His books tucked under one arm, he held an apple in hand, bringing it up to his mouth to take a bite. He was a history major, he didn't know why he needed math credits. It's not like he was bad at math, on the contrary, he was actually quite good at it. All that work and all those number just gave him a headache. Plus, most of the people that were good at math were douchebags. The further he could push that mindset away from him, the better.

There were a few clouds in the sky, but the day was sunny overall. He walked down the sidewalk, which was sporadically populated with other members of the student body. He narrowed his eyes a little bit, noticing a familiar mouse haired girl walking by her lonesome. He hadn't seen Hazel for a little while, which made him feel guilt, since she had felt so bad at the Gala. He didn't even have her number to check in on her. Trotting across the grass in her direction, he jogged for a bit until he was beside her, matching her pace. "Well, THERE you are..."

As she walked into the massive set-up for the Gala, Bre's mouth hung slightly open. The University had done it up RIGHT - and while the dance floor, the decorations, and the lighting were all immaculate, nothing looked better than the buffet style tables covered in all kinds of deliciousness.

Oh holy fuck me, control yourself. Do NOT unhinge your jaw like a snake and eat the table itself. Be cool, Booker, be cool.

She adjusted the shawl, which was over her shoulders and upper arms covertly, her clutch in her hand. Despite a general incompetence with a lot of shoes, Bre had never had too many difficulties walking in high heels, especially the old-school ones with the thicker heels that she liked to buy. These were not so bad, a vintage pair she'd picked up at a thrift store eons ago and had worn to many a fancy occassion since. She pressed her ruby-red lips together for a moment, then glanced around to see if there was anyone she recognized present. 

As the afternoon wears into evening, the lounge inside of Russell hall becomes much less populated, more people moving through it in passing than sticking around. Not feeling like hanging in her dorm room, Bre wandered out into the common area, collapsing into a plush orange chair and folding her legs up in the seat with her, too short-legged and curvy to cross them gracefully. She wore black leggings and a long tunic top with artfully-sliced shoulders, her hair pulled back loosely out of her face as she listened to her father's answering machine.

"Hi, you've reached Don Booker, leave me a message at the tone and I'll get back with you as soon as possible. Thanks!" Beep.

"Hey Dad, it's me. It's about seven in the evening here, so it's like five or six there, I forget, but I wanted to call and hear your voice and let you know I'm doing great. I really am, I love it here. But I miss you. So call me when you get this, okay? Love you. Bye dad."

Back in the day, the haters’ thought was that one should want nothing to do with any chick Prince got with.

Then, not too long ago, it was deemed wise to have shied away from any babe John Mayer soiled.