Me: Laundry. Duuuuh!
Stenton: Like washing or drying?
Me: Both. My parents’ washer ‘n’ dryer are on the fritz.
Stenton: Sounds fun.
Me: Not when I’m spending an extra 20 cents on the additional ten minutes of a thirty minute cycle that my clothes need to be completely dry. These machines are rigged to make more money!
Stenton: Interesting.
Me: What? My calculations and theory?
Stenton: No. The vision of you in my house folding my clothes wearing a tee and heels.
Me: You’re a perv.
Stenton: Sticks & stones...
Two days later, I got a text from Stenton while out with a few of my cousins and friends after Wednesday night prayer service at church.
Stenton: What are you up to?
Me: Being grossed out. How was the game?
Stenton: We got our asses handed to us. Wait, grossed out by what?
Where are you?
Me: I’m at Red Lobster. I’m sorry about the game. That sucks. I was really rooting for you in that last quarter.
Stenton: Really? Did you catch the other team’s name?
Me: Yup. The Eagles.
Stenton: LMMFAO! What’s going on at Red Lobster that's grossing you out?
Me: Hang on. I’m going to the bathroom so I can chat.
I excused myself from the table and ambled over to the restroom to continue my conversation.
Me: Hey… Well the guy Bernard…our choir director just told me he’s attracted to me.
Stenton: The McDonald’s dickhead?
I’d mentioned Bernard to Stenton, in passing, a few days ago. I wondered why he automatically went on the defensive about him. Bernard was simply a family friend who directed the choir at my church. He was an aspiring gospel artist and traveled with his band members doing regional performances. I’d hoped he’d hit it big. He was a true talent.
Me: Stenton! You’re more the McDonald’s poster child than he is. Don’t you endorse them?
Stenton: Yup. They pay me for my affiliation. He just wanna be down. Fuckin lame-ass choir boy.
Me: LMBO! Stenton that’s soooo not cool!
Stenton: And neither is he. Have you told him you’re not interested and to fuckin scram?
Me: In a far more polite manner, yes.
Stenton: My Nina.
Last thing. How was your stats & prob quiz today?
Me: I didn’t nail it. Got 8 outta 10. My life sucks.
Stenton: Get over yourself Zo. Gotta go. Call me 2nite when you turn in.
Me: Roger that StentRo.
Stenton: Cut that shit out Zo!
Chapter 7
Then
February 2007
~Stenton~
“Forbes College is this way, StentRo,” Rob called out over his shoulder while we jogged the campus at close to midnight.
That fucking Zoey. Of course that was why my six foot seven inch ass was running through Princeton like a S.W.A.T. on a mission. We had to avoid encountering folks who would recognize me, so I’d only brought two security guards and hoped we didn’t look all that conspicuous. Rarely did I travel without armor. I learned that lesson early on in my career. I’d damn near gotten robbed at the first Summer Jam I attended after getting signed. Barry and Rob were my main two guys when I traveled. Two guys who likely thought I was crazy for infiltrating the damn Princeton campus, all because Zo said she was struggling with her Probability and Statistics course. I was rusty as hell, but could try to recall what I knew. I was also tired…until we parked the truck. Now, every minute that passed, my adrenaline spiked a notch at the anticipation of seeing this girl.
When we pulled up on campus, I sent her a text asking how would I recognize her. She said she’d be waiting around the lobby for me. While trekking to her dorm building, I got a text of a picture of her with a big ass afro.
Zoey: You can’t miss all this hair.
I chuckled as we approached the building. Barry led us in while Rob stayed behind me.
“Big ass afro,” I called out so they’d know who to look for.
The lobby wasn’t busy. Just a few stragglers, chatting, reading or on their laptops.