Page 6 of When Javi Dumped Mari

Brittany shakes her head at us, her wavy brown hair styled in the same way as her current obsession, Lorde.

The fixation’s so bad that Sasha and I had to ban her from playing “Royals” on repeat.

Just last week, she forced us to study the video like a final exam so we could help her re-create the singer’s winged eyeliner look.

“You two are a mess,” she tells us, pouting her nude lips (also a nod to Lorde).

Sasha snatches a strip of bacon off my plate and winks at a guy across the dining hall. “Some might even say a hot mess.” She sticks her tongue out at me.

“Okay, so what’s the deal with this guy?” Brittany asks as she squirts mayonnaise on her scrambled eggs. “Do you two have history or something?”

She’s a dainty thing with the oddest habits. I love her fiercely.

Sasha grimaces. “Ew, that’s gross, Brittany. You’re no longer invited to the cookout.”

“Who’s hosting a cookout?” Brittany asks, furrowing her brow. “No one told me.”

Sasha groans and stares up at the ceiling. “It’s the metaphorical cookout thrown by Black people, sweetie. It means you’re ‘in.’ But if you keep doing shit like that”—she points to Brittany’s tray—“we’re going to kick you out.”

“Maybe she shouldn’t be ‘in’ if we need to do this much explaining,” I say.

“You’re both assholes,” Brittany says. “I earned the right to be at this cookout. You. ” She points an accusatory finger at Sasha.

“Have you forgotten the hours I spent taking out your braids last year? And you .” She points a sausage link at me.

“Yesterday you described me as the least problematic white person you know.”

“To be fair, she doesn’t know tons of white people,” Sasha says.

Brittany drops the sausage and crosses her arms over her chest. “Bite me.”

“See, now you’re just begging to be disinvited,” I say, trying to keep a straight face.

Sasha’s the first to break, her loud snort causing me to giggle.

Brittany follows not long after, completing the usual domino effect.

This is our trio, inseparable since we met in our pre-freshman advisory group last year.

We bicker, we banter, we bitch. But it’s all in good fun.

And know this: If someone messes with one of us, we’re all throwing hands.

Brittany composes herself, then narrows her eyes at me. “It’s obvious you don’t want to talk about him , but I’m not letting you off that easy. So, explain.”

Sasha takes a long sip of orange juice and waits for me to do just that.

“Okay, okay, he and I had a run-in when I was swiping the newspapers last week. Javier wanted his copy, and I told him no.”

“Did you notice how hot he was then?” Sasha asks cheerfully.

“He’s not that hot, okay? He’s broody and a know-it-all.”

“And now he’s a member of LASA,” Sasha observes.

“Well, that remains to be seen. I’m not sure he’ll show up.”

Brittany gives me a knowing smile. “But you want him to.”

“I couldn’t care less.”

Actually, I could care less. I wish I cared less. But something about the guy has captured my attention and won’t let go. I’m unreasonably irritated by this turn of events.

“So do what you always do,” Sasha suggests. “Scratch the itch, then keep it moving.”

“Or,” Brittany chimes in, batting her eyes, “you could make an actual effort with this guy, discover he’s more than just a typical bonehead, and maybe even fall in love.”

Sasha and I stare at each other, and then I say, “I think I’ll just go ahead and scratch that itch, thank you.”

Believe it or not, my own mother would wholeheartedly approve of this plan.

She met my dad in college, turned her world and her future upside down to remain with him in the United States, and twenty years later skedaddled back to Brazil because she no longer wanted to be here—with my father, really, but a pesky side effect is that she isn’t here with me either.

It took me a while to get to this point, but I’m at peace with her decision now that I understand she stayed in this country as long as she did for my sake.

As far as I can tell, my mother got swept up in my father’s hurricane, and I was the baby doll left behind in the rubble in her rush to get to safety.

He didn’t abuse her, physically or mentally, but he became a different person than the one she married, and she worried that she wouldn’t recognize herself if she stayed.

So my mother’s advice about my time at Belmont boils down to this: Discover your passion and have fun.

Whereas my father’s advice can be summed up in his parting words when he dropped me off my first year: “Don’t fuck around on my dime.

” My mother, a journalist herself, gave me the idea about swiping the Gazette as a nonviolent means of protest. My father would drag me back to Cali if he had any inkling I was involved.

Yeah, it’s easy to see why my parents’ marriage didn’t last.

Sasha stands and stretches, her lavender sweatpants hanging off her enviably curvy hips.

“Where are you going?” I ask, looking up at her.

“Grimy Neal is headed to the waffle station. I’m going to get in there before he puts his grubby hands on everything.” She narrows her eyes, then pretends to retch. “Ugh, he just picked his nose.”

I shudder. “Ooh, quick, can you make me—”

Someone slides onto my bench and jostles me, throwing their arm over my shoulder. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite hottie.”

“I’m never using the word ‘hot’ again,” Sasha mutters as she sits back down, apparently deciding the waffles can wait.

“Get off me, Spencer,” I say, shrugging his arm away while mean-mugging his entire entourage.

Brittany glares at him. “You can’t just put your hands on her without asking, jerk.” She’s not one for confrontation, but violating someone’s personal space is a pet peeve, especially when one of us is being harassed.

Spencer throws up his hands in surrender. “Chillax, Britt. I was just saying hi.”

“You only need to open your mouth to do that,” she replies. “Now leave.”

Spencer ignores her and settles his dazzling blue eyes on my chest. “Give me a chance, Mari. One date. That’s all I’m asking for.”

“A single date, Spencer? How romantic. At least you’re up front about your intentions. One and done, am I right?”

His friends laugh as they shove each other like buffoons.

“Oh, c’mon,” Spencer says, swinging his gaze from my chest to my face and giving me puppy-dog eyes. “Don’t be like that. Everyone knows if one of us is going to ghost, it’s definitely you.”

Well, he isn’t wrong; that’s kind of my thing. “You’re right, Spence. So why don’t we skip to the end and just pretend I’ve already ghosted you.”

“Take the L and go,” one of Spencer’s friends shouts.

“Fine,” he says, rising from the bench with a smirk. “You’ll cave eventually. Every girl does.”

“Bye, Spence,” Sasha says, waving him off like the pest that he is.

After he and his toadies drift away in a cloud of Drakkar Noir, I drop my chin and let out a deep sigh. “Maybe I should give up dating altogether. Boys are exhausting.”

“And yet we can’t quit them,” Sasha observes, her shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Speak for yourselves,” Brittany quips. “Girls are exhausting too, but at least they’re not that .”

Sasha nods. “Yeah, there’s gotta be better than that to look forward to.”

I remain silent, mostly because Javier’s face immediately popped into my brain, and I’m giving said brain a good internal talking-to: No, we’re not going there. That one’s trouble. Please stick to the rivers and the flakes that you’re used to.