The Scammer - 24

I hover over the toilet with a finger down my throat but nothing comes up. Didn’t I eat today? What if I can’t make it come

back up? What if it’s already a part of me?

What would Dr. Bunch say about these thoughts?

The question around my nutritionist makes me pause. I swallow down the panic, staring into the mirror.

“Pull it together,” I berate myself with a slap, wiping the drool off my chin and slipping on Nick’s sweatshirt. It still

smells like him.

Tea, then bed.

I yank the bathroom door open to a room full of people, Devonte at the center of it all.

“Time is a construct. It has no meaning in this world until humans gave it a meaning.”

The crowd grunts in response, girls snapping their fingers.

We catch eyes, his face poised. I haven’t seen him since the last time I was here. The night of my intended consequence. His voice is so smooth and hypnotizing. My body floods with emotions, starved for his attention, his reverence, yet equally terrified and disoriented and filled with rage by his presence. Killing him would be too easy.

I walk toward the kitchen, but Kerry is in the threshold, blocking my path, pretending she doesn’t see me.

I sigh. “Excuse me, I need to get to the sink.”

“Kitchen’s closed,” she says, checking her nails.

“What?”

“You want to use the kitchen? You have to ask for permission.”

“This is my suite!” I snap.

Kerry raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”

Blood boiling, I turn to the living room.

“Why bring me back if you don’t want me here!” I shout.

Devonte acts as if he doesn’t hear me as he continues speaking to the women gathered around him.

“Menstruation is an abnormal condition for Black women. You weren’t meant to hemorrhage the same time every month. Menstruation

is a product of enslavement. Enslavement altered our DNA so that we would align with white man’s religion, which practices

witchcraft and blood sacrificing. That’s the white man trying to control you.”

The women in the group nod, beguiled by his intellectual prowess.

“Then,” he continues. “They take even further steps by providing you products full of toxins to stick inside yourself. Planting seeds of diseases, infections. Think of all the females you know with cervical cancers, fibroids, fertility issues, transferring diseases to their unborn children.

“But it’s been proven that Black females on a holistic diet of natural foods do not menstruate. Your cells regenerate and

become of pure African blood. It all goes back to low-vibrational food, Queens. You have to remember that—”

“That is literally not true,” I say, plainly. The room turns to me. “Menstruation is a part of a woman’s human anatomy.”

Devonte grins, holding up a printed article. “There are research studies done on African females who do not have periods.”

“Those studies were done on malnourished African women in war-torn countries,” I shoot back. “Malnourishment, just like other

stressors, can have a direct effect on your menstrual cycle length and time. That’s been proven with studies done on women

all over the world. Not just Africans.”

A silence falls. Devonte’s smile wavers, the muscle in his jaw ticks. It feels good, beating him at his own warped game.

He stretches slowly toward his cup of tea on the table.

“I heard,” he begins, “that you allowed the Kappas to run sexual acts on you almost every night. That’s how you were able

to stay in their home.”

“That’s a fucking lie.”

“It’s the reason why I insisted on saving her,” he says to the women gathered by his feet. “Did you know every time a man enters you, he leaves a piece of his energy? Our sister here is walking around with the DNA of the white man she let penetrate her. His DNA can infect her unborn seed, leading to more babies carrying their diseased bloodline.”

“I haven’t been with anyone!” I shout.

He sips his tea. “Anyone except that white boy.”

“You leave him out of this,” I hiss.

There’s a hint of a smile on his lips, but his eyes are hard, neck tight.

“Hey! Watch how you talk to him!” a girl says.

“Just like you to jump to a white man’s defense,” another girl adds.

Nothing could be further from the truth. But how do I prove that when they’re looking up to Devonte like he’s a god?

Loren sighs, opening a book in her lap.

I groan, throwing up my hands, and storm off, passing Kammy’s closed door. She still hasn’t come out of her room. Usually,

she’d be front and center at these types of meetings. Then it occurs to me, I haven’t seen her in the last few days.

Where the hell is Kammy?

Behind my closed door, I can hear the girls talking. . . .

“I knew homegirl was a ’ho,” a girl whispers.

“They say there’s a video of her in an orgy. Nasty work.”

