The Double-Tap Accident

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Started: Saturday, August 22, 2020

Chapter One: "Steal A Stop Sign."

FUCK.

I was going to be late, I ran as hard as I could. I was going to be so late.

My feet took me down the large hill of my school, Herringway University.

The campus was huge. A 40-minute walk from one end to the other. First year and upper-year residences stood at each corner of the land and in the middle comprised big buildings, both old and modern, holding lecture halls, smaller classrooms for tutorials, labs and all of my sanity as I made my way down the hill smack dab in the center of it all.

Herringway was in the center of Jasper Bay, a small town in the southwest part of the province of Ontario in Canada. The university was beautiful. Especially between the late months of September to December.

There was something about the way it looked in autumn where the many trees throughout campus turned different shades of brown, yellow and orange. You could feel the crunchiness of the leaves beneath your feet and various people carrying their pumpkin spice lattes in their hands as they moved between classes.

The transition to winter when those leaves upon the trees fell and their branches become covered with all types of snow, making it look magical as anything one has ever seen. I wasn't a huge fan of winter but to look at it from the outside was fantastic. The pumpkin spice lattes that everyone held in autumn turned into coffee sold the place most Canadians got the drink: Tim Hortons.

God, I should've drank coffee earlier today.

I almost groaned out loud as I ran and ran. Luckily, the cold air hitting my cheeks that were starting to numb kept me partially awake as I tried to reach the other side of the small street where targets lay after the crossroad. Trees blurred by me, meticulously planted like the silvers cuffs in my box braids as I glanced down at my phone to see I had approximately five minutes. Fuck.

While the September air was refreshing against my exposed face, one of my Nigerian grandmothers would have scolded me if I said that out loud to them. My parents wouldn't have cared. Mom was raised in a small town in Ontario, Canada while my dad had grown up near New Haven, Connecticut down in the US.

But my grandmothers would never understand how much I loved fall despite how much I didn't like winter. Cold weather (again specifically fall weather) gave me an excuse to show off my sweaters and my neon hats. My dark skin practically glowed in it and my confidence, according to my friend Yasmeen, skyrocketed in this weather.

Any confidence I could have at this moment, however, flew out the window when I almost tripped over my shoes. I caught myself instantly, a few curious eyes falling on me, but I didn't care.

Gripping onto the straps of my backpack, I made my way past a group of friends laughing by the landing, a few with scarves and light jackets. My black leather jacket wouldn't have gotten me any attention, but the neon orange beanie on top of my braids definitely did-if I wasn't running like a lunatic already.

"C'mon," I muttered after crossing the street, seeing the pile of students blocking the entrance to the Recreational Centre. I all but shoved my way past them, saying 'excuse me' to my left and right and for the hundredth time almost falling as I made my way inside.

A blast of heat hit my face in the extensive building. Olympic sized pools were on my left when I glanced downward behind the glass panel at a swim team using them for practice on the floor below. Sets of intricate-looking treadmills that never in my life would I want to go on were on my right, occupied by people who had the motivation I wish I understood to be here.

I rushed to the front desk, pulling the neck of my jacket up with one hand and biting on the fabric to ease a clear passage so I could pull my zipper down. Yet my zipper got stuck midway, caught on one of my braids. "Shit, shit, shit," I muttered, almost spitting that part of my jacket out of my mouth.

Forgetting the jacket, despite having a very lopsided braid caught in it, I scrambled to get my student card, pressing it against the machine on the counter to allow me access into the building.

While struggling to unhinge my braid, I pushed through the doors at the other end of the main level. Rushing down the staircase, I hissed in pain when I accidentally pulled too hard. The possibility of my natural hair coming out of my scalp left me to remove my hands from the locked braid as I swerved throughout the building. After multiple hallways and pushing past doors, I finally made my way to my destination: The second volleyball courtroom on the east side of the building.

The sound of balls hitting the ground filled my ears along with faint talking coming from the bleachers of those who were watching. The ceiling of the room was high, bright with the embedded lights and my university colours of yellow and purple draped the interior design of the court in thick lines. It smelled clean too. One janitor walked right by me, shoot me a friendly smile I reciprocated before exiting the door I came from. 

On the court were both teams. Herringway University, was on the right in their purple and yellow uniforms, the men's team tall and focused as they did their drills. On the other side of the high net was the opposing team, Atlas University, who were also doing their drills, in their red and black jerseys.

For a moment, my eyes lingered on my school's team.

