The Scammer - 4
“Loren, are you sure you’re okay?” Loren, Kammy, and I amble from the Malcolm Center like drifting leaves in the evening breeze. Loren insisted she didn’t want to go to the infirmary but agreed to eat dinner in the café instead. “Yeah,” she says in a groggy voice, flashing a sleepy smile...
“Loren, are you sure you’re okay?”
Loren, Kammy, and I amble from the Malcolm Center like drifting leaves in the evening breeze. Loren insisted she didn’t want
to go to the infirmary but agreed to eat dinner in the café instead.
“Yeah,” she says in a groggy voice, flashing a sleepy smile. “That was mad embarrassing tho. Can’t believe I forgot to eat
today.”
Despite her words, she still looks gray in the face.
“Why didn’t you tell us you were diabetic?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it and y’all treat me all different.”
“We would never,” Kammy insists, rubbing her shoulder. “You’re one of us.”
Loren nods, her eyes glassy. “Thanks, boo. And I promise, I’ll keep my shit in check. No more fainting.”
Kammy sucks her teeth. “Hmp. Better not.”
The weather has finally started to cool, fall close to joining us for our first semester at Frazier. We walk down the hill, toward the Rock, arms linked. Mostly to keep Loren on her feet. I don’t think I can stomach seeing her faint again.
“Anyway, the café wasn’t the worst tonight.” Loren brightens, trying her best to change the subject. “At least there were
veggies.”
Kammy huffs. “I only ate there for you.”
I laugh. “Kam, the food isn’t that bad.”
Kammy sucks her teeth. “That chicken could’ve lit a forest fire it was so dry. I’m mad I prayed over it. And I know you ain’t
talking, you barely ate!”
Loren and I crack up. Kammy is a bona fide picky eater, which makes sense given she’s the cook in her family. Loren mostly
eats for sustenance. I have a feeling she isn’t used to food being this readily available to her all the time. And me, well
I guess food and I have always been acquaintances rather than lovers.
Screaming sirens pierce the air as four police cars fly by, weaving through the busy street. We cross the road, watching their
lights dim in the distance.
“They must be heading to the protest,” Kammy mumbles. “I’ve seen a few on the news.”
We walk through the lobby of Rock Hall, everyone waving and making plans for later. No one seems too overly worried about
the protest. We ride the elevator up and I slip my key into the suite door, stopping short at the man sitting on our sofa.
“Uh. Hello?”
Loren and Kammy gather beside me, defensively.
“Who are you?” Loren snaps with a wobbly voice.
He slowly stands and we all take a step back.
Vanessa runs out of her room, beaming. “Hey girls! This is my brother, Devonte. I know! We don’t look alike. Same mom, different
dads, you know how it goes.”
Devonte takes us in one by one. When his eyes land on me, I flinch, as if hit by a static shock. He’s much taller than I thought
he’d be. Thin, but muscular, with veins raised a touch beneath brown butter skin. His long locs cascade down the side of his
face. He has dimples, which bring a youthfulness to his demeanor. But his dark shiny eyes hold a unique power.
Above all . . . he smells amazing.
Kammy and Loren stand dumbstruck. None of us were prepared for this type of Greek god–like man.
“Hey,” Kammy utters, then shakes her head, as if waking up from a nap. “Welcome! Would you like a drink? We got it all.”
“No thanks, sis. I don’t drink,” he says, with a light wave of his hand.
“Oh. Okay. My bad.”
“Nothing to be sorry about at all, love.”
Kammy just about clutches her pearls, taken aback by his smooth baritone voice. The way his tongue moves when he says “love”
is mesmerizing.
“Uh, hi,” Loren lets out with a small choke. “What’s up?”
Vanessa straightens, her face turning serious. “Lo, you okay?”
“Yeah I’m . . .”
Loren sways and before I can yelp, Devonte swoops in, scooping her up into his arms, effortlessly.
Kammy stumbles back with a “Whoa.”
Vanessa runs across the room petting Loren’s hair and forehead. “What happened!”
Kammy gives a recap as Devonte struts over to the sofa, placing her down like a baby in her crib.
“Yo, Ness, pass me my bag,” he says.
Vanessa rushes into her room, procuring his satchel.
“Vanessa said y’all might be hungry.” He motions to a bag of groceries by the kitchen. “Figure I make a little something.”
“You know how to cook?” Kammy seems both impressed and skeptical at the offer.
He grins. “I learned a thing or two.” He glances at Loren. “But for you, Queen . . . you need something a little different.”
As Vanessa and Devonte set up in the kitchen, Kammy plays bartender, mixing drinks for the rest of us. I watch Devonte boil
water then add some dried herbs from his bag, never taking my eyes off the cup. He sips, approving, then carries it to Loren.
“Drink this.” He places the mug into her hands and I resist the urge to slap it away. She JUST fainted, who knows what the
hell is in that tea and what it can do to her. But I have to play it cool. Plus, Loren said she wants to be seen as normal.
I can appreciate that. Don’t want to come off like some helicopter mom. I try turning my attention elsewhere.
Principle number eight: Talk in terms of the other person’s interest.
“Um, so, Vanessa said you used to work in the hip-hop industry,” I say in my best friendly voice.
He lets out a low laugh returning to the stove. “Not work. I wouldn’t call it work. I was a part of creating the culture.
I’m an architect.”
His deep throaty voice is intoxicating. The kind you could listen to on audiobook all day. Kammy hovers nearby, as if worried
about someone being in her kitchen. I hit her with a silly face, trying to lighten her mood.
“What are you listening to now?” Loren asks from the sofa.
“Little of this, little of that. Mostly stuff that ain’t out yet. People send me tracks for feedback.”
“Even when you were in prison?” Kammy asks, and we all flash her a look. But Devonte only chuckles.
