“A week after my drugs ran out, I left my bed to perform at the college, deciding at the last minute to skip both the doughnut toss and the march of the headless plush toys. Instead, I just heated up a skillet of plastic soldiers, poured a milkshake over my head and called it a night.”

“I was debating on jumping and ending my despair over losing my best friend, but I decided to call you instead.”

“What’s goin’ on?” I ask as I take a seat.“Obviously not this.” He tosses me my shirt from last night. “I found it on the floor of the den. It’s obvious there was some hanky-panky going on.”Okay, so he knows we fooled around. But at least he didn’t find Kiara’s bra on top of my shirt.“Yeah . . . things kinda got a little heated after you and Mrs. W. left the den last night,” I tell him.”

“I needed to get out and my roomies had both left me for the night so I followed the pretty one here.” Did Marcus just call me pretty?”

“Now it's just that dishwater blond," my mom continued as she snaps the last roller into place.I get up and kiss her on the cheek. "Thanks, Momma," I say, looking in the mirror over the mantel to check my pink plastic Afro head. Dishwater? Seriously? Way to build the self-esteem before the most important day of my life, I think; but what I say is, "I'm gonna go get ready for bed.”

“This is not good. This is not right. My feet stick out of bed all night. And when I pull them in, oh dear! My head sticks out of bed out here!”