The Scammer - 5

The scents of rosemary, garlic, lemon, and thyme fill our suite. Welcome guests after a few weeks of living off ramen noodles

and Cap’n Crunch.

Devonte is stirring some type of concoction in a pot on the stove. I watch his motions, a slow lyrical dance, tossing in ingredients,

taste testing in the small dent of his palm. He’s made our tiny kitchen feel like a five-star restaurant. I wonder what his

apartment is like. He’s mentioned it a few times, but I haven’t seen him stray away from our dorm for more than a few hours.

“You know you don’t have to cook for us,” Kammy says, placing bowls out on the counter. “You’re our guest. We should be cooking

for you!”

He smiles, dimples deepening. “I’m never too cool to not step up and add value to wherever I’m at. You ladies don’t have a man in the house. A lot of feminine energy. You need a stabilizer. Someone to provide and protect. Women, especially young women, weren’t made to develop in this world alone.”

Kammy agrees, nodding eagerly.

Tonight, there was a student mixer at the Malcolm Center, but all we wanted to do was hang out in our spot with Devonte. You

can’t help but be drawn to his serene strength, his soothing presence, like a palm tree by the beach soaking in the sun, facing

the breeze or hurricane winds just the same.

“Thing you gotta remember is, you’re not just females, you are queens. Original mothers of this civilization. Society has

spent a lot of time and money trying to erase that from your ancestral DNA. You genetically are the first living being.”

“Well, that’s actually Adam,” Kammy corrects him with a nervous laugh. “It’s in the Bible. Women came from his rib. Genesis.”

Devonte looks amused. “The Bible, huh? So you fell for those magic tricks too?”

Kammy’s smile falls. “Magic tricks? No.”

“Bible is nothing but a book of magic tricks, a distraction from the real war that’s going on. A war between men and gods.”

Kammy chuckles. “Okay, now you talkin’ crazy. The Bible stands for Basic. Instructions. Before. Leaving. Earth.”

Kammy’s whole family goes to church every Sunday. She’s the epitome of a church girl.

“Alright, let me ask y’all something,” Devonte says. “Who taught you the Bible? Who taught you to fear God? Who taught you

to forgive?”

“Well . . . white people,” Vanessa says, hesitantly, avoiding Kammy’s gaze.

I glance at Loren, who remains silent, staring at Devonte.

“See, Christianity is how slave masters controlled our enslaved ancestors,” he says. “Kept us from our roots. Christianity

is merely a tool used by the whites to keep you blind to your true heritage. It’s a form of mental slavery. Christianity serves

its own interests, not God’s interests. You’re smarter than that, Kamara. You just gotta open up them pretty eyes.”

I smile, leaving Kammy to defend her religion, and walk into my room, looking for my sweatshirt. But as I dig through my dresser

drawers, I notice how stuff seems to be out of order. I glance at the closet, the door ajar.

My bag zippers are open, pockets turned inside out. Someone has been digging around in here.

In the living room, I hear the girls giggle.

It’s a soggy Monday morning. The kind where umbrellas do nothing to protect your hair from the surrounding elements. I tie

my mane up in a tight bun. Once the week is over, I’ll have to ask Kammy to help me straighten it again. She has amazing flat

iron skills. She probably could open up her own salon. As we file out of the suite, waving bye to Devonte in our kitchen,

I notice Kammy is unusually quiet. By the time we pile into the elevator, I see a single tear stream down her face.

“Kammy? What’s wrong?”

“I called Micah last night,” she sniffs.

The moment she mentions her boyfriend’s name we gather around her like a cocoon.

“What happened? What he do?” Loren asks, fluffing Kammy’s hair.

“Did you break up with him?” Vanessa asks, and seems too happy at the prospect.

“No. I tried to talk to him about, you know, church being the white man’s religion, and he got all upset. Do you think I’m

being stupid?”

“No!” I say, fixing one of her curls. “Not at all. You’re just being curious. You have the right to ask questions.”

Kammy blinks up, patting her eyes dry.

“It’s just . . . I’ve been following the word all my life and now . . . I don’t know. I just feel lost. All this new stuff,

new people, new food. Maybe I’m homesick. They say that happens.”