“My ears were free, sis. They locked up my body but they could never take over my mind.”
He shuts her down softly, a light feather tap.
“Yo, let me ask y’all a question,” he says. “Do you really know how the music industry works?”
He begins breaking down the major players of labels, the producers, the tour managers, the marketing teams. . . . He refers to them on a first-name basis, all while cooking us sautéed veggies with red potatoes. Loren begins taking notes on her phone, hanging on his every word. He speaks with such passion, authority, and vision. If our professors talked with this amount of knowledge, we’d never leave their classrooms.
“The thing you gotta remember is . . . music breathes life into people. It has a heartbeat. You gotta take it seriously when
you create it. But before I go into all that . . . let me take a look at my patient here.”
Devonte crosses the room and kneels beside Loren. She lets out a bashful laugh.
“Oh! I’m good,” Loren insists, trying to shoo him away. “Don’t worry about me.”
Devonte cocks his head to the side, his gaze on her firm and intense. “I bet it’s frustrating, not being in full control of
your body the way you want.”
Loren’s mouth drops. I don’t think she’s ever admitted that to anyone.
He smiles, brushes a few braids out of her face. “How are you feeling now, love?”
Loren takes a moment, eyelids fluttering as if she’s doing a full-body scan.
“Actually, much better.” She peers into her cup. “What is this stuff?”
Devonte chuckles. “A little of this, a little of that. I studied under a bushman doctor in Cuba.”
Kammy frowns. “Cuba? Thought we weren’t allowed to go there.”
“I have my ways and my connections. Some of the best doctors in the world are in Cuba. One of the many reasons this country tries to keep us from going there. Our healthcare here is shit. And expensive.”
“Facts,” Loren mumbles, taking another sip from her mug.
I nod, as an alert buzzes on my phone. News headline: Protests erupt in DC following release of deadly police body cam footage.
“‘It’s a very tense situation out here between DC police officers and protesters. As you can see, we have officers in riot
gear. . . .’”
The next morning, the smell of fresh biscuits fills the air. We stayed up past three a.m. with Devonte, talking about music
and life, until we slowly drifted into our rooms and fell asleep. I figured maybe Kammy decided to make breakfast. But when
I step out of my room, I find Devonte pulling a tray out of our tiny stove.
“Grand rising, Queen,” he says in a soft voice. “Made some breakfast. You slept good?”
I blink back in surprise. “Uh, yeah. You?”
“Any night outside the chains they had me in is a gift.”
Suddenly self-conscious, I rush into the bathroom to brush my teeth, wash my face, and compose my thoughts. When I step out,
he’s there, waiting with a plate.
“For you.” He hands me the plate, thumb grazing my knuckles, and I flinch.
“Thanks,” I murmur just as Loren and Kammy come out of their rooms.
“What! Breakfast!” Loren exclaims.
“First meal of the day is the most important one,” he says, his smile glowing. “You know breakfast stands for breaking your
fast. What you put in your body helps knowledge absorb in the mind. Beyoncé and Jay-Z are all about that shit.”
Loren almost drops her plate. “Wait, you know Beyoncé and Jay-Z?”
“Who do you think helped with that On the Run tour?”
“Wow,” she gasps, astounded.
“What’s the green stuff?” Kammy asks, poking it with a fork.
“That’s callaloo with saltfish. You need nutrients in your body. Summer Walker put me on to that.”
He continues on, name-dropping celebrities we’ve all heard of. So caught up in his stories we lose track of time and go running
for the elevator to class.
“Okay, this is gonna be a crazy question,” Vanessa says on the way down to the lobby.
“I’m all for crazy,” Loren says, applying her lip gloss.
“Y’all mind if Devonte stays with us for a few days? I haven’t seen him in so long and I really miss him!”
Kammy beams. “What, of course he can stay!”
“Duh! I mean, he’s your brother!” Loren adds.
The girls look at me and I smile wider. “Yeah. The more the merrier and all that, right?”
“Right!” they say in unison and burst into laughter.
Who in their right mind would say no to her?
My parents had a very specific agenda for me:
And even though I followed this agenda for the most part, any small deviation would send them reeling. They couldn’t understand
why I would waste my time reading novels. Anything that wasn’t for educational purposes was considered trivial.
And this was all before Kevin. After . . . it only got worse. Because now all their hopes and dreams were stuffed into the
shoulder pads of my uniform blazer, weighing me down. The pressure so severe, it made it impossible to eat.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
I’m ten minutes late to Ethics, which sucks because attendance is part of my grade and I want to nail an A. Especially in front of Nick. There’s been a few times we sparred during class discussions and I never backed down. I played small in high school with white boys like him. I refuse to do that here.
Just as I reach the stairs, a tidal wave of students come flowing down, rushing out the building. I spot Nick in the crowd,
heading for the doors.
“Hey what’s going on?” I ask, following, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.
“Classes are canceled,” he says without stopping. “School closing early due to the protest. Giving people a chance to get
home before curfew.”
“Really?” I didn’t check the news before leaving. Too preoccupied with Devonte. “Are you going?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
I scoff. “Figures.”
He stops to face me. “No, I’m going to the police station. I’m a jail support volunteer. They’re going to be arresting hundreds
of people and folks don’t know their rights. We remind them what to say and ask once inside. Try to catch people’s names and
birth dates before they are bused away so we can track them in the system, then greet them when they’re free, with hot coffee
or tea, anything they need.”
“Wow.” That’s something I would love to do. Something I never thought or heard of.
“You should go home, Bambi. It’s only going to get worse before the National Guard is called in.”
He doesn’t wait for my response and walks off.
In the lobby of Rock Hall, a group of students are dressed in all black, painting posters and signs . . . No Justice, No Peace!
