Her Suicide Note

Chapter Thirteen

Adrian
What are you doing?
I'm texting Bianca, finally. I've had her number for a few days now after sweet talking Ms. Marie, the secretary, into giving it up. I think Ms. Marie would be prettier if she stops using half of her makeup everyday. I know the layer on her face is like an inch thick at most.
How did you get my number, Adrian? Bianca replies after a few minutes and I frown.
How did you know it was me? I ask.
I didn't, but now I do😊.
I roll my eyes. Damn it.
I have my ways of getting certain information, I say vaguely. Don't worry your pretty little head about it. What are you doing?
Making sure we have everything for tomorrow, Bianca answers. I'm going to be up in my elbows in food.
Do I need to bring a dish? I question. I really hope not.
Nope, just you and your mom. No random chicks allowed.
This wipes the smile off my face. Does she really think I'd do that?
That hurt, I tell her.
What? I can tell she's trying to sound innocent through the text. I'm just making sure. No need to get grouchy.
But I am and I can't help it. I haven't even looked at another girl since I met Bianca and she's making sure I don't bring any to her family's Thanksgiving dinner?
You didn't need to do me like that, I type and I know that the text looks pouty.
Wanna cookie and a bedtime story to make you feel better? she replies almost immediately.
That lifts my mood some as I glare at my phone screen playfully. Only if you come over. I'm sure we can find other things to do afterward.
🖕🏻
I laugh out loud before typing, Please?
No can do, LaMont. Pretty busy, but I'll see you tomorrow.
I'm not willing to accept that. It's only noon and I'm sure Bianca will be done in a few hours or so. If she won't come to me, I have no problem going to her.

"Hey, Mom, I'm going..." I trail off, looking into my mom's bedroom with a raised eyebrow. She's sitting Indian style in front of her open closet, her hands scratching ferociously at her scalp. "Um, everything okay in here?"
"No," Mom says, prying her hands away from her head. "I have no idea what to wear for your girlfriend's dinner."
"Just don't let her hear you calling her that," I warn through my smile. Bianca and girlfriend go so well together. "And don't give yourself an aneurysm over this, it's just clothes. Just be nice and respective if nothing else."
She slaps her thighs, looking up at the ceiling. Her back's towards me so I can't tell what her facial expression is. Is she rolling her eyes?
"You're right," she breathes out. She picks up her phone from beside her. "I wonder what the weather's going to be like. What do you think, Adrian, a nice sundress or some slacks and a pretty blouse?"
I shrug exasperatedly. I'm the last person to be asking fashion advice from, especially for the opposite sex. The only thing keeping me from wearing pajamas all day, every day is the fact that I'll embarrass Bianca.
"Can't help you there, Ma," I say. "I'm heading out."
"Alright," she calls out as I jog down the stairs.

"Busy my ass," I tease, rounding Bianca's house to the back patio where I heard noises. I see her sitting on a black and white, blocky U-shaped patio couch with a sleek black coffee table in the middle. She has her feet tucked underneath her, a book lying in her lap.
She rolls her eyes as she closes the book and sets it beside her. "What are you doing here?"
I take a seat, resting an ankle on the knee of my other leg. I lean back, getting comfortable. "What happened to being busy?" I counter.
She takes a piece of jerky from a bag lying behind her back and chucks it at my chest. "I asked you a question first."
I pluck the snack off my stomach and take a big bite. "I got bored."
"Don't you have other friends?" she questions.
"You haven't answered my question yet?" She raises an eyebrow at me and I sigh dramatically. "Yes, but I want to spend time with you."
"You'll have, like, the entire evening with me and my family!" she exclaims, looking at me in disbelief. "I almost never see you with Mason and the others."
"'The others' aren't my friends, I just tolerate them. Come on, entertain me," I whine.
I look down at the thick Harry Potter book. Did she already finish the last one? "Read that to me," I say.
"No, thanks," she says.
I rest my head on her lap, peering at her upside down. I stick my bottom lip out. "Don't be mean."
"I'm not being mean," she says firmly. "You only think I am because you don't like me answer."
I sigh, giving up. "Is some of your family already here?"
She narrows her eyes at me before glancing at the sliding glass doors as if I'm going to sprint through them. "My brother," she replies.
I sit up. "Where's he coming from?" I question.
"Georgia. He's going to Emory," Bianca explains and I nod my understanding.
I clear my throat, looking down at my fingers. "Is he huge?"
She looks at me for a moment, her eyes shining in laughter before she finally lets one out. She covers her mouth as a failed attempt to keep her outburst at bay. "Are you scared?" she teases.
"Just answer the question," I grumble.
"Okay, okay." She stops giggling long enough to explain, "You guys are close in build, but you're taller. Not by much, though," she adds.
A laugh gets caught in my throat as she does something completely surprising and lays her head on my chest.
"Um-"
"Don't get cocky," she says, quietly. "I'm just tired. I really did help my mom with inventory."
"I wasn't going to say anything," I lamely defend myself.
She lifts her head up some to look at me but doesn't say anything. My hand hovers over her head hesitantly, but I decide to just screw it and run my fingers through her hair.
"You know, if you showed your nice side more often, you'd probably have the whole school in love with you," I tell her.
"I know," she states simply, running a hand over my stomach until her arm's wrapped around my waist.
I don't know I'm holding my breath until my lungs start to burn and I quietly let it out. I'm afraid to move because the moment might break apart. I know that once she moves away, it'll be awhile before she does something like this again.
I spot someone out of the corner of my eye, standing on the other side of the closed sliding glass doors. Looking through the glass, I spot a man with honey-tipped dreadlocks that flow past his bulky shoulders standing there, eyeing us. When he catches me staring at him, he jerks back half a step but doesn't look guilty. He simply slips his hands inside the front pockets of his jeans and turns away.