of different shapes, all overlapping in different colours.
“It stands out,” I decide. Amber glances at it briefly, tossing it into a basket.
“You have enough paint, right?” She asks, making her way through the aisle.
“Yeah,” I reply, following after her. “I think I do.”
“This,” She whips around to face me, shaking a bottle of silver glitter in my face, before tossing it into the basket.
“Too much of it’ll be tacky, but you’ll make it work, right?” She asks, then laughs. “Well, that’s what I’m paying you for, anyway.”
“I can make it work,” I say, analyzing the contents of the basket.
“My campaign is going to be great,” Amber decides, hands resting on the hips of her high-waisted jeans.
“No one’s going to stop me from winning this thing,” She says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and scanning the rest of the shop.
“I mean,” She says, walking faster and beckoning for me to come along with her, “The only person running against me is Walter, and well,” She lets out an amused, matter-of-factly laugh, giving me a knowing look. “You know.”
Something flares in my chest, slight but there.
Walter Cohen doesn’t really stand a chance against Amber. Not with the huge glasses that seem to dwarf his face, or the skinny limbs that give the impression that he’s a walking twig. He’s one of those kids who gives the impression that they know a lot more than you do, or that you can’t even begin to grasp the multitude of intelligence that supposedly resides in his brain.
Sure, other kids like Brett or Amber have the exact same attitude, but the difference is that they’re supposed to be attractive, meaning that they could run over people with trucks and they’d be thanked for it.
I’m sure Amber could wear the exact same glasses Walt wears, but would be called cute and chic for it. She can talk down to other people the same way Walt does without them batting an eye. Whereas if Walt does that, he’ll get beat up by the White Bros
or scoffed at by the general student population.
It probably doesn’t help that everyone in this town seems to be ignorant about conditions and Walt has ADHD. While it isn't his fault, it doesn’t stop him from getting singled out or prevent people from giving him a hard time, what with the way blank looks and the r-slur travels through the hallway more often than not.
Aside from ADHD, though, Walt can be kind of a prig, still unnecessarily salty just like anyone else at Elkwood, sometimes more so.
Despite the fact that Walt isn’t the nicest person nor the easiest to get along with, something in me bristles at the way Amber talks about him, at the smugness dripping from her tone like he never had a chance.
I purse my lips, letting my shoulders sag.
“Anyways,” Amber says, “I think that’s enough. Let’s go.”
So, we make our way up to the front counter, placing all the supplies on the front desk, Amber grabbing one of those fuzzy pens and adding it to the pile.
People’s eyes only drift to us for a second before drifting back to their phones or over-active toddlers. I’m next to Amber, and there’s almost a: don’t worry, she’s with me attitude that radiates from the two of us together. It’s the first time I’ve ever had a shield outside of my house, the white villa. Amber takes the receipts, and we each hold a bag as we leave the store. Not unlike the white villa, she’s the shield, the castle wall, the moat that’s deterring the racists.
I don’t know how to feel about that.
So, I don’t bother feeling.
Amber hands me the rest of the art supplies, shoving them into my hands, while she holds her phone to her ear, calling someone to pick her up.
“Alright,” She says, hanging up. “Campaign week is in one and a half weeks,” Her gaze drifts to the supplies. “Have the posters done by next week, and we should be fine.”
“Cool,” I say. There’s an awkward few moments of silence. “Okay. Do you, like, have a car?” Amber finally asks, eyebrows raised as though that’s a required question to ask, a burden for her to ask.
“Oh, my house isn’t too far from here.” Pause. “My bike’s over there.” I say, nodding towards the pale blue bicycle that’s leaning against the red brick wall.
She nods. “Okay.” Pause. She purses her lips, scrolls through her phone as she says it, signalling the end of our conversation.
A rowdy car pulls in, ridiculously loud music pumping, teenage boys and a few girls sticking their heads out of the windows. Tyler’s messy blonde head pokes out of the window as he whoots.
Amber makes her way into the car, not looking back once. I purse my lips as she slides into shotgun, and the car sloppily pulls out of the driveway.
With that, I slide onto my bicycle and peddle down the sidewalk, not bothering to look back as my braids fly behind me.
***
When lunch arrives the next school day, I actually end up taking Yasmine’s offer.
Not like I had much competition either way. As of now, I have three options: sit by myself, sit with her, or sit with ALO and the White Bros™ while Brett visually cuts daggers into me and makes some accidentally-on-purpose racist jokes.
I don’t necessarily approach the table, seeing as I’m not bold like that, but I see Yasmine in the lunch line, and she ends up walking me to the direction of her table.
She slides onto her table, patting the seat next to her, where I sit down.
