Catalyst

Preface.

He smiles sweetly at the student receptionist. "Hey there, I’m hoping that you can help me."

As he casually leans against the counter, his sweeping, golden bangs accentuate his sapphire eyes, and his full smile reveals perfect teeth.

Captivated by his smooth voice and full attention, she returns the smile. "Of course. What can I do for you?"

"My sister just moved into Kyler Hall, but I lost her phone number. I can’t remember if she’s in room 304 or maybe 204. Could you look up her number for me?"

She nods enthusiastically. "Absolutely. What's her name?"

"Ra'Shelle Dawson."

The woman opens the top drawer of a tall, dented filing cabinet, and her nimble fingers move quickly. "Kyler? Is she nervous about starting college?"

"Really nervous, but I assured her I’d help her through it."

The woman pulls a manila folder from the back of the drawer and flips it open. "She's in room 318."

Still smiling, he gently hits his palm against his forehead. "Of course. Why did I think it had the number ‘four’ in it?"

She writes seven digits on a yellow sticky note and hands it to him. "Here you go."

"Thank you, Miss–” He takes the paper, brushing his fingers against hers. “I’m sorry; I didn’t catch your name.”

"Leah."

He extends his hand. "Leah. I'm Pete."

She blushes and shakes his warm, soft hand.

He opens the door and winks at her. “Hopefully, I’ll be lucky enough to lose her number again.”

***

I sling my backpack over my shoulder as the shrill ring breaks a comfortable silence. I glance at my watch and sigh.

Joan tosses aside her Seventeen magazine and leans toward the phone. "It's probably Preston."

Probably, I think.

Joan’s manicured hand wraps around the receiver. "Hello?" Tension instantly suffocates the room. "Who gave you this number?"

I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

It's happened.

I open my eyes and extend my steady hand toward the phone; Joan drops it like it’s burning her skin.

"Mama," I exhale heavily, tightly gripping the phone.

Her chipper voice pierces my brain. "Ra'Shelle, baby, how are you?"

"Who gave you my number?"

"Ms. Peggy."

Knowing better, I rub my eyes with my thumb and index finger. "Okay, Mama. What do you want?"

"Well now, is that any way to speak to your mama? I just wanted to talk to you, baby."

"Why?"

She huffs, and her annoyance oozes through the phone. "Why? I haven’t talked to you in over a year, and that’s how you wanna speak to me?!"

I look at my watch again. "You heard I earned a scholarship."

Her voice is curt, irritated. "Lots of scholarships for Black girls."

I roll my eyes. "How much do you need?"

The sweet voice returns. "Oh, baby, I don't wanna make things hard for you, but Peter’s threatenin' to evict me, and I owe a few other people, too. You know how it is. I mean, I'm workin', but I can't pay everyone all the time, ya know?"

"You need me to send you a few hundred dollars or come home and smooth things over?"

I can hear her cruel smile. "Well, that’s the good daughter I know."

"You know," I lower my voice, "I met a couple of college kids, class skippers, if you know what I mean, who share their candy. I could probably buy you some, I mean, if you want."

Joan's eyes widen. "What are you doing?" she hisses.

I pull the phone away from my ear and hold it in the cold air between us.

"Now, Ra'Shelle,” my mother says, seemingly surprised, “I don't want you makin' friends with those kinds of kids, but if you trust 'em, ya know, I wouldn't say 'no' to a bit of candy."

Joan raises her hands before letting them fall against her tight jeans.

I don’t understand her shock.

Or maybe I do.

Maybe we’re both hoping that Mama will eventually say, “Now, Ra’Shelle, you know I don’t do that anymore.”

I return the phone to my ear and rub my forehead. "Okay, Mama."

"Such a good daughter." She clears her throat. "Well, I don't wanna keep you. I know the genius needs to study."

I roll my eyes again. "Yeah."

I replace the receiver without waiting for a response.

Joan hugs me as tightly as she did in first grade. "Ra'Shelle, are you okay? You're not really going to send her money, right?"

