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Her short, boy length hair was adorned in elegant finger waves, and she wore a small white flower in her hair. Grant Wellington, sitting at one of the tables near the lip of the stage was so close, he could see the outline of her face. She looked frightened, and green, and he half wondered if she’d make it through her set. How his life had changed since he’d moved from his elite Philadelphia neighborhood where he was reared around a cloistered little circle of upper crust black families, and enrolled in Howard University for law-school. Though he was summering with his parents in New York, he couldn’t stand the cloistered environment any longer, and so he snuck away from everyone for this weekend, carrying only a few of his suits in a hang-up bag, and his trumpet in a black leather case. It was silly that he bought the trumpet, it was back in a hotel room in one of the few hotels that would allow blacks to spend the night, but somewhere in his mind he held the fantasy that he would. The ride was harrowing for Lynn. She drove exactly the speed limit the entire time. Her knuckles ached from the amount of constant control she was exerting. Every few seconds she went through a mental checklist: speed, driving steady within the lines, no cops behind her or on the side of the road and nobody looking through her window. She'd driven so aggressively before, yelling and honking at other drivers as she merged in spaces almost too small for her car. But, now, large trucks scared her and semi-trucks terrified her. They just looked too large and too loud and they loomed over her when they passed. Her heart beat loudly in her chest the entire drive through the city and on the Interstate. Once Lynn took the small exit leading towards Christopher's farm, she found herself finally calming. Traffic became nonexistent and she found herself glancing outside her window. Suburbs faded away to farms. Several times she had to swerve back into her lane after she caught herself staring.
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