“That’s why she doesn’t have an Instagram or nothing. ’Cause she used to be a slut at her high school too. Trying to reinvent

herself here.”

I wish I could cry, shed some sobbing tears into someone’s chest, let out my pent-up anger. How could my dad say those things . . . and Mom, just going along with it. As usual.

I look up at my computer and take a few deep breaths. It could be worse. My parents could’ve ripped me from school. They didn’t

even ask about the credit cards so I guess they haven’t noticed yet.

They also could’ve talked about Kevin. . . .

Is the door locked? What if they come in here while I’m asleep? What would they do to me? I drag my chair across the room

and prop it up against the handle just as my phone buzzes.

Nick.

“Hey you,” I say, my voice a touch shaky.

“Hey you. You okay?”

I sigh. “Not going to lie, I’ve been better.”

“I know none of this is funny but . . . I can’t believe they went and tattletaled to your mom!”

It was a strategic move I should have seen coming. They must have gotten her number out of my phone. Thankfully, there wasn’t

much else they could see or do. All the pictures and notes I care about are in a decoy app, protected with a password.

“Why didn’t you tell your parents the truth about them and Devonte?” Nick asks.

I choose my words carefully.

“’Cause I didn’t want to prove them right about this school. They didn’t want me to come here in the first place.”

Nick hisses out some air. “Damn.”

“I know. I just . . . need to make it work.”

“Until you get another place in the spring,” he corrects me. “Where are you, exactly?”

“In my room. About to go to bed.”

“You got your tea? Hair wrapped up and whatnot?”

My sad empty mug sits untouched on the desk.

“Um, yeah.”

“Okay. Come to the window.”

The window?

I peer down into the dark courtyard. “Okay?”

“Look for the flashing light.”

Across the street, closest to the baseball field, a parked red car flashes its lights twice.

I let out a sharp gasp. “Seriously? You have a car!”

“Don’t tell the whole world. I only break it out for special occasions.”

“Aww, you think I’m special!”

“Let’s not get carried away,” he quips.

I strain to see his face in the darkness. “What are you doing here?”

“Checking on you, I guess.”

“You could’ve just called,” I counter.

“I am calling! From a very short distance.”

A warmth builds inside me, chasing away the terror. I step away from the window, worried he can see my blushing grin.

“You could just admit that you miss me.”

Nick chuckles. “Don’t have no problem admitting that now.”

I twirl and plop on my bed. The sound of a loud crunch fills the room as something cracks beneath me.

What the hell?

I jump back to my feet, staring at the bed.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks.

I yank the comforter back and find my bed full of broken glass, the shards digging holes into my sheets. If I had just got

in as is, I would’ve been pulling glass out of my feet and ankles, legs covered in bleeding cuts.

My throat goes dry. “Um, yeah. I’m okay.”

“Okay, you go to sleep. I’ll be out here for a little while longer. You know, in case you need anything.”

I pick up a piece of the glass, holding it close to my face. “Night, Nick.”

There’s a turkey-themed dinner in the Malcolm Center today. The entire building smells like stuffing and candied yams. Some

students have already started skipping classes, heading home early for the Thanksgiving holiday. I haven’t bought a ticket

home yet and my parents aren’t exactly blowing up my line, eager to know my plans.

Truth is, I’d rather be here, stuck in my dorm, than stuck with them.

“A nasty ’ho,” someone whispers behind me.

I turn around and recognize one of the girls from Devonte’s meeting.

“’Ho,” another whispers.

The words hit a nerve.

“She’s been sleeping with everyone’s boyfriend since she got here.”

“Mmm-hmmm . . . legs always open.”

It’s been three days and the rumors about me being a slut have traveled at lightning speed. People avert their eyes or look

straight on as I pass. How did I go from having a boyfriend to being a slut in a matter of weeks?

Is it that easy to destroy someone? To just make up a story and everyone believes it?

I toss my dinner and head to the FUSA office to clock in. Nick should be around. They were having a senate meeting tonight.

I don’t want to say that I miss him, but every time I make a cup of tea before bed, I find myself wishing he had made it instead.

As soon as I walk into the office, Nick is standing there, as if he was waiting, hands in his pockets.

“Hey you,” I say.

“Hey,” he mumbles. “Can we talk?”