I pat her back. "I don't want to be late for my first class." I pick up my pristine drawing pad from the scratched pine desk.

"See you in a couple of hours," I call from the hall.

***

I am never late, and I refuse to make today the exception.

Not for her.

Not for anyone.

My braids hug my shoulders as I hesitantly step into the bright, nondescript classroom. Pressing my thin drawing pad tightly against my torso, I scan the emptiness. Exactly one hundred chairs are divided between ten long tables.

I sigh loudly. No personal space.

Feigning confidence, I walk down the third row and pull out the fifth polyethylene chair. I drop my backpack on the vinyl floor and remove my textbook and set of pencils. I gently set them on the desk and close my eyes.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Open.

As students fill the classroom, I skim my textbook. A man my age stands to my left and smiles. "Are you saving this seat for anyone?"

I hesitantly look at his bright eyes and even smile. I hope I sound confident and chill. "Nope."

“Cool.” He sits down and sets his own textbook and pad on the table. He takes a graphite pencil from behind his left ear and opens the pad.

I glance at him again, attempting stealth. Long lashes complement his light brown eyes, and his Caesar cut fade deviates from the sea of Jheri curls. His full lips curve into a smile as he returns my stare. "Yes?"

"Oh, uh–" I clear my throat, searching for something to say, "Left-handed, huh?"

His smile widens. "All my life." He raises his eyebrows. "Is that what you wanted to ask?"

Embarrassed, I look back at my textbook. "Yeah, I was just curious. I’ve never met a left-handed artist." His question sounds surprisingly genuine, and I know my answer is ridiculous.

He chuckles. "Okay."

I clear my throat again. "I'm Ra'Shelle, by the way."

"Colin. Well, Jamal, but everyone calls me Colin."

I turn my attention to the front of the classroom where a middle-aged White man has just entered. His charcoal gray hair barely touches his thin-rimmed glasses, and he places his leather briefcase on the dull, metal table before beginning to pace.

"For those of you believing this will be an easy class, let me dissuade you of that fantasy. Drawing takes passion. It takes heart. But you know what it requires most?" He pauses, but no one responds. "Practice! It takes practice, effort, and hard work."

He stops long enough to open his briefcase and remove a thick stack of papers. He gives them to a young brunette sitting in the first seat in the front row. "Pass them around," he sighs before resuming his pacing.

"As you’ll see in your syllabus, we will begin with the absolute basics. Slowly, you'll begin to draw still life pieces during class, then three pieces independently. Your final exam will be your portfolio, allowing me to evaluate how you crafted your skills.

"We will primarily focus on pencil, with some charcoal sketches in November. You should–"

The door opens, and a young man takes a single step into the crowded room. The professor looks at him, more annoyed than startled. "Yes?"

The man casually pushes his blond bangs to the side and scans the room before locking his eyes with mine.

I can feel Colin staring at me staring at this intruder. Every muscle in my body tenses as I clench my jaw and press my palms firmly against the table.

"Sorry," the tall man says, not taking his eyes off of me. "Is this microbiology?"

The professor glares contemptuously. "No. This is Fundamentals of Drawing. You're not even in the right building."

"Right. My mistake." He pauses, brandishing a grin I’ve known all my life. "I guess I should call my mother."

Then he pivots and closes the door.

The professor shakes his head. "The first day. Every semester." He takes a deep breath and resumes his monologue. "You should expect a quiz and challenging assignments in every class. If you're incapable of hard work and genuine effort, you should drop the class.

"Read the first two chapters of the textbook and draw the exercises given within those chapters."

He locks his briefcase and opens the door, smiling as he looks at his watch. "I'm Professor Truman by the way. Class dismissed."

The students sit in silence for a moment, then begin to shuffle. I return my pencils to their pouch and place my textbook and syllabus in my backpack. I pick up the drawing pad as I stand and place the backpack on my shoulders.

Colin tucks his pencil behind his ear and gathers his materials.

"So," I say as we slowly walk toward the door with the other students. "I guess I'll see you Wednesday."

