College Boy : A Novel (9781416586500) (5 page)

 

Troy entered his room and found Simon finally doing some homework. He decided not to say anything. Simon was too easily provoked and was very talkative.

Troy sat and looked over his chapters. He knew what information was more important and stressed by the instructor. He scanned page after page, reciting the material. He covered every course the same way; outline, read, recite, review, and quiz. Hard work and planning was a virtue. He studied for two long hours before Peter finally decided to call.

Brrrloop brrrloop.

“Ay', Simon, get the phone. It's probably Peter.”

Simon was stretched out on his bed right next to the telephone. He had quit studying an hour and a half earlier to listen to his music. “Well, hell, man, if you know it's for you, then you get it,” he said.

“Aw man, you're a jerk-off. Do you know that, you geek?” Troy joked. They chuckled as Troy leaped to the telephone from his desk. He snatched it up before it could ring again. “Peter,” he answered, anticipating who it was. “Hello … Hello.”

Peter laughed. “What are you doin' answering the phone like that? It could have been one of your lady friends.”

Troy was in no mood for games. “Aw'ight, let's cut out the bullshit,” he snapped.

Simon snickered in the background.

“So are you ready to be quizzed?” Troy asked Peter.

“Yeah, I'm ready.”

Troy pounced on his bed to begin the quiz. Once again, Peter knew almost nothing. It was eleven o'clock at night and they had the exam at 9 A.M. sharp. The quiz looked more like a private lesson. Troy remained patient, however, determined to help a friend in need.

“Damn it, Pete, you don't know anything! All I've been doing for the first hour is tellin' you shit that you should know already,” Troy shouted over the phone. He stopped to think for a minute. “What's your major, anyway?”

Peter stammered. “Oh, well, umm, I was interested in being a math instructor. Now I'm thinking about majoring in this.”

Troy frowned, assuming that Peter's change in majors probably had something to do with the first test in algebra that he had failed. “How you gon' major in psychology when you don't even read the damn book? You gotta be good, or at least interested in what you do,” Troy told him. He held the phone away from his face and smiled. I don't believe this guy, he thought.

“Yeah, you're right,” Peter said. “I'm starting to get the hang of it as you're telling me.”

“Hey, Troy, I'm tired. It's almost twelve o'clock and I wanna go to sleep. So go in the hallway,” said a droopy-eyed Simon.

Troy immediately took the phone out into the hallway, where he was approached by two shoeless White girls.

“Excuse me,” one asked while the other giggled, “would you happen to know where John Hughes lives?” John Hughes and his roommate were the two Black football players that lived right next door.

“Yeah, they live right here,” Troy said, pointing.

“Who is that, Troy?” Peter asked over the phone.

Troy could hear the excitement in Peter's voice.

“Aw man, calm down. It's just two silly White girls,” he said. They returned to studying, and Peter finally gave some correct answers, to Troy's applause.

“Good, man, it's about time. I thought I would have to be up all night with you,” Troy commented excitedly. “It's already a quarter after one.”

“It's ten after one,” Peter corrected, looking over at his desk clock.

“Shut up, man, it's about the same thing,” Troy snapped.

John Hughes's roommate walked the two girls back to the elevator. “OK, then, I'll see you,” he said before the elevator doors closed. He stormed back to his room, angry for some reason.

Troy continued to listen.

“Shit, John! What the hell I tell you 'bout dem White girls! All they wanna do is be friendly with us and shit! I told you to leave them ugly ones alone anyway! Every night you got some new monsters coming down here to act stupid and leave!”

“Yo, is someone arguing or something?” Peter asked, hearing the disturbance.

“One of them football players is mad about them White girls I was telling you about,” Troy answered. He chuckled to himself as the clamor decreased. He and Peter returned to the quizzing.

“OK, Pete, what is a control?”

“That's an experiment where the observer can manipulate the stimulus, to see the changes in the effects.”

“Bet! Now you doing aw'ight,” Troy told him.

 

“OK, you think you're ready by now, Peter?” Troy asked, entering the auditorium. They had remained on the phone until two o'clock in the morning.

