𝐀 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐔𝐬

𝐕𝐈𝐈 - 𝐒𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐓𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐨𝐫

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January 27, 2001
Aiyana POV

For most students at FIT, Saturdays (minus the nightlife) are synonymous with two things: project deadlines and library day. For students like myself and only myself, my projects were completed a while ago because I didn't have a nightlife to worry about. Plus, I worked at the library.

The library in the actual building was trash so we all found our way to the biggest and closest library in the city: Stephen A. Schwarzman NYPL. It was fly as hell, all antique and tasteful; when I could, I liked walking around with my Panasonic CD player and some headphones on to enjoy some inner peace since it was, ironically enough, the loudest library ever.

For the most part though, I worked there. Did I like tending to rich white kids' and dealing with their tendency to not put shit away? No, but that was the job and I wasn't about to lose a job I needed.

Putting away some books on pattern making, I thought about Twiggy. He lets me call him Michael. "Stick bitch," I'd said to him the day before over lunch. I got a few fries thrown at me for that one, but the gag is, of course his skinny ass would throw some skinny, crispy, brown, fries at me.

We'd met up for lunch about two more times after the first, getting to know each other and all. He was funny on some days, but moody and quiet over the phone on others. Those were the days when he called to say he wasn't coming for lunch. He was street smart and book smart, ate too much and was introverted when it came to his personal life. He could be pure comedy about anything, but clammed up the moment it got personal.

I couldn't ever dig deeper into his life. He'd said he grew up with no family the first time we met for lunch. When I asked him a few days later about who he did grow up with, he hit me with the "don't worry 'bout it". I mean, I wouldn't care if he grew up on the streets or in the system, but his dismissal alarmed a small part of me, deep inside. The nigga mad secretive and for what?

"You know, my mom's crazy as hell. Like, she's actually mentally ill. And my sister got a mean streak that rivals them evil little white boys who shoot up schools. She's slick tho. She wouldn't shoot up a school; she'd get someone to do it for her and get shot in the process to ease the suspicion off her. So, it's ok if you have some story to tell me. I won't judge you. I can't," I said to him, trying one more time to pry something out of him.

With a tightness in his voice, he responded, "Ain't none to tell. I told you already, don't worry 'bout it. And I ain't gon hold you, you kinda draggin' it wit the third degree. Ion ask you about 'cho father. Yeah, I noticed how you don't be bringin' him up and I'll respect that. Now, did you want the bento box or nah?" 

And he had been right. I didn't bring up my dad, 'cuz his story was deep as hell. That's when I understood, his shit must be deep, too. I'd only shared what I was comfortable with sharing; maybe he didn't feel comfortable with the life he had to grow up with.