Picnics and A New Friend PV: Kenyi Diallo Closed

Grey stone, green grasses, and brown bark. Murky water, frozen leaves. Pink.

Kenny abruptly comes to a stop by the side of the pathway, his eye caught by something unusual. Back home, it was normal to be wary of what went on in alleyways. They were poorly lit and often housed enough trash to form a concealing canopy. It was the perfect stakeout for a mugging, and even when there wasn't, there were infected dogs.

Just uphill is a gravel trail that connects the various facilities on campus, where a sea of students passes one another by, draped in their fittingly black-colored robes and hats. For now he simply watches, curious in part and apprehensive in another.

"Oy," he quietly calls to another student coincidentally passing by, before nodding his head towards the little pink shape by the lakeside. "You see that? My mind ain't messin'?"

Upon confirming that it isn't his tired mind playing tricks, he gives the student an appreciative nod. "Cheers."

What is Christ's name was someone doing down there? He had been warned about the lake among other things. Not to go near the forest, not to leave his common room after 10 p.m. nor before 7 a.m., not to go for a swim... Whoever it was either failed to be informed or didn't care otherwise. A half-step backward briefly sees his tired conscience dragging him back to the dorm for rest. It's the responsible thing to do, Kenny. You've hardly the energy to spare yourself. But as he half-turns to tread the path home, he stops again. That person looked like they were alone.

Briefly, the African boy considers whether approaching might be exploitative in nature, to prey upon someone's solitude off the presumption that they were lonely. Another part of him sees himself by the lake six months from now, staring emptily into the murky waters as throngs of merrily congregated friends pass by uphill.

At the very least, he thinks he should warn them of what might be lurking in the water. But as his worn soles contact the muddy slope, he finds that his footwear offers no traction. In a panic, he finds himself sliding down the slope in an uncontrolled descent, forced to lean back with his robed legs against the dirt so as not to fall forward onto his face. The sound of frigid leaves cracking and dust erupting loudly surrounds the groaning First Year as he numbly ascends to his feet by the lakeside, a dry layer of soil caking the underside of his palms.

Kenny gingerly rubs his hands together, freeing a showering cascade of soil. He glances at the sudden onset of pink directly in front of him. What was that? Concussed?

"Whoa, slow down!" Without thinking he places his hands up between them, and his foot slides back noisily through the dried leaf mesh. There is an awkward silence that now permeates the air. His eyes sour when he looks down at his robes and he sees a thin layer of mud that has attached itself to the fabric. Any resolve or magnanimous compassion he earlier had was now drained by the dreadful prospect of getting the muck out of his clothes later.

"... Look... this is all an accident. Wait, fourth year?"

His voice when heard aloud is neither that of a teen nor a child, existing somewhere in between their pitch and nasalness. Though he was aware that boys of his ethnicity tended to look older than they were, he hadn't expected a misestimate of three whole years. He knew fourteen-year-olds with brimming mustaches, ear piercings, and fully tattooed arms.

"No, Imma First Year."

As he says it, another bout of awkwardness flushes his face, and he wonders if this strange pink girl might be feeling the same.

"Would that make ya a third year then?"