"We have forty-four extra minutes," I hear him smoothly reply behind me. "Want to grab some ice cream or something? I’ll hold it with my left hand."

I almost laugh but continue to look straight ahead and fold in with the other students. "Ice cream?"

"Yeah."

"Why ice cream?"

He probably shrugs. "Why not?"

We follow the throng into the hallway, where Pete is leaning with one foot against the taupe wall, his arms crossed against his fit frame.

"You!" I articulate through clenched teeth.

He smiles coolly. "Don't make a scene, Ra'Shelle."

At nearly six feet, I look him directly in the eye, standing only a few inches in front of him. "This isn't a scene," I hiss. “I can’t believe you did that!”

He raises his hands against his shoulders in mock surrender. "Just following orders."

I narrow my eyes. "Did you take even a second to think about why he would want my number?"

Pete shrugs. "It’s just money, Ra'Shelle."

I roll my eyes for the third time in as many hours. "Money? Your charisma is only exceeded by your naiveté." I step back, allowing him space to leave, but he holds his position.

He grins. "C'mon, Ra'Shelle, I thought we were friends."

"We were. Then you turned into–" I gesture casually, “this.”

He sniggers. "Glass houses." He leans forward, invading my space. "See you around, Ra'Shelle."

"You will not 'see me around,'" I glower and step toward him, dropping my pad onto the tile.

He retreats against the wall, and his eyes dart, assessing the nearly empty hallway. It’s disheartening to see him this way, and I’d commiserate with him if I wasn’t so livid.

"Since you're still acceding to your father's demands, deliver a message for me." I step so that our noses nearly touch. "Stay the hell away from me. Understand?"

In a flash, I feel myself spinning.

His hand gripping my throat.

My head hitting the wall.

Colin speaks for the first time. "Hey!"

But before he can intervene, I forcefully strike both of my hands against Pete's ears.

Pete stumbles. "What the shit, Ra'Shelle?!" He loses his balance, hits the wall, and falls onto the floor, holding his ringing ears.

I cough several times, trying to regain my breath. "What happened to not making a scene?"

In spite of himself, he smiles. "You’ve regrown a backbone. Good for you."

I half-smile and extend my hand. "Pass along that observation."

"I will." He grips my hand and stands, and his smooth skin pulls me back to a time when he would brush my unbraided curls away from my innocent eyes.

I wonder if that kid, the one I knew so well, is still in him somewhere.

He rubs the back of his neck. “You know I wouldn’t have actually choked you, right?” He sighs. “Emotions happen fast.”

“For both of us.” I release his hand, severing our brief connection. "This is your last year?"

"Yeah. I'll graduate in May and start a job at an engineering company in San Diego in June."

When I cough again, I see genuine concern in his eyes. "Leave me alone, Pete. I'll forget that you exist if you do the same."

He sighs. "Anything else?"

I lean down and retrieve my pad from the floor. "Yeah." I look directly into his piercing eyes and simper. "Tell him I'm not sending her any fucking money."

He grins. "Never see you, Ra'Shelle."

"Never see you, Pete."

With Colin still at my left side, I hug my pad close and stride down the quiet hallway. I glance at him but quickly look away. "Sorry about that. I'm a little embarrassed."

"I admit that I didn’t know whose side to take at the beginning, but, actually, I find myself… impressed."

I raise my eyebrows. "Impressed?"

"Not many women I know could flip from victim to attacker in under three seconds."

"I'm usually a much calmer, kinder person."

"I believe you,” he says.

I itch to change the subject to literally anything else. “None of my high school teachers gave a monologue like Truman’s.”

"I think he intended to make people quit."

"Are you quitting?"

He shakes his head. "I love art because of its difficulty, and I welcome the challenge. I think people should create magnificent, emotional, complicated art, and doing that requires hard work.”

I smile. "Okay."

He looks at me with raised eyebrows. "You disagree?"

"No."

He grins as he looks away. "So, ice cream?"

I glance at him, contemplating his motives. "I don't know."

