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Shit. I immediately wanted to pluck the words from the air and stuff them back into my mouth. My cheeks burned. I had been quoting the book but I belatedly realized how wrong it sounded and unfortunately that wrongness mitigated my already questionable breeziness. I had all the easy breeziness of a hurricane.
Malakai shot me a slightly bemused look. “I don’t know about that, but she did ask me for my ProntoPic handle.”
I nodded and smiled wider, like the chill, carefree, unbothered girl I was, clamping my jaws down to contain the clump of aorta that had made its way to my mouth. The rest of my heart sunk down to the pits of my stomach, squashing all the butterflies.
“Uh-huh. That’s, you know... ” I laughed, putting my hand on my hip to further denote casualness. When I realized it probably made me look like a stern auntie, I dropped it. “What’s cool about this kind of place and what I personally love for you and for everyone else, including myself”—Why couldn’t I talk like a regular human being? What was wrong with me? Oh God, was I having a stroke? A jealousy induced stroke?—“is that you get to meet so many interesting new people.”
Malakai shrugged. “Yeah. I guess. But when I told her I had a girl she didn’t want my handle anymore, so—”
I blinked. “You told her you had a girl?Why?”
Malakai looked bemused. “I told you I’d act as if we’re in a real relationship and that’s what I’m going to do. Do you want churros? I saw a pop-up churro stand somewhere.”
I added more chants.
Malakai’s justmethod. He’s focusing on the role of Boyfriend for our mutual academic success.
Ignore the butterflies. They’re dumb and brainless and metaphorical.
It’s probably a gastronomical issue.
I consume a lot of sugar and dairy.
Crushing on Malakai is as fruitful as crushing on Niyo.
As we sat down and gorged on hot churros, I felt like I was floating, like I’d acquired the powers of the character I was dressed up as. My costume was much more subdued than Malakai’s—he’d chosen the most extreme version of his character to embody. Mine was a slick patent pleather coat that fell so it hemmed the heel of combat boots, high-waisted leather leggings, and a black crop top. My eyebrows were extra arched, deep black, framed with amber-like, stick-on gems, my lips painted wine, eye shadow earth reds and sunsets. The costume had a placebo effect on me, making me feel all powerful, all capable, and completely satisfied. Malakai’s eyes brushed mine in a slight sweep.
“You really do make a beautiful Shangaya.”
I swallowed my smile. “Thanks, mate.”
Maybe if I verbally reminded myself that we were just friends, it would be easier to kill my crush. I cleared my throat. “When do our interviewees arrive?”
I’d got the idea to film at the convention—even though we were technically out of the physical remit for the film, I thought we could find a couple our age to interview, add a new dimension to the documentary. Malakai was immediately into it and picked out a couple while queuing for our churros. He’d got chatting with a guy, who was brought to RomCon by his girlfriend, and who, apparently, had been instructed to order the exact same coffee specification that I like, for her.
“Any second now. I think this one will be good; it’s a dope idea to interview here, Scotch. It’s so weird that his girlfriend likes the exact same kind of coffee-scented syrup like you, though—”
“First of all, shade noted and ignored. Second of all, I know, right? I wonder what else we’ll have in common. Do you think she’s also in a relationship to boost campus radio show ratings?” I muttered playfully.
“Chances are high. That’s a pretty common relationship model. We ain’t that special.” Malakai’s gaze shifted; he nodded at something just beyond my head, grinning. “And here they are now—”
“See! He’s dressed up! Why couldn’t you dress up?” The girlfriend’s voice was teasing as she approached.
“Didn’t want to steal your shine, baby.” Her boyfriend’s retort was shot out smoothly before he theatrically, comedically, lowered his voice—presumably in the direction of Malakai. “I thought I told you to change before we got here? Man’s showing me up.”
Malakai laughed. “Sorry, bro, but I’m feeling it.”
Malakai had got up, his default, easy manner radiating off him as he welcomed them. I, however, found myself glued to my seat, the multiple layers of leather sitting with a new weight on my skin, my mouth dry, chest twisted tight. The girlfriend’s voice had an unmistakable familiarity, one that tugged and unraveled compacted memories, pulled at an unholy mix of sadness and inexplicable joy, an old, sophomoric, naive joy, the one that came with memories of learning a dance from a Beyoncé video on YouTube, secretly getting our belly buttons pierced together and perfecting our coffee orders together through trial and error before sipping them through straws as we strolled through our local mall on Saturdays. I had trained myself to feel nothing and now I found myself frozen by the avalanche of emotions that I’d forced away.
“Scotch,” Malakai was saying, gesturing to me. “This is Amari and...” He faltered as he saw the expression on my face.
I wrenched myself up, turning to face our interviewees, and confirmed what I already knew.
“Rianne.”
The girl’s wry smile dissolved instantly. “Kiki?”
Malakai’s eyes popped open as he looked back and forth between us. “Oh. Oh, fuck.” The boyfriend just looked confused.
