"Regardless, I'm still me," I say. "Just me with more stuff."
A lot more stuff.
My eyes scan the room at the mention of it. My side is starting to look like Melody's, our living space entirely too small to cram everything in it anymore. One thing I learned quickly is that Naz is a giver, never hesitating to lavish me with the best of everything. Shoes. Clothes. Flowers. Orgasms.
So many fucking orgasms.
The material things I can do without, and I tell him that, again and again, but only a fool would turn down an orgasm from him.
"The point is," I say, turning back to Melody, "you shouldn't feel like you have to work to impress Paul. If he's not already impressed, if he doesn't already think you're brilliant, then screw him."
She scowls at me but doesn't respond because she knows I'm right. Tossing her book aside, she gets up, stretching, as she steps over to the mirror to put on lip-gloss. I start flipping through channels again. I'm as ready as I'm going to be, wearing jeans and a sweater and my favorite scarf. All I have to do is put on my aforementioned Payless boots.
"Have you told your mom yet?" Melody asks.
"Told her what?"
"About your sugar daddy."
I roll my eyes and cringe, unsure which response that warrants. "First of all, he's not my sugar daddy, he's my…"
"Your what?"
Fuck if I know. Boyfriend sounds so silly. It doesn't begin to cover the force of nature that is Naz. He's too much to cram into a box with a pretty little label. "He's just… mine."
"Well, have you told your mother about your whatever he is?"
I scoff. "Of course not. She'll lose her mind."
"You think so?"
"I know so. This is a woman who tried to keep me from going to prom because she was terrified. I tried to explain that there would be chaperones, but it just freaked her out more. She all but cried when I insisted on going, telling me it wasn't safe, that I had to promise her I wouldn't leave the dance, that I wouldn't go anywhere alone with anyone without her knowing. I'm surprised she didn't sit out in the parking lot and watch the whole time." I pause. "Actually, she might've done just that. But the point is she's liable to have a stroke when I tell her about Naz."
"You'll have to tell her eventually."
"I will," I say. "But I have to spend next weekend with her, and I'd rather it not be one long freak out where I try to explain something to her that I can barely understand myself, you know?"
"I do not envy you," Melody mutters, her focus on her reflection. "Actually, I'm lying. I do. I envy those new black Louboutin pumps you got. They would look great with the dress I'm wearing tonight."
"You can borrow them," I say.
She swings around to face me. "Really?"
"Yeah, why not? You let me borrow your clothes all the time."
More like she forces me into them but close enough.
She squeals, running over to attack me with a hug, but I shoo her away so I can pull on my boots. After gathering my things, I sling my bag on my back.
"You're going in that?" Melody asks. "All sweater-y and scarf-y?"
I roll my eyes. "It's just a test. I have to come back here to shower for tonight, anyway. Who cares what I look like?"
Melody shrugs, grabbing her things and following me out the door. The trek to the philosophy building takes about fifteen minutes today, the sidewalks congested as people rush around. Melody's yammering away as usual, still talking up a storm when we walk into the classroom.
Santino is sitting at his desk, hands folded in front of him, eyes scanning the crowd as we take our seats. We sit in our usual spots in the back, but even from here I can tell he looks like hell, glasses askew and hair unkempt.
"Looks like Satan hasn't slept," Melody says. "Too busy torturing poor souls for a moment of rest."
He wastes no time, passing out the tests before everyone has even sat down. I skim through it as soon as I get mine, assessing the potential damage. Mostly multiple-choice, but even the few fill in the blank and paragraph answers feel easy enough.
If I don't pass this one, we have a problem.
I can hear Melody huffing beside me as I breeze through the test. I'm done in fifteen minutes, the rest of the class following suit not far after. Melody is the last, with twenty minutes to go. Santino collects the tests but instead of dismissing us early, he picks up a piece of chalk and writes a single word in all capitals across the chalkboard.
MURDER.
There's a flow of murmurs through the classroom that he silences when he picks up that godforsaken stick and whacks it against his desk so hard I'm surprised it doesn't break.
"Show of hands," he says. "Who thinks murder is wrong?"
All at once, every hand in the classroom goes up.
His eyes scan us. "Why?"
Just as fast, nearly every hand drops back down. Santino scans who's left, pointing at a boy in the front row.
"Because it's illegal."
Santino stares at him like he's an idiot before moving on, pointing at a girl along the side.
"It's immoral," she says. "It's wrong to take someone's life."
He moves right along, calling on others, who give much the same answers. After everyone who volunteered has spoken, he scans our faces again and shakes his head. "Why is it you all know murder is wrong but you can't say why it's wrong, except that it just is? It's wrong because it's illegal; it's illegal because it's wrong; it's wrong because it's immoral; it's immoral because it's wrong. But why?"
The silence is deafening.
"Show of hands," he says again. "Who believes in the death penalty?"
The majority of the class raises their hands, Melody included. I waver but eventually put mine up, not so much a cynic as not wanting him to call on me for this conversation. He smirks, all crazy-eyed, as he surveys our hands. "Ah, so you guys don't think murder is wrong?"
Hands slowly drop down.
"If we define murder as the premeditated killing of another human being, is putting someone to death not murder? What makes one situation right and the other so wrong?"
"Because people on death row are murderers," the same guy from earlier says, not bothering to raise his hand this time.
"So it's okay to murder somebody if they've also murdered?" Santino asks. "Equal justice? An eye for an eye?"
"Yes," the boy says. "But that's not murder. Murder is killing someone innocent."
"Did you know," Santino says, tapping his stick against the floor, "that since the death penalty was reinstated, 139 people slated for death have been exonerated and set free? In that same time, we've executed over twelve hundred. How many of them do you think were innocent? Maybe none, but if it's even one, doesn't that make it murder? After all, you've killed an innocent man."