The Scammer - 1

Through all the college preparation—the SAT courses, applications, essays, GPA fights, and interviews—no one ever mentioned

how you had to fit your entire life into two suitcases and a duffel bag. Maybe people assume you don’t have much of a life

to pack. As if we spent the last four years of high school twiddling our thumbs.

I heave my suitcases off the Amtrak train, sweat dripping down my neck, and immediately twist my hair up into a claw clip.

Don’t know the next time I’ll be able to have it straightened, so this silk press needs to last as long as possible. Shouldn’t

there be a bellhop or something?

Scanning the platform, I grip the handles of my bags and roll them toward the direction of the foot traffic, not wanting to

stand around like some clueless tourist. A guide on our summer vacation in Italy once said, “That’s how you are taken advantage

of. Appearing like easy prey instead of a worthy adversary.”

I know I don’t look like I carry an ounce of street smarts. More suburban-Connecticut, private school chic. Skinny jeans, a simple white T-shirt, and black ballerina flats. I own one pair of sneakers for gym, which I barely used since it would require me risking sweating out my hair. Like I’m about to do in this train station as I head for the exit, breaking a nail in the process.

Outside, the humidity grabs me by the throat. But I’m too busy taking in the picturesque view of the marble domed US Capitol

Building, only a few short blocks away, rivaling Greek temples and architecture. It looks just like it does on countless news

stations.

Washington, DC. I’ve made it, Kev.

Around me, the world goes on, indifferent to my presence. I hoped that I would see other kids in a similar predicament—fresh

meat, arriving alone to a new city, with no family to help them settle. But it’s just me on the sidewalk, with her life inside

a few matching pieces of luggage. The fear I’ve been ignoring starts to boil up again.

Maybe I am making a mistake, just like everyone has said. Maybe it’s not too late to jump on the next train, back to what

I know, what’s familiar, what’s safe. But there is something inside me so hard it could crack teeth if you tried to bite it.

So empty that the air smelled old, carrying the echoes of heartbreak and grief. If I don’t go . . . it may never soften.

Above my head, a giant American flag smacks the wind like a whip, and I straighten. The new backbone I acquired won’t let

me turn around. Especially since I may never get this chance again.

The cab drives by the official school sign bookended by short pillars. Frazier University. It looks so much smaller in person. Online, it’s a sprawling campus, with bright chrome-green lawns and redbrick buildings soaked in history. It’s touted for being a college up on a hill, surrounded by a bustling city.

Frazier University is one of the most established, well-known HBCUs, or Historically Black Colleges and Universities, in the

country, located smack in the middle of the nation’s bustling capital. The complete opposite of my all-white high school deep

in the wooded suburbs. I once mentioned Frazier to a white classmate, and she had never heard of it, which wasn’t surprising.

The car pulls up to Rockland Hall, a coed dorm at the bottom of the hill. For a moment, all I can do is stare at the front

door, busy with students flowing in and out. A rainbow of Black and Brown faces, laughing and smiling, donning school colors,

sneakers, and T-shirts. I look down again at my wardrobe, well overdressed for freshman orientation, and fidget with my hair.

The driver grunts as he grabs my bags out of the trunk. I slip him a tip, not as much as I would usually. I have to watch

the cash I have on hand now. I pass by a security booth and weave through the lobby, straight to the desk with the Welcome

Freshmen banner swooped overhead. A girl in a Frazier crewneck clicks her pen, smiling.

“Hey girl, hey! Name?”

“Jordyn Monroe,” I say, scoping out the scene of scattered lounge chairs, dinging elevators, and giant posters of football and basketball games with roaring crowds.

She flips through her clipboard. “Okay. Got you right here. This is your welcome packet and your key. You’ll be in a quad

on the sixth floor. Suite 610, room A. The loading dock is on the side of the building for you to bring up the rest of your

stuff.”

“This is all I have,” I mutter at the table.

She glances at my bags, her mouth making an “oh.”

“Mmmkay. Well, all of your roommates have already settled in, so they’ll give you the rundown before you meet your RA at tomorrow’s

house meeting. Oh! Almost forgot. A mug! Welcome to the Rock!”

I palm the black mug like a new bestowed heirloom, thumb tracing over the school logo.

“Thanks,” I mumble and head to the elevators.

Today is the last possible day to move into the dorm. Most kids moved in four days ago. It was still a question of whether

I was going to go through with this crazy plan of mine. But here I am, practically vibrating with adrenaline. The elevator

dings and I hold my breath up the six flights.