Overnight, the protests exploded in Southeast, spilling farther into the city. The school buzzed with the news, resulting
in the same question being tossed left and right. . . .
Are you going?
The truth is, I don’t know. My parents hate protests, think they are the biggest waste of time and energy. Both lawyers, they
can’t wrap their head around breaking the law to prove a point in the name of justice. Living in the suburbs, we are always
far from the fray. Now, I’m in the thick of it, locked inside the protected bubble of school, where students are planning
to cut their way out, and I’m not sure if I should follow.
What would you do, Kevin, if you were here?
I stop to read another sign right before spotting Vanessa at the front door, rushing over with a grin.
“Girl! Thank GOD they canceled class! My ass did not study at all for that accounting quiz.” She stares into her phone, scrolling
through messages, and I find myself wondering of all careers . . . why accounting?
She nods at a message. “Okay, cool. There’s a happy hour at this bar on V Street. I met a security guard who can slip us in.”
Some bars and lounges aren’t big on letting in underage students. Especially freshmen.
“You really want to go out tonight?” I ask, waving at the posters still drying by the windows.
“We’ll be fine! It’s all going down in Southeast and by the White House anyway. Nothing over here to be worried about. We’ll
be home before curfew.”
I take a deep breath. “Is your brother coming?”
“Nah,” she says with a wink. “It’s ladies’ night!”
There is a thick unease in the air, as if the whole city is collectively holding their breath.
But at the bar, I watch Kammy flirt her way through two rum and Cokes. Feels like we’re partying on the edges of a war zone,
with choppers flying overhead and black smoke billowing in the distance. Vanessa didn’t want to drive so we took a car service
to the bar fifteen minutes from campus.
Loren grabs Kammy’s hand, dancing her closer to us and away from some guy who’s been in her ear all night.
“Aye, girl, don’t you have a man you’re all in love with,” Loren says with a laugh. “Not me out here trying to save your happy
home!”
Kammy gives us a coy smile. “I do but . . .”
“But?” we all say at once.
Kammy gives us a sheepish grin, sliding a piece of hair behind her ear. “It’s nice feeling so, I don’t know . . . wanted. Nobody used to check for me like this back home. I’m not built like Vanessa and got the boys wrapped around her finger.”
Vanessa giggles. “HA! I wasn’t always this cute. Check this out.” She flips through her phone and pulls up a picture. In the
photo is a young Vanessa grinning with braces and thick glasses, sitting in a cluttered living room. On the opposite side
of the flowery sofa is Devonte, his expression stoic.
“That’s me, freshman year of high school. A hot mess! And that’s Devonte. He was just starting his locs. My dad HATED them.”
The picture seems ancient in comparison to what I see and know standing before me that I have to laugh.
“What was your brother like as a kid?” I ask.
“Mmm . . . I guess a deep thinker. Always had wild ideas and plans.”
Just like me, I think, and take a sip of my drink.
The bright bar lights pop on, blinding everyone. The music shuts off with an abrupt snap before someone jumps on the mic.
“Everyone . . . you need to leave, right now. Bar is closed.”
A chorus of grumbles comes from the crowd, as people make their way to the door.
“Aye, what’s up?” Vanessa asks one of the bartenders.
“They shutting down the bar,” a woman in black says. “Protesters are making their way up here. They don’t want no smoke. Y’all
better get home. Now!”
This sobers Kammy up. “Wait, the protesters are coming this way? What do we do?”
Vanessa remains composed but her lips wiggle.
“Well, we’re already out here. Maybe we should just . . . join them,” Vanessa suggests with an innocent shrug. Was this her
plan all along?
Loren and I exchange a look, clearly thinking the same thing. We need to get home. This isn’t the right time to be justice
warriors. I check my phone, no service. There must be too many people around. No way to call a car.
“Everyone is talking about going.” Vanessa shrugs. “Maybe we should get in on the action!”
I feel my facade begin to slide off and shrug it back up my shoulder, remaining mute.
Kammy bites her lip. “I’ve never been to a protest before. My momma wouldn’t let me. She said we should just pray for everyone’s
safety.”
Vanessa has a hard time holding in her disgust. “Nah. We don’t need no thoughts and prayers. We need to be about action!”
Loren’s brow furrows. “I feel you, but I can’t afford to get arrested.”
“Me either,” I add, calculating what’s left in my bank account. My parents would have to come bail me out. That would just
about ruin everything. I can’t risk it.
Then again, I keep thinking what would Kevin do versus what he would want to do.
“No one’s getting arrested, y’all,” Vanessa says, nonchalantly. “What are we going to do? Just stand by while they murder us in cold blood and not say nothing? We’ll be fine! Trust me.”
I study Vanessa, a thousand thoughts running through my head, the loudest one: I wish I could syphon just a fraction of her
audacious confidence. Then I would have no issues making friends. She probably could talk her way out of a prison sentence.
I’ll have to keep that in mind.
Outside, I hear chanting coming closer.
“NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE! NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE!”
Everyone files out of the bar. Outside, V Street is packed. Every spot shutting down, lights off, doors closing, people spilling
out into the middle of the road. Up ahead, police lights swirl, a barricade put up, blocking off traffic. The opposite end,
protesters marching toward us, in one straight line that takes up the entire street. Hundreds of people as far as you can
see.
We’re sandwiched in. Trapped.
A few feet away, a newswoman stands in front of her cameraman. . . .
“It’s a very tense situation out here between DC police officers and protesters! As you can see, we have officers in riot
gear. . . .”
“Shit,” Loren mumbles behind me.
“No, no, no,” Kammy whimpers, head shaking. “I don’t like this. I wanna go home!”
But which way do we go, toward the police or toward the protesters? Without cell service, I don’t even have GPS to tell me
how to get back to campus.
