Gray Scales

“Trina is definitely the baddest bitch!” Jerry shouted in a heavy Brooklyn accent. “Ain’t no Azealia Banks or Nicki Minaj’s about it.” McNaughty 303 was having another one of their usual kitchen table debates.

“Are we talking looks or rhyming ability? Cause if it’s looks, I can definitely see you giving it to Trina.” Though relentlessly Irish, Hank had no problem discussing black artists. He was cultured, respectful, and overall likable.

“See, listen to your president; he knows what’s up.” Jerry nodded at his roommate.

“Just cause he leads all the black kids on campus don’t mean I gotta agree with him,” Taylor said as he drank his gin and juice. There were beer cans and red cups littered all over the common room from the party the night before. Every now and then the gentle October breeze would sneak through the partially opened balcony door moving the debris around the apartment. “Jerry, how are you not saying Foxy Brown? Like that’s blowing me. She’s from your hood!”

Jerry threw up his hands. “Listen, I got nothing but respect for her. But Trina came with the bars more consistently. Plus, I ain’t tryna hear that raspy ass voice when I’m tryna be knee deep in that, knahmean.”

“Naw, ya’ll got it wrong,” Andre, the dorm’s frequent guest, chimed in. “It’s all about Missy Misdemeanor. Bars. Flows. Dance moves. Sockin’ it to you like ‘ooo ahh.’”

“Man, shut up, Andre. You just tryna stir shit up.” Taylor didn’t want the convo derailed again.

“Oh, just cause I’m gay I can’t have an opinion on bad bitches? I’m just supposed to sit here and be quiet and drink all your liquor, cause I will. It’s just not as fun. But you know who is bad…. 50--”

“Don’t.” Taylor stopped Andre who just cackled as he made himself another drink. The four had been close friends since their freshman year, spending most of their time together. When they became sophomores, Jerry, Hank, and Taylor decided to live together, but Andre enjoyed being an outlier. In actuality, Andre wanted to live with his crush, which didn’t pan out as expected. After he confessed his love and sobbed when he was rejected, the two of them became closer friends and roommates.

This left the others as an awkward threesome in an even-numbered housing operation, unless one of them became an RA, but not even sober Jerry wanted to walk around telling kids what they could and couldn’t do. Year after year, student life gifted them with a new roommate, each one a different Karola University white stereotype. Sophomore year, it was Adam: the a cappella nerd. He mostly ran off on his own with his singing buddies, but when he was around he only talked to Hank. Junior year, there was Rudy: the guido. He and Taylor initially bonded over their love for the Jersey Shore reality show and working out, but eventually got into a drunken fight when Rudy made a move on Taylor’s girlfriend at the time. Hank enjoyed the last two months of that year with a room to himself.

Senior year, due to Karola’s poor retention rate, it seemed like Hank might enjoy the same privilege. However, a week into the Fall semester, he received an email from student life informing him that a transfer student would be moving in. Who transfers their senior year?

“What are you guys talking about?” Bretley emerged from his dark room rubbing his eyes still in sweatpants and a lacrosse pinnie. Though he didn’t play anymore, his 6’2” stature helped him appear athletic. He walked across the common room to his mini-fridge and pulled out mini-quiches.

Ever the diplomat, Hank responded. “We were talking about who’d we bang out of female hip hop artists.”

“Oh, Iggy Azalea, hands down.” The room gave Bretley chilling glares that he didn’t pick up on. “Anybody want one of these? They’re mad good.”

“Nah we’re good,” Jerry turned around in his chair.

“Actually, I’ll take one.” Andre snatched one off the tray as soon as Bretley laid it on the table. “Mmm, these aren’t bad. You make ‘em yourself?”

“Naw, my mom shipped them down to me. I’ll tell her you like ‘em, though, bro. You guys can go ahead and finish those if you want. I’m about to head across campus and - uh - meet up with somebody. But I see ya’ll are drinking, so shot?” Bretley ran back into his room and returned with a bottle of Belvedere the bigger than his of his torso. Andre had to restrain himself from jumping at the opportunity. Without anyone responding, Bretley poured four shots and handed them out to the drinkers. They cheered and downed them. “Alright, boys. You have a good night. I’ll probably be back. Ciao.” He grabbed his coat and walked out the door.

