“My G.” Kofi gave me a goofy grin, put his hands together, and bowed before me. He turned to Aminah. “Your girl is a genius.”
Aminah smirked. “Obviously. I only keep company with greatness.”
Kofi bopped closer to Aminah and she shot him a sly smile as he said, “Is that a compliment?”
“It’s a challenge.”
Just like she’d written, Kofi swiftly, gently, reached out for her arm. “Come, queen, let me treat you to a beverage before my set. I tell you my five-year plan, you tell me yours and I’ll see where I can fit in.”
I grinned as Aminah threw me a knowing look while Kofi led her to the bar, her arm looped through his. This was my cue to resume my post as Chief Tone Regulator of FreakyFridayz.
Chapter 5
“Did you see her walk in just now? Fuming.”
As I was about to situate myself in my usual corner, where I could oversee without participating, two Blackwell girls—Bible Study Babes—walked past, voices gleeful.
“I know. Bless. This is what happens when you don’t approach relationships spirit first. It’s sad. Poor thing.” There was a respectable pause before true gossip thirst was revealed. “Let’s go see.”
I slowed in my tracks. While I often let disruptions diffuse and dissipate on their own—a little tension helped to thicken the passion and excitement in the air—it was a delicate balance, and a sleight of hand （or a slap of hand） could contaminate the whole vibe and bring it to an abrupt end.
Just as I moved to follow the girls in the direction of the potential source of drama—was it a frenemy fight, a ting tussle?—a strong scent of reality-star-branded perfume, hair spray, and distilled hateration wafted past my nostrils, swiftly followed by a sickeningly syrupy voice saying, “Oh, hun, you must be lost or something: this is our spot.”
I turned to the left of me to see precisely what I’d expected to see: Simi Coker in terror mode. She was stood in front of a girl I knew to be a First Year, who, along with three of her friends, had made the mistake of occupying one of the shabby, beat-up tan leather sofas that comprised a booth. Due to the fact that this wasn’t actually a high-end lounge but a gritty student bar, it wasn’t technically possible to reserve a booth, but this was irrelevant to Simi, who believed she owned it by virtue of being ex-president and self-appointed Boss Bitch of Blackwell. （It was on her ProntoPic bio—“Ex-President of Whitewell College ACS, Boss Bitch of Blackwell, Booty & Brains”—lest we got confused.） And the fact that she had sat there, week after week, sipping Malibu and pineapple with her security detail （the four specifically selected girls who were interchangeable besties）。
The First Year blinked and immediately jumped up from the sofa, yanking her black, crushed-velvet, body-con dress down, and immediately gestured to her squad to do the same. They grabbed plastic cups and hitched bags on shoulders as the First Year said, “Oh shit, my bad, Simi. I didn’t realize,” with deference. Although this girl was only a month and a half into university life, she knew what Simi worked hard to establish: she had authority on campus.
Having had a taste of the power and loving its tang, Simi’d transferred her legacy from the political office to social media, and concentrated all her clout in The TeaHouse, a forum she had launched that kept all the Black caucus up to speed on which events and house parties were coming up. It also—and this was crucial—functioned as a gossip machine that spilled high-grade, steaming Campus Ceylon, mainly revealing who was Cuffed Up （usually proven by a blurry picture taken at Nandos） and who had been caught cheating （usually proven by a blurry picture taken at Nandos）。 Simi Coker could make or break you. Naturally, with me being asocial, she hated me. I represented everything she was against. I offered romantic cleanup while her business was situated in romantic mess, and my platform happened to be as big as hers. Both our voices held sway and she saw me as her only known threat.
Simi smiled, shimmering lids batting, before she slid a smug look to her posse. “It’s okay, babes. You weren’t to know.” Her voice was a sugar and wasabi dip.
This wasn’t any of my business, and I wasn’t in the mood to face Simi. I was on a mission—Disturbance Detection—and yet, despite myself, I snorted.
Simi turned a fraction, bum-length water waves swishing elegantly. Simi, of course, was beautiful, the kind of beautiful that had always been told it was beautiful: smooth butterscotch skin, with a sweetness that didn’t quite seem to sink into her personality.