The crowd of partygoers twist and turn around, lumping together in the middle. Vanessa looks both ways, eyes panicking, as if realizing her mistake.
“Uh, this way. I think.” Vanessa grabs my hand and heads toward the protesters. I grab Loren’s hand, who grabs Kammy’s, linking
us like a chain.
But before we can take two steps, a bottle launches up, forming an arc in the sky, landing right at our feet, glass exploding
in every direction. The girls shriek.
“Y’all partying in our city while they kill us!” someone in the crowd yells.
“Fuck you and your school, you bougie-ass Negroes!”
Behind us, the police form a tight line, shields held up, batons in hand at the ready.
“Go!” Vanessa screams and starts running. We dive straight into the crowd, weaving through signs, posters slapping our faces,
blocking our view, the chants deafening. But it’s like swimming through oatmeal. The crowd becoming thicker with every step.
Behind me, I hear Kammy cry out, “Wait!”
I spin around and see Kammy and Loren stuck a few feet behind. I wring my hand loose from Vanessa to backpedal.
“I can’t move!” Loren screams, her eyes bulging. By the time we reach a hysterical Kammy, I can barely breathe. We’re laced
in a corset of people, the strings pulling tighter.
And I can’t see Vanessa. She’s gone!
My arms are pinned to my sides. I can’t move, can’t yank myself free. My hair unravels as I stretch up and realize what’s happening. The police are marching forward, the crowd is squeezing us tighter to the point that no one can move. I stare into Kammy’s horrified eyes, as she tries to push people off her. If someone yells “run,” if a gun goes off . . . we’ll be trampled.
At that exact moment, there’s a small wave, the crowd falling like dominoes. Loren loses her footing, toppling down.
“Loren!” But she’s gone, drowning in the sea of people, vanishing from sight. My bones turn to icicles, heart trying to explode
through my ribs.
Through all the screaming and shouting, I hear the echoing of cans bouncing on the concrete. Smoke plumes and surrounds us
like an oncoming fog. A billion onions are sliced at once. My eyes begin to burn and sizzle. In the height of my panic, my
thoughts drift to him.
This is it, Kevin. I’ve failed . . . before even trying.
I frantically spin, searching for a way out, thumping into a hard chest.
Devonte.
He takes a giant stride, plucking protesters off one-handed, and pulls Loren to her feet, scooping her to his side.
“Don’t let go,” he shouts into my ear. His thick calluses scratch the inside of my palm as he tightens his grip. Then, like
a bulldozer, he charges through the crowd, moving fast, a hot knife through butter, heading straight for a parked van.
“Wait!” he orders, positioning us behind the back of the van. “Cover your nose and mouth. Just wait.”
And as if on cue, a stampede erupts, everyone running, screaming following. Kammy sobs into her praying hands. But Devonte
seems to be calm, careful . . . calculating.
When the crowd thins, Devonte pushes us toward the sidewalk. “Go!”
On the corner, the crowd eases enough for us to push through and run away from the madness. Down the block, Vanessa waves
by the open door of her truck.
“Get in! Get in!”
I grab Kammy’s hand and scramble into the back seat, Loren dives in after us.
Devonte jumps into the driver’s seat, throws the car in gear, and speeds off.
“I ’m so so sorry, y’all,” Vanessa says for the millionth time, eyes swollen with tears. “I didn’t think it was gonna be like
that.”
Back at the dorm, Devonte helps us tend to our stinging eyes. Other than a lost shoe, a torn shirt, and buckets of tears,
we managed to make it out unscathed.
“So why did you hide behind the van?” Kareem asks as we recount our night of terror.
Devonte sips his water, taking all the attention in stride. “They were in the middle of a crowd crush. A stampede was the next thing coming so I hid us behind something and let the majority of the crowd pass. You don’t want to get caught up, trip, and run over. Trust. Been to enough concerts to know how to survive.”
Kammy shakes her head in awe. “You saved our lives.”
Devonte gives a modest nod. All in a day’s work for him. Still, I find myself so grateful. A strange feeling. How did he even
know how to find us?
“It’s my fault we were out there in the first place,” Vanessa admits, shaking her head. Kareem kisses her cheek. “We could’ve
been locked up. Then . . . shit.”
She looks at Devonte, something passing between them.
“It’s nobody’s fault,” Devonte corrects her, eyes flickering to Kareem’s hand then back.
“How’d you know where we were?” I ask, trying not to sound suspicious.
“Vanessa told me where y’all were kicking it tonight. I had a sense something was up. I’ve seen this movie too many times.
The police set a trap, trying to lock up as many brothers and sisters as they can get their hands on. More numbers, more overtime,
more pay. You probably would’ve stayed locked up over the weekend.”
I think of Nick at the police station. What would he have said if he saw me being carted off. Would he have tried to help?
Would he be impressed?
“Nothing is gained by looting and burning down businesses owned and run by our own people,” Loren says, and I tune back into
the conversation. “These riots are just gonna keep setting us back.”
“It’s an uprising, sis. Not a riot,” Devonte says gently. “Words have power. We have to use them wisely, and not use the enemy’s language for what is going on right now. See, calling it a riot makes it seem like fighting against oppression is wrong. And that ain’t it.”
Loren processes this for a moment, giving him an appreciative nod. “Facts.”
Kareem continues to comfort Vanessa while Kammy stares at the floor, still in shock.
“This is just gonna keep on happening,” she mumbles.
“Yeah, and they just gonna keep getting away with it,” Kareem hisses.