“Yeah, I think I can kick it out. But damn, where did all these people come from?” Peter asked, observing an enormous increase in the class population.

Troy smiled. “These are the people who'll only come to class on test day. It's, like, five hundred of us. Who gon' recognize Joe Blow?”

After six minutes of explanations and the passing out of tests, it began. Troy found few difficulties with the sixty-question test, although he guessed four answers. He finished the test in precisely thirty-eight minutes out of an allotted fifty. Seeing that Peter, who sat near him, was not yet finished, Troy held on to his test answers to help him out. He watched for the instructor's assistants as he did so.

“Ay', Pete, number seven is
b
,” he whispered while Peter changed the answer. “Number thirty-four is
e
.”

Troy stooped down to fake picking up a pencil whenever he spotted an assistant nearing. They cheated until time was consumed, changing ten of Peter's original answers.

“Thanks, Troy. I hope I did well on that exam,” Peter said after dismissal.

“Oh, sorry,” a White student apologized. Peter had accidentally bumped into him, but he paid no attention as he listened to Troy.

“Don't even worry about it, man. I'll always help a friend, no matter what it takes,” Troy assured him.

 

Back inside the cafeteria, a rush of Black students was jumping in line as usual. Troy and Peter saw Doc and jumped up in front of him.

“Hey, you guys just can't be jumping in front of people. I've been waiting here,” a muscular White girl protested.

Doc responded before Troy could. “Why don't you just shut up and mind your business?”

“Yeah, well what are you gonna do to me?” she asked, challenging him.

Doc stared at her. “I'll punch you in the face. That's what I'll do to ya,” he answered. The rambunctious girl sulked and romped away to another line.

Troy spotted someone he knew, deciding to sit with her instead of with Peter and Doc, who sat nearby.

“What's up, girl?” he asked, placing his tray in front of hers. “Why are you sitting by yourself?”

“My friends all have different schedules from mine,” she said. Lisa had light brown eyes, hair, and skin, but with a smaller head than Vanessa Williams. “Yup, Troy, I'm working real hard, but I think I'm getting tired of gymnastic practice,” she mentioned.

“Yeah, that's right. I forgot you was into that,” he lied, straight-faced.

Lisa frowned, knowing better. “Now, Troy, I told you that at least three times before. You forget everything, boy. What do you be into?” she asked him jokingly.

Troy didn't forget, he just didn't want her to know that he remembered. He laughed it off, avoiding her question. “With the body you got, you can teach me some of that gymnastics stuff whenever you want to,” he said to produce a smile. “You got, like, one-hundred-andeighty-degree curves all over,” he added for a chuckle. “Yeah, but, umm, Lisa, what are you doin' later on tonight?”

“Studying.”

“Well, dig this, I gotta study too. So let's do it together,” Troy suggested.

“OK,” Lisa agreed. “But I hope we get some real homework done
this time
.”

 

“Get in the paint, Walton. In the paint, I said. Quick!

“Damn it, Walton! Potter, get in here and show him how it's done! OK, watch him bring it down. Now give it up, Potter. In the paint. Back out. Take the shot.
Boom!
Do you see that, Walton? Now why can't you do that? Good work, Potter,” the coach said, smacking Troy on the butt. “
Jesus Christ!
This is going to be a long season! We got starting guards slopping the plays up every day. Potter's the only one who looks good, and he's a walk-on.”

Troy was pleased that his coach had mentioned his name, but he felt eerie about being called a walk-on. The word “walk-on” started to haunt him.

“Potter, come on over here, I wanna talk to you,” said the head coach. He was moving over to the side of the court, wearing tight green shorts, with a potbelly hanging over the elastic waistband. “Now, son, I can't promise you any quality time because we got boys on scholarship up here, but you've proven to me and the staff that you're an excellent ballplayer deserving a spot on the team. Congratulations, son,” he said, shaking Troy's hand. “Now go on over there and talk to Coach Grady.”

Troy gladly walked over to the assistant coach, who was standing near the bleachers.