The moment I open the suite door, I’m accosted by a scent so strong it burns my eyes. Smoke billows out of the end of incense sticks tucked into a wooden holder sitting on the coffee table. Thumping music beats out of a shaky speaker behind one of the closed bedrooms. I set down my bags, taking a moment to appraise my new home. The small living room has two yellowish love seats forming an L shape, facing the tight kitchenette. I’ve never seen a fridge and oven that narrow before. And no dishwasher?

Across the room are four doors, two facing the others, with a small bathroom between them.

Just as I’m about to enter room A, the door to room B opens and out pops a tall brown-skinned beauty queen, her hair in a

puff crown.

“Ahhhh! You’re here!” She spins around, tapping on the other doors before enveloping me in a tight hug. “Hey y’all! She’s

here!”

I freeze under her touch, stunned by the immediate affection of this familiar stranger. I have to tell myself to breathe so

I can hug her back as naturally as possible.

In seconds, the other doors swing open. Two girls let out giggly screams. One dark-skinned, short and curvy, the other thin

with honey copper skin.

Principle number five: Smile.

I widen my grin and hit them with my best “Heyyyyy!”

I spent the summer reading How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie, hoping it would turn me into a chameleon, soften my metal bones. Because that’s how you make friends . . .

you have to be likable.

I stopped being likable so long ago that I didn’t think I could do it again. But here I am, peppering them with compliments.

“Your room looks great! Oh, I love your room too. You’re so pretty!”

Principle number two: Give honest, sincere appreciation.

Not one lie told. Just me putting on a show.

“Okay, wait wait wait. We need names, y’all!” The beauty queen says, “Hi, I’m Vanessa.”

“Loren,” the skinny one says while wrapping her braid up in a bun.

“Kammy,” the curvy one sings, hair hidden under a purple bonnet. “And OMG, you’re so pretty too!”

“What’s that smell?” I ask. “I don’t recognize it.”

Vanessa beams. “Frankincense and myrrh. My brother told me it’s the best for working on good vibes.”

“Nice,” I say, trying to keep my voice lighthearted.

I’ve always had a hard time fitting in. But I have to try. The last thing I want is college to be another version of high

school.

Vanessa plays with my hair. “We thought you were never coming!”

“Yeah, we’ve been waiting forever,” Kammy adds. “What took you so long?”

I let out a nervous giggle. “You know. . . . life be lifeing.”

“Facts,” Loren agrees, and I notice her thick New York accent.

“Okay. I have the BEST idea,” Kammy sings. “How about we pregame tonight before heading to that welcome party.”

“Ooo, I love that!” Loren agrees.

“Aye, hold up,” Vanessa laughs. “Let’s let our girl get settled first. While she doing that, what am I going to wear!”

They file into Vanessa’s room, rummaging through her closet that almost seems to be busting at the seams.

I step aside with a smile and dig the key into the door of my new room. The space is narrow, with dark gray carpet and one long window that faces the front, so you can look down into the courtyard. The standard-issue wooden desk and twin bed look like they’ve been through a war or two and Vanessa’s incense does little to fix the dank scent. But it’s home and it’s mine.

I push my suitcases by the closet, open my phone, and text the parent chat.

Hi! Made it.

I slump on the unmade bed, noting how hard the mattress is, and wait. And wait. But there’s nothing. I know they’re not busy.

It’s Saturday. All they’re doing is sitting in the den, watching golf or some documentary on PBS, phones within reach on the

marble side table next to their lukewarm coffees. Black with three sugars. Probably already made their dinner reservation

at the country club. No one knows my parents better than I do. Wish they could say the same about me.

Mom and I talked about decorating my dorm room for over a year. We wanted to raise the bed, string Christmas lights on the

walls, hang pink curtains to match some throw pillows, maybe even add a furry rug. Now, the sight of the bed reminds me that

I forgot to pack sheets. Not that I had much room for decor in my suitcase.

I open my backpack, taking out my laptop, chargers, and the few books I could fit. I clutch my journal, flipping through the last few pages. On the train ride, I managed to work on another short story. It helped the time pass, the longing and uncertainty fading. When I’m caught up in a story, I can ignore the world around me.

“I’m here, Kev,” I whisper aloud. “I’m actually here.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I scramble to snatch it up. It’s a message from Dad. A thumbs-up response to my text. I swallow

the bitter disappointment with my head held high, as if they were here, watching me. I refuse to let them see me cry.

“Uh, is that what you’re wearing?”

My new roommates, gathered in the living room, crane their necks to look at me.

I glance down at my outfit, a simple white tank top over jeans, and a blazer. “What’s wrong with it? You said it was a house

party, right?”

“Yeah but . . . ,” Kammy starts.

“It’s giving . . . stick up your ass,” Loren says with a laugh.