Devonte scans the room. “Y’all are young and have seen this type of injustice more than you should. Before, there were no
cameras to catch our people being gunned down, attacked, and framed. Y’all are a generation who’ve seen lynching and police
brutality in real time, in color and surround sound. You’ve had to deal with the burden of witnessing those same people get
away with it. Murderers in navy uniforms. Then, folks expect you to go to school, function like it’s just another day. Teaching
you to be fair and follow the rules, in an unfair world that stays cheating. It’s no wonder y’all fed up and ready to take
to the streets, ready to burn it all down. It ain’t right and you deserve better.”
The room simmers, a dark cloud over our thoughts and memories. The images shoved in our faces every day. It’s all we’ve seen and known. It’s like he understands the feelings we have had no real words for. The violations that have been done to our childhood, the proverbial peace promised yet never experienced. Seems like we’re always sitting on the edge of an unsaid war; if it’s not one thing, it’s another. It’s not right and we do deserve better.
“But believe me,” he continues. “There will be a day where we, Black people, will inflict the same violence that was done
upon our people to them. No one should be surprised when that day comes very soon. A few burnt buildings will be the least
of their problems.”
Kareem sits on the sofa next to Vanessa and, for a change, is not mesmerized by her beauty, but fascinated with Devonte.
“Okay, tell me again how you helped produce Kanye’s album,” Kareem says. “’Cause that’s my favorite album of all time!”
Devonte sits on a love seat arm, trying to hold back a coy smile, as if he’s nervous about being the center of attention.
“Albums,” he corrects. “I know people think Kanye ain’t right in the head but they said that about every genius who walked
on this earth. We’d be in the studio for hours, vibing to a beat, and I make a suggestion then . . . POOF! Art.”
Kareem leans forward like a little boy eating up a good picture book. Can’t say that I blame him. I, too, wanted to hear more about his time with Kanye. Kareem spread word about Devonte helping us the night of the uprising and some of his friends were eager to meet him. With a city-wide curfew still in effect, we hunker in our suite, riding out another wave of protests as the National Guard struggles to maintain control.
“What was it like, being locked up?” Legacy asks. “And couldn’t Kanye help get you out? Pay for lawyers and stuff.”
He shrugs. “He knew the real reason, he knew what I was up against. Sometimes the mission needs its strongest soldier.”
I glance at Vanessa who nods in agreement. The way she admires her brother . . . seems unearthly. Their relationship doesn’t
fit the traditional mold of big brother/little sister. They don’t make fun of each other, roll their eyes when one or the
other is being annoying. They’re like a team, one unit.
That could’ve been us . . . .
“What you mean by ‘the mission’?” Legacy asks from his seat on the floor.
Devonte stares at his palms. “It’s hard being a Black man in this country. Damn near impossible. Haven’t you ever wondered
why? I bet your pops had ‘the talk’ with you once or twice. You know, the talk about what to do if you’re stopped by an officer?”
Kareem and Legacy nod.
“You ever wonder if white boys ever had to have ‘the talk’? You ever wonder why you’re treated so different? Why your fathers,
grandfathers, uncles, cousins were all treated so different? Aren’t you tired that no one is able to answer the question why?”
The room falls silent.
“The moment you start questioning a system that’s aimed for your demise is the moment you become an enemy of that system. Then the mission becomes clear. You can’t be sold or indoctrinated. That’s when you learn none of this shit is real and you got to wake the people up!”
Legacy nods. “Like in The Matrix .”
The room giggles. Everyone except Devonte.
“Funny you should say that. Did you know the original creator of The Matrix was a Black woman?”
“What?”
“Yep. White people stole her idea. Think about all the other inventions and ideas white people stole and took credit for.
But when they stole her shit, they didn’t know they were sending a secret message . . . the truth, to Black kings and queens
everywhere.”
“Damn, that’s deep,” Kareem mumbles as Vanessa rubs his knee.
Kammy, scanning the room, lets out a sigh. “Anyone need anything to drink? More ice?”
The evening carries on, Devonte sharing more of his adventures in music, handing out life advice like sweet candy. The way
he’s able to command attention, while his points fly over heads, is fascinating.
Around two a.m., as the boys get ready to leave, Devonte has one more thing to say.
“Hey brother, before you go, can I ask you something?”
“Yeah! What’s up,” Kareem says eagerly, his face lighting up.
Devonte wiggles a finger at Kareem’s arm. “What do those letters on your jacket mean to you?”
Kareem looks down and laughs. “Oh! They’re from my fraternity. Kappa Kappa Psi.”
“Hmm. Why do you think you need to be in a fraternity?”
Kareem laughs, eyes toggling from us then back to Devonte. “Well, why not? It’s a brotherhood. And there are fraternities
all over the world.”
“Fraternities were originally founded by white men exclusively to trade secrets.”
That’s not true , I think but don’t say out loud.
“You ever question,” he continues, “why after all these years, Black folk still trying to live up to an image of them?”
Kareem blanches. The thought never crossed his mind.
“Wooo Lawd, answer that question and we’ll be here all night,” Kammy says, trying to interject humor into the moment. Not
that it feels tense. It feels as if we have still so much to learn.
Exhaustion begins taking over. I slyly move away from the group saying their goodbyes, dumping my plate in the sink. Devonte
volunteers to clean up. He’s always cleaning, straightening, even offering to iron our clothes.
As I head to my room, I notice Kareem, Legacy, and Devonte in the corner, whispering. Devonte seems to be explaining something
and Kareem’s face pales.
Two hundred and fifty people were arrested over the course of a few nights. The protesters simmered as pastors and community members bound together to restore order. Classes were back in session. And as the world returned to normal, I realized my parents didn’t call once. Not to check on me or make sure I was safe. They’d never dream of their daughter being involved in the melee. That’s not who they raised. We were to be apolitical. They didn’t want us to be confused with Black people who did nothing but complain rather than pull themselves up by their bootstraps. If people were struggling, it was their own fault.