“Young man, you're a hell of a ballplayer,” Coach Grady said, shaking Troy's hand. Troy struggled to hold in all of the joy he felt inside. “Let me tell you something, Potter. If you show in the games what you show in practice, you'll be in a good position to get some money, you hear?” Coach Grady informed him while patting him on his shoulder. Troy could not help cracking a gigantic smile when he heard about the money, since he was luckily in college with financial aid, university grants, and his mother's winning lottery payoff of $5,000. He told no one about that.

“What classes are you in, anyway, Potter?” the coach asked.

“I got chemistry, psychology, general writing, trigonometry, and a studying class,” Troy answered excitedly.

“Well, how are you doing so far? 'Cause I want you to know, as soon as we start the season, you won't have time to catch up on things you left behind. We would hate to lose you for grades.”

“Oh no, I've gotten straight A's so far. I'm having no problems,” Troy retorted. He was extremely proud of his grades.

“Well, your Thanksgiving vacation is next week. So go home and rest, 'cause when we all get back, it's no bullshitting around, you hear?”

Troy nodded.

“Here's your number,” coach Grady said, handing Troy another practice jersey. Troy opened up the jersey to number three. He didn't really want number three, yet he was too excited to complain.

 

“I told you I could make it with hard work, Mom! I studied hard, I practiced hard, I got a bunch of girls on me! Aw, Mom, college is it! I'm almost there, I can feel it! I'm gon' make it out, Mom.
Yes!
“ Troy shouted, parading around his family living room. He was back home for vacation, elated about his achievements. His uncles, aunts, and cousins all stared and waited to ask him a bunch of questions.

“Hey, Troy, is it a bunch of people from Philly up there? My girlfriend is thinking about going to State U,” his youngest aunt asked. Kim was only five years older than he.

“Yeah, I think we have the most people up there, besides the Blacks who commute from Marsh County,” Troy answered.

“Yeah, I remember that real smart guy, Dutch, that I went to high school with was up there. And that boy ended up on drugs and went crazy years ago,” Troy's oldest uncle mentioned. “He had bought some crazy stuff from some White boys up there, and he went out his damn mind,” he informed them. Mark had lived a long, hard life. He had been in and out of jails and detention centers since he was fourteen years old. He was lucky to reach thirty-four.

“That's right. I remember that boy, real strange kid he was. Gon' go right up there and get fooled by them White boys,” Troy's grandmother added, coming out of the kitchen. “You watch yourself, Troy, and make sure you stay in a group, 'cause that's one thing them White people hate is for a colored boy to make it out the ghetto,” she said. Bessie Potter was a good-natured elderly woman with youthful energy. She was golden brown and had only a few gray hairs.

Troy's mother then decided to grab her son upstairs to her room, where she could talk to him in private. She led him up the noisy wooden stairs. No one could sneak up those stairs. They entered her room, where Troy saw a small mouse slip into a hole next to the dresser. No big deal.

“How you feeling?” his mother asked him. She promptly prepared a spot for him to sit on the bed.

Charlotte had the same smooth, brown skin and pointed eyebrows that Troy had inherited. She had never married his father. She loved him dearly, but their relationship had never worked out.

“I'm feeling OK. College is aw'ight and all, I just hope I can keep it up,” Troy answered, staring into his mother's calm face.

“Well, you keep up the good work, but watch out for those girls,” she warned. “I remember when I was sixteen and a lot of my girlfriends used to try and get pregnant by college boys. Some of them did, too. But the only one that got one to marry her was this girl name Cindy.

“Cindy was a crazy, caramel-skinned girl with curly hair and green eyes. Guys were just dying to get her pregnant,” Charlotte said, stopping to chuckle to herself.

Troy began to think about Lisa. He had rolled in the hay with her several times already.

“She had this real fine Indian-looking dude with thick black hair,” his mother continued. “He was real well-dressed, too. I think his family had some money. But anyway, that man ended up losing his mind, beating her up and all.

“She had four daughters by him. Four
beautiful
daughters. Two are around your age. They're all drugged up and pregnant now, just like their mother. So, I don't know how them girls are up there, but you watch out. And make sure you wear protection, 'cause you know all these diseases and whatnot are floating around.” Charlotte smiled and patted her son on his left shoulder. “OK, that's all I wanted to talk to you about. And I love you.”