Vanessa takes a deep breath and rubs Kammy’s arms.

“Listen, don’t read too deep into Devonte, okay? He just . . . telling you what he’s researched. You can still go on, marry

Micah, and live happily ever after just like you planned. Nothing wrong with that.”

Loren hesitates to agree, glancing from Vanessa back to Kammy.

“And if you’re still confused,” Vanessa goes on, “just talk to Devonte about it. I’m sure he’ll clear stuff up. He can be

passionate but he’s cool. Right?”

“Yeah,” Loren adds.

Vanessa straightens, her smile gleaming in the low elevator light.

“Speaking of Devonte . . . do y’all mind if Devonte stays with us for like a bit longer?”

I hold in a breath. It’s already been two weeks. It’s not that he’s worn out his welcome. It’s just that he is . . . intense.

The suite feels warmer with him in it and not in a good way. He radiates on a nuclear level.

Loren avoids eye contact.

Principle number one: Don’t criticize, condemn, or complain.

“He did save our lives,” Vanessa quips. “We kinda owe him.”

Kammy bites her lip. “Oh. Uh . . .”

As if reading our mind, Vanessa jumps in to explain.

“Y’all it’s so hard for Black men to get back on their feet after being locked up. Especially in this cruel, unforgiving,

racist society. He just needs a little time around me, his family. The only family he got. I don’t want to lose him.”

Kammy’s eyes fall to the floor in shame. Loren sighs, her shoulders softening in surrender. Neither one of them wants to say

what they’re thinking about the impossible positions she’s put us in.

The elevator opens with a ding that finalizes our fate. So, I paste on a smile and speak for all of us.

“Of course he can stay. He’s your brother!”

And I, of all people, know what it’s like to lose a brother.

I volunteer in the FUSA office twice a week. Anytime people need anything, I’m able to run around the building and get it. Order cookies for the town hall? Got it! Ice cream for the social? No sweat! AV equipment for the African Art presentation? Not a problem. I’m almost on a first-name basis with the Malcolm Center staff.

But tonight, I’m out in the parking lot by the football field with Neveah and Nick, trying to figure out how to put the custom-designed

backdrop up on the homecoming parade float bed.

Nick stares at the wobbly sign, hand under his chin, as I hot glue tassels around the bed’s edges.

“It looks dumb,” Neveah groans.

Nick grunts.

“Maybe we can just paint over it?”

Nick grunts twice.

“It cost two thousand so we gotta use it.”

Nick grunts again.

“I’ll go get some paintbrushes.”

He turns to her. “That’d be great. Thanks!”

Neveah chuckles and walks back into the Malcolm Center. Nick hops on the float, testing out the sign.

I wait until Neveah is out of range before making a comment. “You know, you’re really nailing the whole down-ass broody white

boy act.”

“Who said it was an act, Bambi,” he says, pulling the sign across the bed.

I’ve worked a couple shifts with him in the office. He’s a man of few words. Ask him any questions about himself, he’ll either

ignore you or laugh it off with a flirtatious smile, melting hearts all over campus. But when you ask him about business,

he’s all in. I was really impressed with the town halls he put on, advocating for more student involvement and brokering a

meeting with local police officers after the protest.

“Bet you’ve been listening to hip-hop all your life.”

He winks. “And country too. Are you just gonna sit there like a bump on a log or you gonna help?”

I laugh. “Bump on a log? HA! What Black woman raised you?”

He hesitates before taking a steadying breath and ignores the question.

I climb up onto the float. “Why are you so pissed about a sign?”

He pushes the frame down. He is stronger than his slender frame gives him credit for.

“The money could’ve gone to better use. Fund programs. Not a sign that’s going to be thrown out by the end of the weekend.”

We grab each end of the banner, stretching it over the framing, but it’s like playing a game of tug-of-war. He pulls a little

too hard and I’m yanked forward, falling right into his hands.

He grunts. “Did you do that on purpose?”

“Seriously?” Can he be any more full of himself?

We right ourselves and try again.

“Well, you can still do that if you make some cuts on other stuff,” I say, moving the banner diagonally, and it fits perfect.

“Who makes budget decisions?”

Nick notices my changes and nods appreciatively. “We do.”