After dinner in the café, Loren and I decide to head to the library. With Devonte’s visit came many nights of no studying
and papers waiting until the last minute. I even skipped a few morning classes when my bed felt too comfortable to abandon.
Back home, my mother would’ve been on my neck, pestering me to the point that I would rather sleep outside in a freezing car
than inside my own home.
We pick a table in the old stacks, books, papers, and tablets spread out like a feast, our heads down and hyper focused. About
an hour in, Loren yeets a pen at her laptop.
“If I fail this class, I’m going to lose my merit scholarship and will end up scrubbing toilets at the Holiday Inn.”
I laugh. “Dramatic much?”
She smiles. “I’m not like you. You’re smart, probably will graduate with honors and a job already lined up. The entertainment industry is cutthroat. It’s all about who you know. And Frazier is the best place to make those kinds of connections. But I gotta stay in school to make that happen.”
Principle number two: Give honest, sincere appreciation.
“But you’re really pretty! And brilliant. You can do anything!”
“Thanks, girl.” She sighs and drums her nails. “Sooo . . . Devonte’s pretty cool, huh?”
I raise an eyebrow at her and she laughs.
“Ew! Don’t get it twisted. I’m not into him like that!”
I would hope not. Then again, he is extremely good-looking. Charming in a way that’s not overbearing or gross. Starting to
understand how anyone could fall for his spell.
Principle number four: Become genuinely interested in other people.
“Well, what do you like about him?” I ask.
“I don’t know. He just knows so much. Yesterday, we were talking about how scientists used to do all these crazy experimental
surgeries on Black people with no pain medication. They were stealing people’s organs and stuff!”
I blink. “You were? When was this?”
“I wasn’t feeling well yesterday so I skipped class and went back to my room. Devonte was there. He made me some tea and we
talked for like four hours straight.”
“Oh,” I say, trying to ignore the feeling that I have been sucker punched in the spleen. She’s had time alone with him that
I didn’t know about. Things are happening behind my back, and she didn’t tell me. What else have I been missing?
Loren goes on, unaware of my unraveling. “You ever hear about Henrietta Lacks? They stole tissue samples from her arm and made all these vaccines, earning millions yet never gave her family a dime.”
“What? Seriously?”
“Yeah! And the Tuskegee experiment, how they injected all them Black people with syphilis just to watch them die!”
I swallow. “Well, they didn’t inject them with syphilis. They already had it and withheld treatment.”
“Who knows if that’s even true tho!”
But I do know. I read science papers about it. Still, I hold my tongue.
Loren shakes her head. “It’s amazing how much they don’t teach us in school. But Devonte, he’s been spitting some facts. It’s
like everything he says . . . makes perfect sense, you know? He’s been giving us the real tea, the background, telling us
things we should’ve known!”
“That’s true,” I agree.
“But you know what I really like about him.” She leans closer, elbows on the table. “He doesn’t talk down or at us like we’re
some little kids. He talks to us like we’re his equals. And for a guy who’s been around the world and did all these amazing
things . . . it’s mad cool, knowing we’re not just some whack-ass freshmen to him.”
I smile at her. “Facts.”
“Well. What do you like about him?” she asks, eyes roaming my face. The question feels off. Like it’s not hers to ask.
I keep my voice light. “Uh, just like you said, he talks to us like we’re real adults.”
She brightens. “Right . . . like, what did your parents tell you before you left for school?”
I shrug since my parents didn’t say one word to me when I left. They didn’t even offer to drop me off at the train station.
She chuckles. “All mine said was, ‘Don’t get pregnant.’ At least that’s all I remember them beating in my head. Nothing about
how the world works. There is too many of us for them to pay any kind of real attention to me. They would get mad aggravated
when I used to get sick that I would just hide it from them. Meanwhile, Devonte is schooling us on life without making us
feel stupid or we’re a . . . a . . .”
“A burden?”
“Yeah, that. He keeps it real. And I guess, I appreciate that. So when I do make it big, no one can try to play in my face.
I’ll know what’s up from jump. I don’t got to rely on anybody.”
“Well, except your girls,” I counter. “You can always rely on us. Sisters, remember?”
She nods with a grin. “Facts.”
She turns back to her notes with a satisfied smile. I watch her study and suddenly have the inexplicable sensation to protect
her at all costs.
The next day, Loren invites Kerry over for dinner.
“I’ve seen you walking around campus,” Kerry says, shaking Devonte’s hand, giving him a hard once-over. “Just strolling and hanging on the Quad. What’s up with that?”
Loren shoots her a look.
“Girl, don’t be rude,” she snaps, mouthing a “Sorry.”
But Devonte takes it in stride, stepping back into the kitchen to fix her a plate of his rice and beans.
“When you’ve been locked up for as long as I have, fresh air is all you crave. So since I’ve been out, I like taking long
walks, even at night. Your campus is real nice but what makes it beautiful is seeing all these Black faces. It’s like being
back in Africa. It’s heaven for me.”
“Hmmm,” Kerry says, tapping her chin, and slips out her phone. “What’s your Insta?”
“I don’t like using phones. The type of radiation going through our bodies leads to all sorts of cancers. Especially cervical
cancer. There’s been several studies.”
Kerry purses her lips. “That sounds made up.”
He shrugs. “You gotta do your own research, Queen.”
“Okay, Jordyn. Google that!”
I grab my phone, but Devonte’s voice stops me.
“Nah. That ain’t something you gonna find on Google. And for someone at such a prestigious university, I’m surprised you would use Google as your main source of information. Think about who owns and controls Google. Who owns and controls most of the high-traffic search engines. Why would the enemy give you access to such knowledge when their whole goal is to keep you ignorant. Remember, they didn’t even want us to read.”