Gripping his textbook, he holds up his hands. "Nothing weird. I promise. Just two artists eating some cold, sweet milk. For me, probably in a cone."

"Yeah. Okay… Yeah. Yeah. Why not? I mean, you know, why not? Sure. Let's do it."

He points at me and moves his slender finger in a circle. "Speaking of monologues."

I chuckle. "I do that sometimes."

"I like it."

***

Colin licks his butter pecan ice cream, and I lick my strawberry ice cream, as we amble toward the quad.

"I didn't realize there was an ice cream shop so close to campus," I comment.

"Just across the street," he says nonchalantly as he points at the stone fountain in the middle of the quad. Only two women sit on the ground beside it, chatting with their textbooks open on their laps. "Want to study?"

I examine his face. "Trying to show off your lefty drawing skills?"

He smiles before finishing the last bite of his cone. "I just thought we could enjoy the sunshine."

I inhale deeply. "Okay."

We sit against the fountain, and I open my textbook on my lap, carefully watching him do the same.

"First semester?" he asks as he begins skimming the first page.

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah. I moved into Croix this weekend."

"I'm staying in Kyler with my friend, Joan. I mean, I have a roommate."

He looks over and smiles. "Thanks for telling me?"

"No, I mean, I live with someone who–" I sigh. "I have a roommate."

"Okay."

"She met a guy," I blurt, seemingly unable to stop myself. "Last month, she met a guy. Preston something. He graduated in May and works in advertising. She's acting all ga-ga with that 'new love' annoyance thing going on."

He tilts his head and stares into the clear sky. "Oh, newly in love people drive me crazy. All I hear is ‘my boyfriend this' and 'my girlfriend that'." He shakes his head and smiles. “Sorry, I’m still recovering from listening to my high school clique ramble about their love lives.”

I laugh. "I understand."

"Where’d she meet this guy?"

"Her parents donated to some fundraiser at a yacht club, and she won a date with him in one of those bachelor auction things."

He chortles. "Wow, I can't relate to that at all."

"Me, neither."

"What about you?" he inquires, making eye contact. "Did you meet anyone over the summer?"

The conversation suddenly feels serious. "No."

"Have a relationship left over from high school?"

"No. I… I don't date."

He raises his eyebrows. "You don't date?"

I expected this reaction. "Right, yeah, I don't date."

He cocks his head. "Why not?"

I didn’t anticipate that question, and I resume staring at my textbook. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Oh," he says, still looking at me, "so it's a real thing."

I whip my head toward him. "What do you mean?"

"Well, most people would have said 'I'm waiting for the right person', or 'I don't have time', or some other cliché excuse. On the other hand, 'I don't want to talk about it' implies a deep or personal reason."

We sit in silence, and I search his pensive expression for clues. Reassurance or understanding? Sympathy or curiosity? I can’t read him at all.

I’m holding my breath, waiting for him to deflect his previous statements. Instead, his words hang in the air like morning fog, and I realize I’ll need to break the silence if I want it broken.

I turn back to my textbook. "I had a shitty childhood," I say quickly, still feeling his eyes on me.

"Me too," he whispers.

I catch my breath and look up. "Yeah?"

Raising his eyebrows, he nods. "Yeah."

We share a moment of vulnerability, and I debate how to respond. Empathize? Leave? Punch him on the shoulder?

I bite the inside of my bottom lip and finally shrug. "I don't know what to say."

He smiles. "How badly did you have to fight the impulse to run?"

I break his gaze but return the smile. "Pretty badly."

His smile fades. "Don't leave. Stay here," he looks up, "and let's draw in the sunshine."

His words are sincere. Disarming. Optimistic.

"Okay."

For over two hours, we sit in silence except for occasional comments about the drawing exercises.

As the sun begins to blind us, he closes his textbook. "Can I walk with you?"

I return my book and pencil to my backpack. "Sure."

"Have a busy schedule this semester?" he asks coolly.

