“Hey V, how do I look?” she asked. “You look terrible,” I would have said, but I didn’t. B was a close friend and I knew telling her the truth would not have been ideal. “Or should I wear the red one?” she continued being quizzical. I shook my head in disagreement. “Why does she even bother?” I thought. “He doesn’t like her anymore.” She stood in front of me with a weary smile that evidently betrayed her desperate effort to overcome the butterflies, and the queasy stomach brought by fear and pressure. This is why I think I should never date someone from Copa. I don’t think I’ve got time to play ‘impressive games’.
Come on, if I date someone, anyone, he should be comfortable and proud to introduce me as his girlfriend, regardless of the clothes I’ve put on. It’s not easy pulling off a good-look on a daily basis. You know, looking good is not a bath in a tab. It comes with a lot of effort. Once or twice a week is perfectly fine. But on a daily basis? Well…
B was the prettiest girl in college. Or so it seemed. Ironically though, she wasn’t the happiest, or the coolest. She had esteem issues. In bad moods, she would sit in solitude at a spot in the Wi-Fi zone. People often mistook her solitude life for pride. You know, they often thought she didn’t like to hang out with people. Rumor had it that she thought she was prettier than everyone.
“Hun you look great. J will love it” I lied. “You look great dear,” I reiterated. Repeat something a few times and someone will start to believe you. A little lie has never killed anybody. Besides, I was not looking for a back-and-forth sort of argument on which dress she should wear. Such a topic never ends well, especially with two ladies involved and one of them an ex to the other’s boyfriend. You see, the housekeeper made sure her demons were working on that day she allocated us a room. As a result, I ended up in the same room with my ex’s girlfriend. I didn’t let her know. For the sake of sanity, it was best for both of us if it stayed that way.
For a moment, there was dead silence between us, and the guilt seemed to grow with every second. B had this ability to see every lie in a soul but she often did it casually. As if it was nothing. When I couldn’t bear her patronizing eyes anymore, out of the blues, re-affirmed her belief one more time, that J would love it. “J will love it.” “You sure?” she asked, a bit embarrassed after realizing that she’d asked that for the third time now. “Absolutely,” I responded. B chuckled. The night meant so much to her. J, her lover, my ex, was going to be there. I had watched her practice her moves. How she would sway her round hips and how one thing would lead to the other.
What she didn’t know however, was that he was actually going to break up with her. There was a plan to let her know afterwards. My plan and J’s. Our plan. J always liked the popular girls. He had the looks to charm them well enough. And for the record, he was a geek. He used to be a savage though. After having a ‘good time’, he would get out of his cave and sting like a bee. I knew this because he was my ex. A couple of trips to D3 and then he’d pretend like he didn’t know you.
Then I looked at B. She didn’t know what she’d gotten herself into. I did not feel obligated to tell her anything whatsoever. I doubt if she would have listened anyway. The mere fact that I could even talk to her was a big step for me. Girls and jealousy are two words that go hand-in-hand. Okay, I’ll say it: I was determined to get J back, despite his savagery ways. She would cry, lament, but I believe J loved me more that he did love her, and that’s what mattered. He was only following his heart.
I had already told J to go and have a good time then later, we’d break the news to her. I walked to D3 late into the night after the freshmen party, only to bump into J and B onto each other’s arms. I stopped, looked at J, after which he told me that it was all a prank. He wasn’t planning to have a good time and get it over and done with. He claimed that he loved her so much.
I lost and it hurt so bad. Arguably, the worst prank I’ve ever had.
Written by Ivy Kaye alias Queen Kunta Vee
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