Some of the kids look up from their conversations, casually glancing at me, and the gamers don’t remove their gazes from their devices, two of them talking about something on Reddit.
“Brought someone over,” Yasmine says, smoothing down her forehead, and glancing about the table.
Jennifer Zhang raises up a hand in a barely-there wave while giving me a nod. I always wonder how Jennifer strikes the balance between being a “good girl” and a “bad girl”.
Her grades are decent, she’s not smarter than she lets on, but she’s witty in an almost natural way, as if it’s a way of life for her. She’s calm, but not docile. I’m guessing if you mess around with her, she can teach you a thing or two.
We don’t come across each other all that much, though. So, all my observations are just that; observations.
Jennifer’s eyes return to her phone.
The rest of the people at the table are okay, but distant. Some of the smiles touching their lips seem less genuine, more forced. Some don’t look up. Others smile a little before returning back to conversation.
Yasmine’s the one that keeps a conversation with me going, grinning at me like I’m supposed to be here and not like I’m supposed to feel as awkward as I do.
A conversation arises to the air from a few seats away from me, and I distractedly tune in, the clattering of the cafeteria a melody in the background.
“See, I don’t know whether or not I’ll even get into an Ivy League because spots are being given to random students off the streets.” He lowers his voice, leaning forward. “Just because they’re...” A pause, as his voice drops to a whisper, “African American.”
It’s Kevin. Kevin Choi. An award-winning smile, and a decent tennis player. Also, however, an intense know-it-all with the grades to boot.
Kevin runs a hand through black hair, raising both hands as he talks to one of his friends who are seated across from him, voice quieting. “And no offense to them, okay, but I didn’t put all this work into schoolwork to be shorthanded and have my spot stolen.”
Stolen.
Yasmine blinks, meets my eyes, blinks again. Her expression seems painful. She smiles a little weakly, shaking her head as the two boys converse.
“Nah, that’s completely fair.” It’s one of Kevin’s friends. He has one of those rounded glasses that fall down the slope of his nose time and time again. “I have a solid 4.0 GPA and like hell I’m going to let someone take my hard-earned work away from me.” A pause. “Like, you’re not that oppressed. The past might’ve been rough. Thing is, you can’t put me at a disadvantage because of that.”
The topic, of course, is affirmative action. A wry grin curves onto my lips. I chose the best day to sit at Yasmine’s table, didn’t I? My smile falters when it dawns on me that this may in fact be an everyday conversation starter.
The two boys continue, sharing stories, maybe along the lines of their parents coming to this country with hope, with nothing, and despite that fact, their parents succeeded even with life’s obstacles. That if their parents could do that, why couldn’t everyone else’s?
I don’t feel up to telling Kevin Choi that my ancestors weren’t selective in who they fought for, despite barely having rights themselves. We fought for each other.
I don’t feel up to telling him that my ancestors were barred from schools—something that was backed up by the law— and weren’t allowed to read, were tied to train tracks if they were the slightest bit knowledgeable.
I don’t tell him that the American Dream isn’t infallible. Slaves worked hard plenty but received nothing in return for their labor.
I certainly don’t tell him that I have a higher GPA than him, a 4.15 in actuality. I won’t ever be stealing a spot, I’ll be earning it.
Instead, I smile wanly, try to slow my quickening heart rate.
I wonder why Kevin Choi needs to make this a competition. Needs to make this an us vs. them.
The answer resides behind my chest.
Society. Tensions. The model minority. The reasons why all the people of color at this school aren’t holding hands and singing Kumbaya together.
Division, history, the narrative.
Maybe, one day, I’ll be able to tell him all of this. Maybe, one day, we’ll talk, instead of avoiding glances in the halls, instead of having a chasm between us.
Today is not that day.
I exhale, eyes fluttering shut.
“Hey.” Yasmine cuts into my thoughts like a razor-blade. The boys glance over at me at that, eyes slightly widening and voices hushing as they avert their gazes.
Yasmine clears her throat, tossing a bag of skittles over to me, and we purse our lips as we divide the skittles, trying to colour-code them. It’s nice, laughing with someone like this.
My thoughts carefully float away from Kevin’s conversation, and I let myself breathe for a few seconds, because all I want to do is fall away from this seemingly endless battle that I have with the world.
The moment’s calming, and I can practically hear the mellow, dainty music playing in the background.
That’s until someone pokes me in my shoulder roughly.
Cue the record scratch.
I look up to see the one and only ALO. Now, that appearance is what catches the attention of everyone at the table. The gamers look up, and so do the other Asian kids seated around the table, conversations halting. Jennifer glances up from her phone.
“Hey, guys.” Leslie says, eyes scouting the kids seated at the table, boredom faintly touching her irises, “Vote Amber for president.”