The loaded silence in the office is unmistakable. Something’s wrong.

“Umm sure?”

He motions to the door and I follow him into the hall.

“What’s going on?” I ask. Why are we out here?

He sighs. “First, are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.” I roll my eyes. “Aside from the obvious. I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors.”

“Yeahhhh. Just had a meeting with the other officers about it. That’s why . . . we have to talk.”

My stomach tightens. “Meeting? About what?”

I watch his face change, straining to say this next part.

“The executive board thinks that maybe it’s not the best time for you to be . . . seen hanging around the office.”

My mouth falls open. Is this a joke?

“I’m sorry, what?”

He squirms. “People are uncomfortable.”

“I . . . And you just went with that?” I hiss. “Didn’t bother to stand up for me?”

Nick blows out some nervous air. “It’s not like I had much of a choice. I was outvoted.”

“Seriously! They VOTED about me?” I let out a bitter laugh. “Well, thanks for being an ally!”

Nick runs his fingers through his hair, pity in his eyes. “Come on, Jordyn. That’s not fair. I’ve been putting my neck out

for you for weeks!”

“Only ’cause you’re getting something in exchange.”

“You know that’s not the only reason,” he hisses.

He’s right. He has put his neck out for me and not just because of my campaign help. But the dog-piling mixed with frustration and guilt won’t let me admit that.

“God! What was I thinking, trusting you,” I snap. “I don’t even know you!”

He crosses his arms. “You know more than most.”

“Oh really?” I step closer. “Why don’t you do girlfriends, Nick?”

Nick falters, his jaw going slack. “Jordyn . . . I . . .”

But I’m already walking away, back to Rock Hall, trying not to listen to the voice inside my head that’s saying, you should

have never trusted him.

’Cause that voice sounds just like Devonte.

The suite reeks of garbage. The fridge contains nothing but rotting fruit and vegetables. On the bottom of our oven lie the

burnt carcasses of past meals that set off the smoke alarm whenever anyone turns on the broiler. Our bathroom is musty, with

piss stains all over the seat. Without Kammy around . . . the place has gone to hell. The Kappa house was cleaner and that’s

saying a lot.

Out in the living room, there’s laughter, music, joy. Devonte’s voice a humming melody.

No one talks to me.

No one even looks at me.

I’m a ghost. A whore. A bed wench.

The day before Thanksgiving used to be one of my favorites. I’d help Mom with food shopping and prep while watching silly Christmas comedies. Now, I’m stuck on the Amtrak home page, trying to bring myself to buy a ticket, but my fingers can’t press a single key.

So I click through the photo album. It brings me ease, grounds me when I’m ready to fall apart.

In the five stages of grief, the depression stage is when the sadness is so consuming you lose the ability to function, overwhelmed

by hopelessness. The simple act of breathing is so exhausting that you don’t even want to function. You just want to sink.

That’s what I’m ready to do, sink into a hole and never come out.

My phone buzzes. Nick.

I don’t want to talk to him but I haven’t spoken a word out loud to anyone in twenty-four hours and I’m afraid if I don’t

use my voice, I’ll lose it.

“Hey you,” he says.

Tension in my shoulders fades. “Hey.”

“I’m . . . just checking in. Are you okay?”

I try to think of the best combination of words that would eloquently describe how I’m feeling.

“I . . . don’t know what I am right now.”

“Have you eaten today?” he asks.

There he goes again. Caring. I suck my teeth. “What do you want, Nick?”

He sighs. “Jordyn. I’m sorry. You’re right. I should’ve had your back. These rumors are stupid. It’s just, with my position

as president . . .”

I laugh bitterly. “Politics, I tell ya. Even on a college campus.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” he says with a chuckle. “Wait, are you still in your room?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you would be back in Connecticut by now.”

I look at the photo album, my heart aching.

“I . . . don’t want to go back and face my parents. I don’t want to spend the next four days being chewed out. I’m not wanted

here, I’m barely wanted there. I just don’t feel like I fit in anywhere. God, the story of my life.”

There’s a brief silence on the line.

“Pack a bag. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

“Nick, I can’t move back in with you. I—”

“Not moving back in. I’m taking you home.”

Home? Does he mean home home?

I sit up straight. “Wait, seriously?”