“Ciao, bro. Later, bro,” Hank mocked almost as soon as the door closed. “What a douche.”

“Hey, hey. A rich and generous douche.” Andre ate another mini-quiche.

Taylor slapped Andre’s hand from grabbing another. “Stop validating him, yo.”

“I’m sorry. If the 1% living among us wants to buy our friendship, I’m gonna pretend like it’ll work. Besides, I’m broke, nigga, I’m broke. Let that man supply as he will.”

“I just wanna know how dude has so much money,” Taylor wondered.

“The guy’s name is Bretley Montgomery Kingsford IV. It’s definitely his parents. Look at him; that pretty boy ain’t never worked a day in his life!” Jerry shouted.

Hank smirked. “You know he asked me a couple days ago to bring him to the next BSA meeting?” Everyone in the room called his bullshit. “No, straight up. I was out here planning out the next meeting with Candace and dude comes out and starts asking why there’s a group for all the black students and not the white kids. I was surprised Candace didn’t curse him out. Although she did leave shortly after looking vexxed. Then dude congratulates me on infiltrating a group like that and asked me how he could get in on it. I just told him we already met our diversity quota and took a shit until I heard him leave.”

“Yo, we gotta get him the fuck up outta here.” Jerry pointed his thumb to the door behind him, and on cue, someone knocked/

The friends froze and looked around. Taylor whispered, “Yo, did he forget his key?” He rose slowly from his chair and looked into the peephole.

“Campus police; open up. We see your light’s on.” They knocked again. The three around the table started to clean up the mess around them, but they remembered they were all 21 and stopped. Taylor opened the door. “Evening, gentlemen. Looks like you’re having a good time tonight,” Officer DeMarco said, ready to tease out their visit.

Officer Jericho just wanted to get in and out. “We got an anonymous tip. We’re gonna have to search your place.”

“Hold up, an anonymous tip about what?” Jerry asked, but he received no answer. Officer Jericho made a beeline for Hank’s room like he knew what he was looking for. His partner followed, tailed by Taylor and Jerry. “Ayo, what ya’ll doing in my man’s room like this? This ain’t right. Where ya’ll paperwork at?”

“Found it. Right where they said it would be.” Officer Jericho pulled out a pound of cocaine and a small scale from behind Hank’s dresser. “Whose is this?”

Hank appeared in the door frame. “This is my room, but that ain’t mine. I’ve never seen that before.”

“Yeah, sure. We’re gonna need you to come with us, son.” Officer Jericho handed the package to Officer DeMarco and reached for his handcuffs.

“Naw, naw, fuck that. Hank said that shit ain’t his, so it ain’t his. It’s gotta be Bretley’s,” Jerry defended his best friend.

Officer DeMarco asked, “Is that the kid still sitting in the living room?” Andre’s body was frozen in place. He didn’t know what to do around police officers even if they were only equipped with flashlights.

“You know damn well ain’t no black dude named Bretley.” Taylor crossed his arms and positioned his body between the officers and Hank.

“Well, we were told a white student was selling drugs out of this room, and he fits the description. So until this other kid shows up, we’re gonna have to take your friend in for questioning. Actually, you all need to come in. Let’s go.” Officer Jericho called into his radio for backup.

The dorm erupted as Jerry and Taylor argued with campus police. Hank shouted over them, trying to get his friends to calm down, telling them everything would work out. Andre continued to sit at the table, drink in hand now. He gulped it as he thought of the headline his editor would force him to write after finding out about the situation: White BSA Pres Caught Slinging That White. He finished his drink, poured another for the road, and snuck out onto the balcony and onto the staircase next to it. He walked away from his friends, knowing there was nothing he could do for them, hoping they wouldn’t feel like he had abandoned them. He ran.