Amber curtsies, ever the politician, while their eyes stay on her, some shrugging at the request.
“We need to borrow Amina for a bit,” Olivia takes my wrist, pulling me to my feet. Yasmine raises both eyebrows and I return the look.
We make our way to the far end of the cafeteria, next to the microwaves.
“What was that, Amina?” Amber snaps.
I knit my eyebrows together. “I’m hanging out with Yasmine and her friends?”
“We can see that,” Leslie says, eyebrow arched.
“Alright, then what’s up?” I ask, head slightly tilted in question. “ If you’re worried about the posters, don’t be. I’m working on them.”
“It’s not about the posters,” Olivia says, leaning back against the wall.
Amber briefly glances in the direction of Yasmine’s table.
“First of all, sitting over there?” She juts a thumb at the table. “Bad move.” She says, shaking her head. “This is actually terrible for my campaign.”
“You literally got their votes,” I say, and can faintly hear the slight irritation creeping into my tone.
“No, I literally did not,” Amber said, “They’re Walt’s friends. Yeah, some of them will vote for me, but a lot of them have an insane urge to topple the social hierarchy.” She glances up at the ceiling before gesturing towards the drama kids.
“Like them. They think they’re insanely edgy and above all of this.” She chuckles in a way that seems more salty than anything. “They aren’t.”
“It’s not that big of a deal,” I say, laughing lightly. My laugh is a feather, but the strain behind it is concrete.
“Oh my God, Amina. It’s not about a personal vendetta or something petty like that,” Leslie chips in, rolling her eyes and shaking her head, letting the single braid swing back and forth.
“This is politics,” Olivia says, pursing her lips, “It’s about strategy.”
“Exactly,” Amber says, “Sorry to be blunt, but I don’t know if you’ve noticed that these aren’t the most popular kids in the school.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“It’s not about them, personally. It’s about the rest of Elkwood. People were watching you sit down with them. Most of them won’t think twice about it until the elections arrive.” She pauses. “It’s already a huge risk to be taking you into our campaign. If we play our cards right, it could be a huge win.”
My eyebrows fly higher, and I let out a dry laugh, shaking my head.
Amber plows on. “People see you hanging out with them, they associate it with me. If you’re helping me out with my campaign, you have to represent me well.”
“If you mess up, it reflects on Amber,” Leslie says. “Brett already hates Abadi or what’s-her-face—”
“—Yasmine,” I say.
“Whatever. He’s never liked her, but when she butted herself into the conversation at the juicery, he started to dislike her a hell of a lot more.”
I give her a look.
“It’s like a close friend of the president hanging around a former KKK member.” Olivia explains.
My eyebrows fly upwards at the comparison.“I’m sorry, are you comparing the KKK to Yasmine and her friends?” I ask, mouth parted.
“Simile, honey,” Leslie says. “This is just how it works here.”
Analogy, I think, and a hyperbole.
“You hang around with the wrong people, your friends get that name, too. You hang out with certain people,” Amber gestures towards the table before gesturing towards herself, “you mess up your friend’s campaign for president.”
“We’re all friends, right?” Olivia asks, leaning forward.
“Sure.” The words feel uncertain on my lips, as though I am trying them out but they don’t sit right.
“Then, once Amber’s campaign is over and she’s won, you can hang out with them all you want.” Leslie says, lazily gesturing towards Yasmine’s table.
“Listen, sit with Abadi again and Brett won’t support my campaign. None of his friends will, either.” Amber emphasizes. He’s influential, and we’re all well-aware of the fact, but Amber refuses to say it. “We don’t need a divide between our friends at the table,” Amber says, gesturing towards the table where the White Bros™ are seated.
What it looks like is Amber realizing that her and Brett’s popularity levels are too close for comfort. Even though she’d never admit it, I’m certain Amber knows that Brett isn’t the nicest guy. So, she’s wary. Why? She knows that Brett would mess with her campaign for a reason as petty as her association with people he dislikes. Especially someone who had crossed him earlier.
Olivia gives me a meaningful look, and I’m already catching onto the main ideas. Firstly, Brett’s extremely petty, and due to that pettiness, the guy could ruin Amber’s campaign in seconds.
I almost want to ask, “If Brett’s really your friend, why would he mess around with your campaign?”
However, I don’t ask.
Instead, I just let them give me faux smiles, Olivia patting my shoulder gently before they all sidle past me and return to their table.
Yasmine looks up from where she’s seated, mouthing a: what was that?
I’m not necessarily sure what to say, because the entire conversation is still flying through my mind. So, when Yasmine meets my eyes, her own eyes inquisitive, I can only shrug in response.