"Apep would love my Tuesday/Thursday schedule: four classes, none of them in the same building. English Comp and World Lit in the morning. Intro to Psych and Intro to Business in the afternoon. Monday, Wednesday and Friday, I only have Fundamentals of Drawing."

I hang my backpack off my right shoulder and place my drawing pad in front of my stomach. "You?"

"Except for Fundamentals of Drawing, I only enrolled in morning classes. Hence, the ice cream."

We leisurely stroll through the quad to the west of campus, and he accompanies me to Kyler, its steps crowded with laughing and exasperated women.

I smile hesitantly. "I guess I'll see you Wednesday."

He smiles lazily, and a chill rushes through me. "Count on it."

I wave as I climb the steps into the dorm, and I ascend the two flights of stairs before arriving at my room. I unlock the door to find a note on my desk: Staying the night with Preston. XO.

I roll my eyes and drop my backpack on the floor before changing into sweatpants and a t-shirt and gathering my shower supplies. I take a deep breath as I step into my cheap shower slippers and open the door.

Loud women, many of whom are already wearing their pajamas, fill the hall. I close the locked door and hurry to the bathroom.

I open the door to the only available shower stall and strip quickly, placing my clothes and towel on a broken, plastic chair. I let the water warm before stepping in with my soap and washcloth.

I shower with lightning speed, struggling to ignore the echoes of intruding voices.

I turn off the water and haphazardly dry myself before redressing. I return the bath products to the wire caddy and leave without acknowledging anyone. During the interminable walk to my room, women stare at my damp skin.

With trembling fingers, I unlock my door and drop the caddy. I collapse onto my bed as my heart pounds against my ribs and waves of nausea wash over me. I pull my legs to my torso, rest my forehead on my knees, and close my eyes.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Ella.

"They're writing songs of love, but not for me. The lucky stars above, but not for me.”

I’m too old to run around a playground, but I still go to the park every Wednesday. If no little kids are around, I plant myself on a swing and try to kick the clouds.

I always arrive at 6:42 and leave at 7:12.

Always.

And sometimes he’s there waiting. Sometimes he never shows. Other times, he shows at 6:48 or 6:53 or 6:58. He doesn’t care about being prompt the way that I care about being prompt.

No one does.

On this particular day, he’s already waiting for me–with ice cream.

I sigh as I look both ways and cross the street. Ice cream means he wants something, some piece of information. And although I have information for him, I’m annoyed that I have to share it. I wish, just once, I could keep her secrets for myself.

I bet she’d wish that too.

I take the waxed paper dish from him as I walk to the swing, and he stands beside me as I push my Reeboks into the dirt.

He’s far too large to sit on a swing. People would definitely stare.

“She enrolled at BSU,” I say casually, avoiding eye contact.

“How do you know?”

“Savannah’s half-brother enrolled, too. He said he heard someone call her name, couldn’t figure there were that many Ra'Shelles in the world, and when he turned around… he said he couldn’t believe the resemblance. So he called Savannah, and she called me.”

“Where is she living?”

“I assume the dorms. He said she had a bunch of stuff with her.”

“Which dorm?”

I shrug. “I guess the one used for freshmen.”

“She have a roommate?”

“He said the girl who called her name was White, blonde, with a shrill voice, so I assume that’s what’s-her-name.”

“Joan. Anything else?”

“Nope.”

“This is good,” he says. “You did good.”

From the right pocket of his relaxed, casual slacks, he pulls a blue pen, a small memo notepad, and a crisp twenty dollar bill. He knows I hate wrinkled money; he probably went to the ATM before buying ice cream.

He writes some numbers on the pad and tears out the page. “I may not be around as much for a while. If you find out anything else, call me.” He hands me the twenty dollar bill. “I’ll send money orders if I’m not here.”

And then he’s gone.

I hate these talks. I don’t even need the money. I don’t share it with my family or save it for an emergency; I spend it immediately, so I’m not reminded of what I’m doing.

The time is 6:45.

For twenty-seven minutes, my only goal is to escape into the blue abyss.