Kerry watches him, skepticism floating in her eyes. Vanessa seems to notice and jumps in.
“Devonte, go easy on us, damn,” she says with a light laugh. “How about you give us some real-life advice.”
“What kind?”
“How about dating!” Kammy says, with a mischievous grin.
Devonte chuckles. “Well, I’ve been around the block a few times and one of the first things women tell me is if they could
go back, they’d tell their younger selves to get closer to their feminine energy source. That’s the key to it all.”
“A few times,” Kerry echoes. “So how old are you?”
He chuckles. “I’m old enough to know never to ask a woman her age. When I was young, I made the mistake of asking a shorty
at the train station her age. Shorty almost took a bite out of my neck.”
The girls giggle. Kerry’s icy walls seem to melt just enough for her to smile.
“You ever been in love?”
“Damn, in love?” He ladles soup into bowls, passing them out. “Well, love lives in that place between souls where the light
just blinds you. So who knows if you’re in love or in ecstasy?”
His eyes fall on me, and I look away, fearing my cheeks will redden.
“Well, we all know what ecstasy is,” Kerry cackles, giving Loren a high five.
“Facts!”
“Not me,” Kammy says, all proud. “I’m still a virgin.”
Loren drops her spoon on the floor. “You’re a what?”
Kammy straightens her shoulder, holding her head high. “We’re waiting for marriage. Well, me. He’s already lost his before
me.”
Vanessa slaps a hand to her forehead. “And you’re just telling us this now? Girl, how long have you been with that preacher’s
son? Six years?! And never . . . not even once?”
Kammy looks to me for back-up but I’m a little shocked myself. The way she flirts with anything that gives her an ounce of
attention, I assumed she’s had more experience.
Devonte’s face doesn’t falter. “That’s commendable, sis. It’s good that you’re trying to stay virtuous for your king.”
Kammy beams, triumphantly.
Devonte goes on to talk more about men and women, the roles they should and shouldn’t play.
Kammy pulls up a chair, eating his words, her soup all but forgotten.
With so much going on in the dorm, I almost forgot about the first student government meeting at the Malcolm Center. After
dinner, I scramble to the conference room on the first floor, joining a small crowd of students filing in.
In the front of the room, I spot Nick talking to a few of the other officers. Of course he would be involved in politics.
“Hi everyone, I’m Nneka Young, president of FUSA. Welcome to the first all-hands Frazier U Student Association meeting. Gonna let everyone introduce themselves before we get into the agenda.”
Student officers announce their various titles. Vice president, secretary, etc. Next, they allow the individual school councils,
like School of Education, School of Fine Arts, School of Engineering, to introduce themselves with updates.
Nick steps up to the mic. “Hey, I’m Nick Chandler. President of Arts and Sciences. We’ll be having a small town hall next
week to discuss the recent police shooting to see how we can better support the community. But we need more volunteers to
help with fall programs and gearing up for homecoming. . . .”
“All student government offices are located on the first floor of this building,” Nneka says toward the end of the meeting.
“If you’re interested in joining the councils for your respective schools, please gather at the tables placed around the room
and sign up. Thank you!”
The council for Arts and Sciences meets near the front. We sit in a small circle and do quick intros.
“Hi, I’m Mercy.”
“Brianna.”
“I’m Jordyn.”
“Hey! I’m Neveah, your vice president. Welcome! Like Nick said, we’re looking for people to help in the office, volunteering a few hours a week, doing admin work, answering phones, emails, and help with programs. I head the homecoming committee and I definitely can use the extra hands with the parade float. That’s about it. Just fill out the application with all your contact information and availability and we’ll put you on the schedule!”
As we sit scribbling, Brianna tips her nose across the room.
“That’s White Boy Nick,” she whispers to Mercy.
“Yeah, I figured that,” she says, shaking her head with a laugh.
“You sure he’s all the way white?” Brianna asks. “I heard some seasoning in that voice.”
Mercy grins. “That is the finest white boy I’ve ever seen.”
“He’s aight,” Brianna says, combing back her hair. “Too bad he’s not into the swirl.”
“Wait, seriously?” I ask. “He goes to a Black school and he doesn’t date Black girls?”
“Oh no, I heard he loves himself some chocolate now,” Mercy corrects, raising her eyebrows. “Maybe a little too much. He just
doesn’t do ‘the girlfriend thing.’ Our luck the one white boy on campus would be a fuck boy.”
“But he’s cool,” Brianna says. “Heard he’s big on social justice and advocacy work. Interned with the NAACP last summer and—shhh.”
I look up as Nick passes. He gives me a knowing grin.
“Bambi.” He nods.
“Nick,” I shoot back without an ounce of warmth.
He shakes his head and moves on.
Brianna turns to me. “Girl, I thought your name was Jordyn?”
A few of the students from my Intro to Prelaw class planned a study session at the library. It’s a chance for us to exchange notes on case briefs before our big midterm. If I was at Yale, I bet my parents would be salivating at the idea of me studying cases. It’s how they met at law school, at Columbia. They’ve retold the story about a thousand times: Two lone Black students, two only children, first in their immigrant families to graduate from college, learning from their elders that the key to success and survival is assimilation. Between their drive and their upbringing, they had so much in common, it only made sense to marry and carry on the tradition of pinning all their hopes and dreams on their children’s proximity to whiteness.
Of course, my interest in case briefs is abysmal but my notes are spectacular, so I have something to contribute. Neveah is
there, and it’s cool to hang out with peeps outside of class. But even as I sit there, trying to focus, I keep obsessively
thinking about Devonte. How everything out of his mouth has some morsels of truth to it.
We wrap up our study session around ten p.m., deciding to make it a weekly date. The chilly air and glowing streetlights greet
us as we spill out onto the darkened quiet campus. And just as I wave bye, I hear someone call my name.