From our position in the parking lot, I can watch the band practice under the giant bright lights in the middle of the field.

During homecoming, they’ll lead the parade down the main street toward the Frazier stadium, followed by a procession.

Nick peers over my shoulder, so close that I can see how long his lashes are and the specks of gold in his blue eyes. I can’t

lie that there is something . . . to him. But I didn’t come to a Black school to fall for the only white guy around. That’s

something old Jordyn would do. New Jordyn needs to keep focused.

“Wait, is this float for you, Mr. President?” I laugh. “Are you gonna wave like this?”

He smirks. “I prefer a cool head nod.”

“President of a school is a pretty big deal. What are you going to go for next?”

“Don’t know yet.”

There he goes again. Being cagey. He knows. He’s just not saying. What do girls see in this aloofness?

Nick hops off the float, grabs my waist, and lifts me down with ease. He dusts his hands, standing back. “Okay, it’s a little

better.”

I turn back to my glue gun, hoping to keep him from seeing me blush.

Around eleven, I enter the suite, surprised to find the living room empty. Maybe everyone’s asleep or studying. It’s been

a wild few days. I haven’t asked about anyone else’s classes but I wonder what our grades are looking like now.

I open my door and throw a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.

“Oh! Hi! How did you—”

“You left your door open,” Devonte says. He’s sitting at my desk, hands folded on his lap as if he was waiting for me.

I shoulder my bag, gripping the strap. “Oh, yeah? That’s . . . weird.”

He measures my response, eyes trailing my every move as I flutter about, snatching up clothes, remaking my bed. Grateful I

didn’t leave my laptop alone.

“So, Vanessa tells me you joined student government.”

My back stiffens. I don’t remember telling her that. “Yes. It’s looks good on my résumé.”

He raises an eyebrow. “For the job you don’t really want?”

I don’t have an answer for that. My balance is off with him in the middle of my room, a space too small for his larger-than-life

presence. His scent suffocates my senses. He’s too close. I open the window, hoping to let a breeze in.

He reaches over and touches my wrist, his fingers warm and slightly moist.

“You know, Jordyn, I really care about you,” he says, softly. “You’re different than the other girls. And I want to make sure you’re making the right decisions about your life. I want to help you, just like I’m helping Loren and brother Kareem. But the only way we can work together is if I know the truth about who you really are.”

I gulp, wondering how far I can stretch my act. “The truth?”

He nods. “I want to read your work.”

The room squeezes tight. I’ve never let someone read my writing before. But saying no to him doesn’t feel like an option.

The moment is a monumental turning point I can’t mess up if I’m to earn his trust. In a daze, I hand him my journal.

Devonte sits on my bed and delicately flips the pages of my journal like one would handle a biblical scroll.

I sit on my desk, trying not to hover in anticipation. But I can’t help it. My restless legs hit against the bed frame as

I twiddle my thumbs.

Finally, he flips the journal closed, handing it over, and gives me a quaint smile.

“It’s good.”

I blink. “Good?” It feels like a subtle criticism. A backhanded compliment.

“Yeah. It’s good,” he says, nonchalantly, as if he just finished reading a fast-food menu. That’s it! After everything . . .

that’s all he has to say??

I clench the journal, my nails digging into the leather cover.

Don’t tell me it’s good , I want to scream. Tell me it’s missing teeth. Or tell me it’s a masterpiece. You owe me that! You owe me at least one of your beautiful lies!

He shrugs. “I just . . . think you can do so much more with your voice. Write something real.”

“Real?”

He stands, towering over me.

“You and I, we’re gonna write a book. And we’ll publish it.”

Cold, crisp air hits my lungs. “You want me . . . to write your life story?”

“I said the story is good. But your writing . . . your writing is breathtaking. You shouldn’t be wasting your time on law

when you’re the next Toni Morrison. I think it was meant to be that I came here. That we met. Do you believe in coincidences?

’Cause I think this was fate. That I met you at this crossroads, not just in your life but in mine. I don’t think I could

take the steps needed without you.”

He smiles and slowly floats out of the room, leaving me in awe, thoughts muddled and clashing with pure rage, and yet I can’t

help but wonder . . .

Is it possible that he really sees . . . the real me?