The Scammer - 9

“Bambi?”

Sun streams through the open blinds of my window. I still have no curtains to hang. Nothing to make my room homey like in

all those dorm shows Mom and I watched on HGTV. An ache blooms at the thought of her. Grief looks different on everyone . . .

but losing my mom while she’s still alive hits different.

Nick hovers over me, his bright blue eyes panicked, hair askew.

“It’s Jordyn,” I groan and turn over.

“What . . . where am I?” he asks in a groggy voice.

I sit up, my neck stiff and throbbing. “You’re in my room.”

He looks down at his clothes, rubbing his face.

“What happened?” His eyes widen. “Oh shit. Are you okay? Did we . . . did we . . . um . . .”

“No, nothing like that happened,” I insist, noting he seems more worried about me than about himself. “You were drunk and incoherent. I didn’t know where you lived so I brought you back here. There were tons of people from FUSA around. I didn’t want them to see you like that.”

I stand up to stretch and check the door. Still locked.

Maybe it was a dream.

Nick stares at the floor with a slight shake of his head. “I don’t remember anything from last night.”

I throw up my hands. “Well. That’s what happens when you drink too much.”

“No. I wasn’t drinking.”

I suck my teeth. “I saw you dancing and had a big red cup in your hand.”

“It was soda,” he mutters, rubbing his forehead.

He grabs his phone. “Shit, sixty new messages. Everyone’s probably looking for me.”

He tosses the sheet aside and tries to stand but falls back down.

“Whoa,” he mumbles.

I grip his arms to steady him. “Are you still drunk?”

“I am telling you,” he says, voice hard. “I wasn’t drunk. This is . . . I gotta go.”

He rummages around, managing to slip on his sneakers. What I know of him, this doesn’t seem like him. He’s always so put together,

humble, and chill. This Nick is a disheveled, sweaty mess.

“Well, at least have some water,” I insist.

He doesn’t respond. He quickly unlocks my door and throws it open before I remember what’s out there.

“Wait!” I shout, trying to stop him but it’s too late.

Kammy and Vanessa are on the sofa, having tea. Their mouths drop at the sight of Nick.

“Uh, hey,” he grumbles then bolts out the suite door. I step into the hall, staring at the spot he just left. But when I turn,

Devonte is in the kitchen . . . shirtless. For a moment, we stand there staring at each other, his expression unreadable.

He crosses his arms. “You slept with him.”

His voice calm yet lethal. It renders me momentarily speechless. Nerves making my teeth chatter, like a bunch of marbles in

my mouth.

“N-n-n-no,” I manage to croak out.

“No?” He chuckles. “You really plan to stand there and lie?”

I’ve been called a lot of things, but never a liar. A corner of my sticky facade peels off the knuckles of my clenching fist.

“I’m not lying.”

“You slept . . . with him. Admit it.”

I take a deep breath, deciding to be practical, and face the girls. They’ll understand. “He’s just a friend from FUSA. He

was really drunk and I was just trying to help him out.”

Devonte creeps forward, slowly, bare feet slapping the floor.

“You wanted to sleep with him. You wanted him inside you. You couldn’t help yourself.”

“What? No!”

“You’ve been having lustful thoughts about him, haven’t you,” he says, his tone buttery soft. “And now they’re forcing you

to lie.”

“Just tell the truth, Jordyn.”

Loren is standing behind me, arms crossed over her pajamas. I can’t place the look in her eye. Is she mad at me?

“Yeah, we won’t judge,” Kammy offers. “We’re your friends, girl.”

“More than friends. We’re family,” Vanessa adds, sweetly.

Devonte takes another step closer. “Maybe you’re misremembering the night. Too much drinking has your brain all mucked up.”

I shake my head, once again looking at the girls. “No, I would remember sleeping with someone.”

Devonte slams his hand on the counter, and we all jump at once. His eyes are hard black stones.

“So, he didn’t touch you. How can you be sure? You can’t be sure, ’cause you were drinking. Do you even know how much you

drank?”

“I . . . I . . . I only had juice.” I turn to Loren. “You saw me.”

She shakes her head. “Only for a little while. Then you went missing.”

I gape at her in disbelief.

“Girl, you have been drinking a lot lately,” Kammy adds, like she wasn’t drinking right beside me.

“What can you really remember?” Vanessa asks, pleading with her eyes, as if to say, “Give him what he wants.”

It wasn’t like that at all. Why won’t he believe me? And why does it feel like these accusations are multipurpose . . . like he’s trying to make me look bad, pitting the girls against me? Twisting my words the way one would twist a pen between their fingers.

The questioning went on like this, from every angle, for what seemed like hours. Devonte’s interrogation growing more intense.

Like a rabid dog, he has his teeth sunk into an image in his mind and he won’t let go.

“So you were alone in the room with him. In the bed together and you don’t think he woke up in the middle of the night, touched

you? How can you be positive? How do you really know what happened?”

My lungs feel too hot to be in my body as I try to breathe. I need space, air . . .

“I . . . I don’t feel like he touched me.”

“But devious men have devious intentions. You played right into his hand. How do you know he was drunk? How do you know if

this was his game all along? He was conscious enough for you to walk him in here.”

My arms are still sore from holding Nick up as I carried him out of the party. His body was so limp. Could he really have

been pretending?

Devonte sees the doubt in my face. “The enemy is good at confusion. Your weakness and drinking has made you blind.”

I steal a glance at the sofa. I can’t tell if the girls are staying quiet out of fear or out of confusion.

“I wasn’t drunk,” I insist, exhausted. “He was drunk! Like, couldn’t-even-stand drunk. And these girls were trying to—”

“So you weren’t drunk and yet you left your family to tend to some white boy’s needs? Someone that means nothing to you.” Devonte starts pacing around me. “You ditched your friends, your family . . . for him. Could you say he would do the same?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

“I just . . . thought we could trust you,” he sighs with a shrug. “But this isn’t what a good friend would do.”

