A Hue of Blu

Year Four/Week Two – Present

Blu sat next to me.

“Jace, right?” Her voice was demanding, seducing. Trouble.

I pressed my lips together and nodded. “Hey.”

She was wearing a black hoodie that draped over yoga pants, white sneakers and her deep blue hair was tied in a messy bun. Her brown eyes flashed into mine as she settled into the chair, turning to me.

“Hi,” she repeated. Her smile was nice. All her teeth were perfectly straight besides the front two; slight crowding issue. I had the same. I fixed it. I fixed everything.

“I said hey,” I laughed, though I knew it came across rudely. I didn’t correct myself. I sounded like my brothers. They never corrected themselves.

If she was offended, she didn’t say anything. Nothing seemed to offend her.

I noticed her the first day of class. Her blue hair was like a breath of fresh air sitting between boring, bland walls. The way she answered Professor Granger had me on the edge of my seat – no one spoke the way she spoke.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you.” She took out black headphones from her ears. I had the feeling she wasn’t listening to anything.

I chose not to answer and began bobbing my leg. It was a nervous habit of mine, one I rarely realized I would do until it began to cramp.

The desks were pushed closer together, almost as if the universe knew Blu would sit next to me.

Blu Henderson, she’d said her name last class.

What kind of a name was Blu? A nickname, surely. One her friends must have given her, or her family. What was her family like? Why didn’t I just ask? I was never good at asking questions. I was never good at saying much.

That was all Morris. That was all Danny. Connor. Reid. Price. Everyone.

Everyone but me.

I listened in class to Granger discussing semiotics. It was interesting enough, engaging enough, until her fingers touched my kneecap.

She looked at me. I looked at her. I thought I stopped bobbing my leg half an hour ago. I didn’t.

Her hand stayed for a brief moment until she decided to retract it and face forward. I longed for her to touch me again. That longing was unusual.

When break came, she wasted no time to pose the question. “Do you do that often?”

“Do what?” I knew what she was referring to, but I wanted to hear her say it just the same.

“Your leg. You can’t sit still.”

I shrugged. “Just something I do.”

“Hm.” She leaned back, her brown eyes scanning mine. “You’re very good looking.”

If I had been drinking water, I would’ve choked. My cheeks began to heat up, but I burned the blush before it could surface. She probably caught it because she smiled.

“You look like a painting.”

“A painting?” I asked. I wanted more of this. Whatever this was.

“A painting,” she repeated, then turned to her laptop and began typing notes for the seminar.

We didn’t speak for the rest of class. She got up abruptly to take a phone call and never came back, leaving me with the longing feeling of her fingers against my kneecap and the rush of her compliments.

By the time I got back home, it was late and I huddled into bed, drifting off to a list of paintings I could only hope she compared me to.

At least in my dreams, Blu’s compliment was true.