One man was prepared, his hands positioned upward as he lifted the ball into the air with his fingertips. The movement was fluid. Easy. As if he had done it a million times before. He probably has.

But it wasn't him that caught my attention as I stood there at the door like an idiot.

It was the person who came in about a second later. That man took two long strides forward from where he was. His arm was raised, his hand positioned, and he hit the ball.

Hard.

He struck it so hard over the net that when it neared the upper right corner of the court, right before the boundary line, a clap sound cut through the air.

When he leapt back down, one of his teammates patted him on the back, the two getting into one line as the same drill occurred for another person.

As he spoke to other members of the team, he had a smile on his handsome face. The smile you notice on a person and you're staring at them longer than you expected. But then you're not just looking at their smile. You're looking at them. 

He had golden brown skin, a dimple in one cheek that showed as he spoke. His hair was dark and tightly curled, shaved at the sides and piled on the top. Besides being tall and lean, like many other players, he was approachable as people on his team kept looking for his attention.

Okay, but why haven't I seen this guy before? I've encountered a lot of men during my time here at Herringway and although I was only in my second year and there were thousands of students that attended the school, I would've been able to at least remember seeing the guy. Not only because he was attractive but be because he was obviously part Black.

Black people, along with other visible minority groups, did not take up a large percentage of the school here in Jasper Bay, let alone Herringway. I knew every Black person in my year, meaning that he wasn't in second.

"Jaime!" Mariam, my housemate and good friend's eyes were wide as she approached me looking frazzled. 

"Hey." I tore my eyes off of him, taking off the- her backpack. "I'm sorry," I handed her the camera after taking it out, and she sighed in relief. I swear if we weren't in public she would have hugged it to her chest as if she had found her lost child in the grocery store. "I didn't know I took the wrong bag. We need to get different bags."

"I know. Thanks for getting here in time. Owen would have killed me." Mariam pushed her brown curly away from her face, revealing her perfectly shaped eyebrows. My friend was stunning. An Iraqi girl with fair skin, brown eyes, beautiful hair, and her makeup was always perfectly placed.

"Why would he have metaphorically killed you?" I asked. I've met Owen a few times. He was the editor-in-chief at our university's student-run newspaper, The Caduceus, that Mariam worked on as a photographer.

"First spike picture." She said as if I knew the context.

"Excuse me?"

"It's tradition in the newspaper to get the first spike of each first home game we have. This is the first home game," She explained, slinging the camera around her neck and playing around with the buttons. "Stay."

"I have to study." Even though it was late September, midterm season was already starting to hit and I had part one of an organic chemistry midterm next week. With my major, towards an honours specialization in biophysics, one would think I wouldn't have to take chemistry. However, for the first two years of my program, I had to.

I was not a fan.

"You can study after the game. Besides, this it's chemistry, right? That's a breeze."

Mariam and I had become friends last year, meeting in our first year physics lab.

She hated physics. I loved it.

She loved chemistry. I hated it.

"For you." I pointed out.

"Chemistry's easy."

"Once again: for you."

Mariam huffed. "C'mon, watch the game with me and I can explain anything confusing and I'll share my notes with you at home."

"You already share your notes with me."

"Okay, how about we come to a mutual agreement and not leave me alone." She suggested.

"You cannot possibly be alone. What happened to Yasmeen?" Yasmeen was another one of our friends. An Egyptian girl with fair skin and a dimpled smile. I had met her through Mariam a few months before our first year had ended and our friendship continued now in our second as she became our third housemate.

"She has a vegan society meeting. Please?" She widened her brown eyes at me.

"Fine," She looked pleased, grabbing me by the arm once I had the backpack over my shoulders once again. When I finally managed to get my braid out of my jacket zipper, a whistle blew through the air. I watched that man, the one who had hit the ball, with another of his teammates walked over to the ref as two other people from the Atlas team did as well. The sound of balls hitting the ground came to a halt as both teams walked to their coaches.

"Do you know anything about volleyball?" I asked Mariam when I finally got my braid loose, pulling my zipper all the way down as we walked down the sidelines. The bleachers weren't filled, people were scattered throughout them along the side.

"You hit the ball over the net, no?" Mariam said as she led us over to seats at the bottom of the bleachers, mostly for her to get easy access to move around and take pictures for the newspaper.

She could not be serious. "Mari."

