Chapter Thirty Four

Saylor and I were rattling around in our shared seat as the bus sped across the countryside toward our farthest class photo-op yet. It was a day event, so we left after homeroom, but it was less than an hour's drive from the school.

We were headed to the Amana Colonies for their annual Apfelfest to capture moments of communal folk living their best lives. This was also an opportunity to enjoy the festivities ourselves, despite their butchery of the word apple and my opportunity to convince Juice Williams to make me, his.

It'd been a week or so since my post-non-date revelation, but this was the first time I had a shot at Juice. It was somewhere that he didn't have a reputation to protect, a place where he could reveal his true identity as Jerome to me. I couldn't waste it. The opportunity was nigh.

Juice Williams was sitting across from us, bobbing his head, rubbing his hands and breathing on them. He had airpods in, the pros, so he was probably listening to Drake and he was warming his hands because it took the bus forever to get warm. He was all bundled up in his padded, black leather, bomber jacket that had argyle patches of fabric on the shoulders in grays. If Saylor had a quarter of his fashion sense, he wouldn't have been sitting next to me in a Chicago Bears pullover.

At least they were both warm. I wore a light, form-fitting, navy blue, designer weather breaker. Freezing air rushed through its gaps and seams like it was in search of asylum. Anytime the bus went over a large bump, the folding door curled open to let a gust of cold air in that'd find its way back to me.

We weren't in the same seats as last time. We were near the back of the bus. Juice chose, we followed, of course. I told Saylor he didn't have to come with me, but he chose to anyway. I didn't understand why he was torturing himself, I just hoped he wouldn't choose now to grow a backbone. Nothing would've irritated me more than him taking action for the sake of cock-blocking me.

We had been on the road for fifteen minutes and I'd been trying to find the right time to approach Juice. I was going to wait until he looked at me, but it didn't look like that was happening any time soon. I was wasting the time we could've been sitting together by being indecisive. I had to act.

I decided I was going to sit down by him and refuse to get up. If he beat me unconscious, so be it, at least I wouldn't look back on this moment wondering what could've been. I clenched my fists, shot up from my seat, stepped across the aisle and sat down right next to Juice. I left no space.

Juice pulled an airpod out of one ear and turned his head just enough to look at me out of the corner of an eye. "You need something?"

In my experience, those three words, in that specific order, had always been sarcastic, carrying with it an entirely different meaning, greater than the sum of its parts and analogous to 'fuck off'. So, this was a first for me.

I clasped my lips and turned to him, shaking my head. "No pedestals, Jerome. We're sitting together." I held out an opened palm in front of him. "Actually, I'll take that too, while you have it handy."

I gestured to the airpod he'd taken off, wiggling my fingers. I held my breath. He turned and stared at me how I often stared at Algebra II homework.

Then, Jerome beamed a wide smile at me. Dimples appeared across his cheeks out nowhere, like two sinkholes, and his pearly whites summoned my pointed canines like a snake charmer. He laughed, an honest full-on laugh. "Alright, name this song and you can have it for the ride."

He took my hand, placed the airpod in it and closed my fingers around it. This was what separated him from everyone else. My boldness hadn't been enough. With him, I had to claw, earn everything, getting only what I deserved. I stuck the airpod in my ear. I knew it would be Drake. If it was from the Scorpion album or earlier I liked my odds. I should've made that a condition, too late now.

The song started playing. It was Drake, but from a newer album. It sampled a measure from a song and repeated it with bass. It was a bop, but I hadn't heard it before. I smiled wider at Jerome. He could've chosen something obscure if he didn't want me sitting next to him. He made it attainable.

Well, at least I get to sit next to him through the song, even if I get it wrong.

I wouldn't get it wrong. The thing about Drake was that he usually said the name of the song, in the song, at some point. In this case, exactly once. "Champagne Poetry?" I asked after the song had ended. I didn't need to. I knew his Instagram.

Jerome grabbed the top of my hand and shook it. "It's good, right?"

"The beat is everything." I smiled and nodded, hoping he didn't let go of my hand.

He did, but his eyes widened, meaning he agreed. It also meant he was going to tell me about it, like he used to.

"It started with a pure riff from the Beatles' song Michele. But the sample's by Masego. Then it's sped up. It's cut. They add that heavy bass and it's repeated throughout the song," Jerome said, "It's what?"

He couldn't stop laughing. I shrugged. I didn't get it, but I couldn't stop smiling at his smile.

"That's the same way cocaine hits the streets," Jerome said, clearly impressed with himself for making that connection.

Drake had cut up songs the same way cocaine was cut, then sold the result at mass profit and everyone got addicted to both. I got it. He wasn't wrong. I still didn't like it.