My neck snaps.

“No! I am a good friend!” I turn to the girls. “I swear I am.”

They remain silent. They don’t believe me. They don’t trust me.

Panic pushes common sense aside.

“Please,” I beg. “You gotta believe me. I wasn’t thinking right. But you ARE my friends. More than my friends. Sisters, remember.”

Remember who we were before we met Devonte , I want to scream. But the look on their faces tells me it’s too late.

“Friends don’t abandon each other,” he sighs.

Tears spring up as I recognize the hurt in Loren’s eyes. I did lie, I left her when she didn’t even want to really be there.

I put them all in the middle of this. He’s right, I’m not a good friend. A good friend would tell them the truth about me.

A good friend wouldn’t keep secrets. A good friend wouldn’t abandon her friends.

Principle number twelve: If you are wrong, admit it quickly and emphatically.

“I’m so sorry,” I say to the girls and turn to Devonte.

He gives me a half smile, shoulders at ease. “Relax, sis. I’m not angry at you. I’m angry that some white boy took advantage

of you. Let him come between you and your family. Isn’t that something white people been doing for a century, separating us?

After all the money I’ve spent, the time, dedication to teaching you to know the enemy . . . I don’t think you can be trusted

on your own.”

I lower my eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . I mean, I didn’t know what I was doing.”

Devonte shakes his head. “This is why I keep you close, this is why our sessions are so important. If you were serious about

committing to change, to being a part of this family, you would commit to being home, every night, at eight p.m. It’s time

we un-program your miseducation about the white devil.”

The curfew feels like a corporal punishment and it’s all my fault. Not wanting to bring any more strife to the girls, I make

sure to be back in the suite fifteen minutes early, if not sooner.

Devonte passes out the pamphlets that he and I created to a small group of us: Kareem, Vanessa, Kammy, and Legacy.

“Liberation is an urgent matter. In order to fight the psychological warfare being waged against you. You don’t understand what’s going down out there, what the government and all those people in power have planned. This is a game of chess, and the white man holds all the pieces. That means, I’m gonna put myself at risk again, teaching you what I know. I can’t stay silent.”

We nod in understanding. He’s doing this for us. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. And that makes sense because he

cares about us.

“Tonight, I want to teach you about the Willie Lynch papers. That way, you can teach others. The goal is to spread knowledge

to every brother and sister that will listen.”

Kammy nods eagerly, digging into the pamphlet.

Devonte stops to give me a look. “There’s a misspelling on page three. I thought you were better than that.”

I sit up rod straight. “Sorry!”

“Let’s not let it happen again. The mission is too important for carelessness. That’s how the white man wins.”

Vanessa gives me a sympathetic smile, mouthing, “It’s okay.”

I flip to page three, noting the simple mistake. Devonte’s scolding has a familiar air to it, similar to my parents. An A–

on a test would result in a lecture on attention to detail. The same seething annoyance I have had for them begins to bleed

through. I dig my nails into my palms.

“Willie Lynch was a slave master in Virginia, who gave a speech telling other slave masters how to control their slaves. The

secret was setting the slaves up, pitting them against each other. Dividing us . . .”

The suite door flies open and Loren rushes in.

“Hey,” she says, winded. “I know. I’m sorry. I was waiting for notes from—”

“Excuses are tools of incompetence,” Devonte says. “We’ve been going over this in our sessions, haven’t we?”

Loren’s eyes widen and I can’t hide the shock on my face.

Sessions? What sessions? Is he having private sessions with her too?

I glance at Kammy, who looks like she’s having the same thought.

Loren swallows, choosing her words carefully. “Yes, but . . . it wasn’t my fault. I got held up after class.”

Devonte stares at Loren then slowly rises to his feet. The room collectively holds its breath.

“Do you know that Muslims wash their face, hands, arms, and feet before performing their prayers? It’s a beautiful purification

practice. To show respect to God, to pray in a pure state. See, cleansing the body and soul leads to enlightenment. That’s

why I clean and fix everything around here. Because I’m trying to save your souls. Rappers pay thousands of dollars for the

guidance I’ve been giving you for free. Teaching you to be pure!”

Everyone nods, tension in the air rising.

“So why is this queen sitting here, talking to me . . . with makeup on her face?”

Loren gasps, touching her bright pink lips. A beautiful color on her. Until now.

“Kareem, why don’t you help her get rid of it.”

Kareem blinks, pointing at himself. “Me?”

“Yes you, help her. Get a rag from the bathroom, my black soap, and water.”

Kareem looks nervously at Vanessa, but she nods in approval. He scurries into the bathroom, procuring the items.

Loren sighs, holding her hand out to Kareem, but Devonte pushes it away.

“Not you. Him. You wash it off her.”

Kareem’s eyes bulge, casting another panic-stricken look at Vanessa, her mouth gaping in shock. He takes a deep breath and

begins to softly wipe Loren’s face, as if hesitantly petting a feral dog.

“Scrub harder,” Devonte orders, grinning.

Kareem, unsure, moves a little faster. Loren whimpers.

“Harder!” he barks, and Kareem’s muscle flexes as he overpowers her. Loren cries out in pain.

Time seems to slow to an aching pace, Loren whimpering with each stroke. Kammy reaches over and holds my shaking knee still.

“Stop,” Devonte says. Kareem stumbles back, panting.

Loren’s face is bright red, rubbed raw, eyes flooded with tears.

Devonte brightens. “Ah! There you are, Loren. Now we can see you.”

Loren nods, tears streaming down her face as she takes her seat. My stomach clenches with guilt.

He’s right. I’m not a good friend.