The Soles Of Damini Manor

CHAPTER 15: A LOT MORE THAN KISSING

Kanyin

Wednesday's P.E. classes have always been the worst, but with an added dose of a volleyball match and Yvonne on the opposite team, I want the ground to swallow me up.

We share the indoor court with the boys, which means a clear view of Terna Wellington shirtless. We haven't talked much this week except our occasional run-ins in class. As usual, I've been avoiding him and how he makes me feel. I've also been too in over my head counting down the days we have left in Lẹ́kò. But I've now resolved to living in the moment and I'm hopeful that we'll find Mom before the end of this week.

My gaze falls back on Terna, sweat beads coats his ebony skin, glittering in the natural light emitted by the wide open doors. Every muscle on his body is chiseled, like he takes extra time at the gym to look this perfect. An eighteen-year-old shouldn't have biceps sculpted like he's a Greek God. His abdomen is adorned with a washboard pattern. He doesn't turn around to face me, so I don't get a good look at how many abs he has.

"Damini, you're up," Coach Nene calls me, blowing a whistle like I didn't hear her.

I sluggishly make my way to the center of the court, scrunching my nose at how the other girls chose to wear their outfits. Iroko's sports uniform is almost as terrible as their choice for actual school uniforms. We are clad in a white round neck with black short sleeves. The black shorts are as abysmal as the shirt; they are baggy with an elastic band, a horrible combination.

I've made some adjustments to my outfit. God forbid I'm dressed like the rest of them. I got my black biker shorts from home that cling to my waist and hug my curves, and with the help of my sewing machine, I could slim-fit the shirt while tearing off the extra material that adds the horrible element to it.

"What are you wearing?" Coach Nene asks, staring me down with a distasteful curl of her lips.

I glance down at the gray and white sneakers I'm wearing. "Nike," I tell her, wondering what the problem is.

She mutters under her breath before facing me. "Not your shoes. Jesus Christ, I meant your entire outfit," she says.

"Oh," I say with widened eyes. "I don't know what brand Iroko uses, but I bet you this fabric is cheap quality," I say in a judgmental tone, gesturing to my shirt.

With raised brows, Coach Nene doesn't say anything further, walking away from me.

I wonder what's up with her. If anything, I pointed out a flaw in their P.E. outfits. She should thank me for bringing this to her attention.

I join Feyi and four other girls I don't recognize on the court.

"Hello Kanyin," Feyi chirps when I stand next to her.

I glance at her, taking in her outfit. They really did her dirty by giving her twice her size.

"Honey, you look like someone left you in prison and took your sense of style with them," I say, not holding back.

Feyi groans. "I know, but it's the new set of sport uniforms Yvonne proposed during the school board meeting. Unlike you, who would like everyone to look good, Yvonne prefers everyone looking bad and only her looking good," she points out.

"Why would anyone even-" I stop myself when Yvonne walks into her side of the court, the five girls parting like the red sea so she can walk between them. For someone who designed and chose these terrible outfits, hers seem to be of better quality. Her shirt seems thicker than ours, a clear sign of better material, and she wears hers like a tight-fit crop top over her tight-as-hell black joggers. At least she kept the elastic waistband for the joggers. Only the waistband would make anyone visiting the school for the first time recognize that Yvonne is one of us.