“Hi Jordyn.”
Devonte steps out of the shadows, hands in his pockets, a pleasant smile across his face. My body goes completely still.
“H-h-hey,” I stutter, trying to calm my nerves.
He has on his typical uniform of baggy jeans, white T-shirt, and green army jacket, his locs pulled back off his face.
“Is everything okay?” I ask. What is he doing here?
“Vanessa mentioned you were working late on something tonight. She asked if I could walk you home. Late night, woman alone
on campus, you know.”
“Oh.” When have we ever worried about each other like that? But maybe Vanessa’s just being nice or overprotective. Especially
after the protest, she probably still feels pretty guilty.
He extends his arm, as if to say, “After you.”
“Oh. Um, okay,” I mumble, and we head down the hill. He gently touches the crook of my elbow, moving me to his opposite side.
“Men should always walk on the outside, closest to the curb. Just in case anything happens, we can protect you.”
I nod, appreciating the thoughtfulness.
Devonte saunters like he’s a poem; you can count two Mississippis between each footstep. I grip the straps of my book bag,
skimming all the principles I can remember, trying to find a way to strike up a conversation to hide my nervousness.
“Nice night,” he says, glancing up at the sky. “I noticed you didn’t eat the breakfast this morning. Was it my cooking or
you just weren’t hungry?”
“I, uh, don’t eat much to begin with. But thanks anyway.”
“Hmm,” he says, as if making a note of it. “You know, I’m actually glad we can find some time to be alone together. You know, to get to know each other.”
I grip my tingling fingers tight. “Well . . . what do you want to know?”
He rubs his chin as if thinking.
“When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?”
“Besides a princess, I wanted to be a writer. I’ve settled on being a lawyer.”
“Hmm. Settled?” He tries the word out, feeling it on his tongue. “Law school does not seem for the weak. Why not writing?”
“Law school ensures a career and money.”
“And you think your writing wouldn’t?”
I shrug. “It’s just a hobby.”
“Hmm.” It was just a sound but it carried heavy judgment.
I cross my arms. “You know how hard it is to be a writer. It’s like a rap career. A one-in-a-million chance!”
I hear myself echo the same reason my parents gave me when I told them I wanted to be a writer. Now away, out of their orbit,
and up from under their thumbs, it’s strange to think how my dreams didn’t align with their vision for me. How I had no say
in my future.
Kevin had no say in his dreams either.
I realize I’m daydreaming and turn to Devonte, watching me silently with a sly smile, his deep dimples holding all of his
thoughts and nefarious plans.
“I think you’d be an amazing writer,” he says. “Maybe you can write my life story.”
I laugh. “Sounds like you’ve been through a lot! It would be a duology.”
“Okay. Maybe not my whole life. But the last few years. While I was in prison. It’s a horror story, really.”
I dare myself to ask the questions I’ve been thinking since laying eyes on him.
“Why did you steal those credit cards?”
Devonte lets some silence pass, then smiles at me. “You’ve met me. You’ve heard about my life. About the people I know. Does
it look like I need to steal credit cards? I could buy a condo tomorrow if I wanted to. In cash. I was framed, sis. Like most
Black men.”
I nod. “I see.”
“What people don’t know is that private corporations run prisons for profit. It’s part of the prison industrial complex. The
more beds they fill, more money in their pockets. You know why they really wanted me? ’Cause they wanted to shut me up. I
was spitting too much knowledge in the streets. I was putting people on to the game.”
“Oh,” I mumble.
“Do you want to know what prison’s like?”
I nod.
“They serve cold slop for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The water tastes like rusted metal. The conditions are just . . . inhumane. Dogs are treated better than humans. You know what they also do with prisoners? They harvest organs. For wealthy people. Think about it, have you ever seen a really sick rich person? No.”
I give him a skeptical look. “That can’t be real. That has to be illegal.”
“Sis, I knew a brother in there, doing life, who had both of his kidneys taken. Most evil things men do are illegal but they’re
never punished for it.”
I stare at our feet, shadows dancing on the concrete, resisting the urge to tight rope on the curb.
“I’m really sorry you had to go through that.”
He doesn’t say anything and we continue our walk in loaded silence. But as we approach the doors to the Rock, he stops in
his tracks.
“Jordyn? Can I ask you a question?”
Bracing myself, I turn to face him. “Yes?”
I never noticed how intense his stare can feel on the skin. Searing yet not an uncomfortable burn.
“Who. Are. You?”
My stomach drops. “What do you mean?”
He crosses his arms, relaxing his stance. “I feel like I can’t see you, can’t connect with you. Like you’re holding back on
your true self. So, I’m wondering . . . who are you, really?”
Pulse racing, I lower my eyes. “Um. No one special. Just a girl.”
“Words have power, sis. You’re not just a girl. You’re a woman, a Black queen.”
My head gives a little nod, conceding to his point.
“What’s stopping you from loosening up,” he asks, “losing control, being free?”
I chuckle. “What? I am free. I’m here!” And that’s true. I made the decision to go to Frazier all on my own. There’s no one
here breathing down my neck every second.
He taps his temple. “You’re here, but your mind is trapped back wherever you came from. Mental freedom is the only way to
true liberation. You still are under the control of your parents, the invisible leech of expectations holding you back. You
were expected to be perfect, weren’t you? Straight A-ing your way straight to college. I bet your parents already told you
what you were going to be before you learned how to walk. I’d love to meet the real Jordyn, if she’s brave enough to come
out and join us.”
He smiles and enters the lobby of our dorm, dapping up the security guard on the way to the elevators. As if he’s a student
who really lives there, which doesn’t bother me.
What bothers me is how he seems to see right through my act.