"Okay, no, I don't. I'm here to take pictures, not play the actual game." She pointed out as we sat down, fiddling through her camera. "The spike is when one of them hits it hard over the net after, like, two other guys from the same team set him up for it, right? There. I know volleyball."

"Oh, yeah?" I challenged. "What colour is the boundary line on the court?"

She scoffed, getting up when the whistle blew once more time. "I'll be right back."

As I removed her backpack from my shoulders, six players from both teams started moving onto the court, setting up their positions.

I knew enough about volleyball from my half-sister, who seniored me by ten years. When I was in fourth grade, our mom brought me over to one of her volleyball games she had back in our hometown. She had played on the women's varsity team of her university.

My sister, Abisola, went by Abi and despite our age gap, we had a good relationship. She was married and a physician's assistant, and her husband, Michael, was a great man. They didn't have kids nor wanted them. Instead, they had three adorable dogs which confused the hell out of our mom when she had learned that but she was happy for them, regardless.

I made a mental note to text Abisola as the man took his place on the court. He straightened his jersey, showcasing the number 9 on the back as he stood at the net, in the middle of two other players.

His focus was on the opposing side even as his teammate said something to him before the whistle blew. Their conversation ended quickly as those in the back got prepared. He barely moved as the ball went over, one of his teammates extending his arms to allow the ball to hit and rise with a solid smack in the air.

Not even a second later, the person who had been talking to the man came up as the ball. Gravity worked its magic as the ball came down and his hands up as he lifted the ball in the air with ease.

But my eyes were on him who had backed up, ready for the set as he came forward almost as he had done with the drill but this time there was a determination on his face as his arms went back for leverage. He took two steps forward and he brought his arms up just as the ball was right in his reach ahead of him. He lept and the ball was sent hard downward over the net with a loud smack.

The ball ricocheted off of an opposing player's arm and went haywire, no one on the other side able to get it back in the boundary lines and ended up hitting the wall.

Shit.

Mariam had taken her picture and came back to me, showing me the photo. She had been close enough to catch a side view of him in midair, face in concentration, jersey meshed at the back, distorting the number 9. It was an impressive picture and when I voiced that to Mariam, she grinned. "Thanks."

Mariam held her camera in front of her as the game continued, occasionally going up to one side, not too close to get the right picture she had wanted. But my eyes stuck to him as he played with such ease due to the hard work that clearly had added up over the years.

"What's his name?" I asked Mariam when she sat back down.

"Who?"

"The one with the smile. The light skin guy." She knew what I meant, turning to see the man beaming as his team got the ball back for another serve after scoring a point. His smile was accompanied by squinted eyes, changing his entire face in the best way possible as he and a few other slapped hands.

"Oh, that's Aven." Of course his name sounded nice. "He's in my sociology tutorial. You're interested?"

"What's he like?" I asked Mariam who raised her eyebrows at my sudden curiosity but didn't press on the matter. My friends spoke up about their relationships and while I had a few twist and tumbles over the years in my life, I was never usually vocal about anyone I felt anything for; whether it was romantic or a simple attraction.

"He's nice from what I can tell but I don't really know much since he seems to keep to himself," She said. "I know he's really good friends with Immanuel. I'm pretty sure they grew up together."

Immanuel Wilson, who usually went by Iman (pronounced ee-man) was a good friend of mine and Mariam's ex-boyfriend. They had dated for almost a year until it mutually ended. However, they had remained friends but then again, that's how they started out. I had introduced them to each other back in our first year after Iman randomly sat beside me in biology and kept sitting next to me, guaranteeing our spots for that semester.

The guy was a social butterfly. I was certain that he had friends in every area of this province even though he grew up on the west coast of Canada, in the province of British Columbia. When he sat down next to me that day and he started talking, I knew we would be friends for a long time.

Iman was also on the volleyball team, currently sitting on the bench with some of his teammates. Iman's brown eyes were on the court as he spoke to who I assumed to be one of the coaches on the team. Iman's skin was a deep brown, a few shades darker than my own but his was clear of any blemishes. He refused to tell me his skin routine when I damn well knew he was just going to tell me he only drinks water. 

"He's never brought him up," I said. Then again, I've never come to Iman's games before despite always wishing him good luck. I had too busy trying to adjust to university as a whole.

"He definitely has," She said, "You might not have been paying attention. Besides, first year was filled with so many people, you're not going to remember everyone."

From a distance, Iman noticed us, lifting his chin in greeting. I sent a wave back and Mariam held the camera in his direction and I laughed when he made a funny face as she took the picture.