“Don’t you have some, like, cute earrings or something that shows a little skin?” Kammy suggests. Now without her bonnet,

I see she has a brown twenty-four-inch wig with blond highlights.

“Um, no.” In fact, nothing in my closet would match their vibe of tight dresses, skirts, and crop tops, their faces painted,

lips juicy like models, hair styled to perfection.

In an instant, my face flushes and I’m ready to crawl under the carpet. Why didn’t I think of outfits when I packed? Probably

because I never go out at home.

Vanessa waves a hand. “Y’all, it’s fine! You just gotta . . . lose the blazer. And you can borrow a pair of my hoops!”

“Dang! We don’t have shot glasses. But we DO have mugs!”

As Vanessa runs in her room, Kammy pours vodka shots in each of our mugs. I gulp, slipping off my blazer, plopping down next

to Loren. She digs into her bag and taps my shoulder.

“Ooooo, girls would kill for these lips, boo,” she says, gripping my chin and staining my lips red.

Kammy passes around our drinks. “Yas! That color is perfect on you. Alright! Cheers, y’all! To the suite!”

I grip the mug with a nervous smile. My first drink. Of course, I can’t admit that. This is my opportunity for a fresh start.

A whole new me. And a new me would have friends, people who like her, a life. A new me would drink, responsibly of course.

Act normal, act chill, I coach myself before taking it to the head, letting the liquor burn down my throat, holding back a

cough as my eyes water.

“Okay, I have a confession to make,” Loren says, smirking. “I looked y’all up. You know, I had to check on who I was gonna

be rooming with. Can’t be stuck with no nut jobs. I’ve heard too many horror stories.” She turns to me. “But there’s, like,

no pics on your Insta. You don’t even have a Snapchat. What’s up with that?”

The girls turn with curious stares, and I shrug.

“Guess I’m kinda private,” I say, not wanting to admit that there is nothing in my life worth posting.

“Okay, back up. Can we go through the basics. You know, to catch Jordyn up to speed,” Kammy giggles, with a happy clap. “State your name, your sign, where you from, your major and why. Then a little about your family.”

“Okay. I’ll start. Hi, I’m Loren. Cancer, from Harlem, some call me Lo. Public relations major. I want to do PR for artists

and movie stars. I have six brothers and sisters that all still live at home with my moms but I’m the first one to go to college.”

Vanessa’s mouth drops. “Wait, did you say six?”

“Yep. And one damn bathroom,” she says, pouring herself another shot.

Kammy cackles. “Okay, guess I’m next! Hi, Kamara, but everyone calls me Kammy. I’m from St. Louis, Missouri. Pisces. I’m a

psychology major. I’m going to be a child therapist. I got three older sisters, five aunties, and dozens of cousins. My boyfriend

still lives back home. He’s studying to be a pastor so he can take over his father’s church. I’ve been going there all my

life.”

“You plan on staying with him?” Loren chides, bumping her shoulder.

“Of course! Once I graduate, we’re getting married. I’m going to have like eight bridesmaids. Maybe nine, if my cousin Shay-Shay

act right.”

Loren raises a mischievous eyebrow at Vanessa while sipping her drink, as if to say, “We’ll see about that.”

“My turn. Hi, I’m Vanessa, some call me Ness. From Oakland, California. Accounting major, planning to own my own firm. No man, but they say college is the best place to meet your husband. Parents are dead, long story, been living with my grandma. Outside of that, it’s just me and my brother. Well, will be . . . once he gets out of prison.”

I notice the ache of longing in her voice, so similar to my own that my breath catches.

“Prison? What he do?” Kammy winces, covering her mouth with her hands. “Shit, can I ask that?”

Vanessa laughs with a wave of her hand. “It’s fine. He was framed for some credit card fraud bullshit. I haven’t seen him

in two years. But he’s getting out real soon then he promises to visit.”

A sting of jealousy rips through me. At least he can still visit. So caught up in my thoughts I almost miss the question thrown

at me.

“Helloooo? What about you,” Kammy says.

“Oh, yeah, right. Hi! I’m Jordyn. Most call me . . . well, Jordyn. I’m a Virgo from Westport, Connecticut. Poli-sci major

on the prelaw track.”

“And family?” Loren asks.

I shrug. “Uh, small. Just me and my parents. With three bathrooms.”

The girls laugh as I take a relieving sigh. I want them to like me, not pity me. I want them to be my friends. I don’t want

them to know about Kevin. I want to leave my past buried under the fresh dirt I swept over it.

“So where’s this party anyways,” I say, desperate to take the focus off me. “Should we call an Uber?”

“Nope.” Vanessa jingles a set of keys. “I have a car!”