Mariam suddenly gasped, gripping onto my forearm as excitement shone in her eyes, "Oh, for homecoming-"

"You know I can't go." I quickly said. Homecoming in Canada was a huge event centred around one of the home football games for the university. But at Herringway, no one really gave a shit about football.

The early morning before the football game was used for more than two-thirds of the school's population to gather on Parkdale Lane: a street with the biggest sorority and fraternity houses and have the annual morning street party of the year. This consisted of drunk, high or sometimes both, students in one area.

Later on, the football game would happen. Some went but most were taking power naps before the big event: the concert. 

Every year, our student council managed to get big American or Canadian performers to come to our party school. The concert, with a usually sick lineup, would last for hours. After the concert ended? The day wasn't over.

The night consists of wondering what house party or club you and your friends were going to be at your absolute, but safely responsible, messiest. The actions you commit that night whether it be consensually kissing a stranger, doing a body shot off your closest friend or in Mariam's case, getting someone to steal a stop sign for you, would live in your head for the rest of your lives.

At the end of the night, or the early morning depending on who the person was, you'd settle back home. You'd hope the hangover you face tomorrow wouldn't be huge.

Last year, the hangover I suffered didn't fully go away until two days later.

"Yes, you can." Mariam urged.

"No, I most definitely can't," I assured her. "Chem exam is that night. That's why I didn't buy a ticket to the concert."

"Seriously?" She sighed. "See, I told you you should have taken orgo chem with me during the summer. Easy 90, I swear."

"Maybe for you. I mean, you're the one that wants to go to med school." While she wasn't a fan of physics, Mariam was insanely smart. Ridiculously smart. What took me hours to understand usually took her minutes. Her brain was a sponge.

"Okay, listen, I know you can't go to the actual party but at least come to the street party in the morning." I stayed quiet, memories of last year filling my head. I loved a good party and the fact that homecoming was stretched out throughout the day made me sigh but of course, school came first.

Mariam didn't let up. "What about you and Clayton walking into people's houses on Parkdale and swapping lamps?" Clayton was one of our mutual friends that had lived in my residence building during our first year.

I snorted. "Oh, we have to do that again. Remember when he took someone's couch outside with Iman?"

She laughed. "See? You have to come. Plus, I need group pictures. My Instagram has been looking dead."

"Fine," I said, knowing that no part of me was going to be under any influence. "I'll come but I won't be able to stay long."

"Yes!" Mariam pulled out her phone, texting Yasmeen that I would be joining the rest of our friends.

While she did that, I looked over at the game where the ref was discussing something with the scorekeeper. Over on the far left of the court, Aven stood with his shirt hooked over his mouth, hands on his hips. He pulled the shirt down when the ball was tossed towards him and bounced the ball a few times as he got ready to serve.

The whistle blew. He tossed the ball up in the air in front of him. The following movements he made look too easy. Too natural. He leapt forward and smacked the ball so hard it whipped over the net. The ball passed by all the players on the opposing team and landed our school a point when it hit just before the line of the boundary.

Mariam let out a low whistle next to me. "Not gonna lie, that was hot."

Before I could agree out loud, she suddenly nudged me, handing me her phone.

His Instagram.

She didn't follow him, but his account was public. His profile picture was a picture of him in what I assumed to be last year's volleyball outfit. As I scrolled through he had a couple more photos of him playing the sport, one of him in midair, one with him smiling with another teammate on the court. One picture I liked was of him sitting at a waterfront, smiling at the camera with the view of Vancouver behind him.

"He's really cute, right?" She commented, clearly more intrigued by the fact that I was showing interest in someone. That I didn't even know.

"He's co-captain too," Mariam continued speaking as if he was a contestant on the 'Who's Going to Date Jaime Show'. "Makes sense. I mean, the guy is amazing."

He was. Everyone knew it. I was sure he did too. You'd think after a serve like that, after playing well, he'd be cocky about it for the next move.

His teammates praised him loudly. Everyone around us, even on the bleachers, got hyped. Yet when the ball returned to Aven again, his eyes were cast down, an embarrassed smile on his face at the excitement he had caused. Then Aven shook his head, grinning when Iman yelled louder than everyone else, my friend making me and Mariam laugh as he dramatically started clapping.

I glanced down at his Instagram feed, looking at Aven's display name on his profile. "Aven Montaque."

"Yup," Mariam said just as he got ready to serve again. "That's his name."