First Semester (10 page)

Her big-boned friend responded in a heavy East Coast, Rosie Perez-ish accent, “I know, yo. Who he think he is, Mr. U of A?”

I giggled.

Apparently, Dr. J overheard the joke. All of a sudden, he became stoic. “Hey, this is college. Deal with it. If you study, you'll get an A. If not, you won't. It's as simple as that. For those of you who refuse to study, just keep in mind, this class will be offered again next semester. God bless us all. Now that we've got that nonsense out of the way the desks should be cleared, pencils should be out and we should be just about ready to get this show on the road. I've got a plane to catch. When you finish the quiz, you can leave.”

Just as my heartbeat started racing, I felt someone tap me on my right shoulder. When I turned to see who it was, I saw Lawry sitting a couple of rows back with his hand in the air trying to get my attention.

“You got a pencil or a pen I can borrow?” he asked.

My hand shook uncontrollably as I reached in my bag for an extra pen. The shaking stopped momentarily when I turned around to pass the pen back to the girl who tapped me on my shoulder, so she could pass it to Lawry. Then the slight shaking resumed. For the first time since I got to college, I was hella nervous. I unconsciously resorted to one of my worst habits. I slumped in my chair and began biting my fingernails in a daze. By the time the quiz was passed back to me, I had nibbled on just about every one of my fingernails on my right hand. The only thing that stopped me from devouring my entire hand was the sight of Katrina distributing the tests. I couldn't let her see a grown-ass man with his thumb in his mouth. I removed my finger from my mouth to grab my quiz.

The quiz might as well have been written in Japanese because I didn't understand a word. I guess studying would have made it easier. But for now, cheating was my only option. I kept my head down, but my eyes scanned all of the desks around me. Usually, I could get over, but this quiz was one of those “either you know it or you don't” types of tests. And I didn't know a thing. It was hard to make out what my classmates were writing, because I wasn't familiar enough with the material to make an educated guess. The fact that everyone around me seemed to be breezing through the quiz made me even more frustrated.

Three minutes into the quiz, Dr. J interrupted to make a quick announcement. A few of my classmates pouted in disgust, as if they were on a roll. But I wasn't bothered. In fact, I hadn't written a thing.

“The hip-hop summit will be aired live on BET at noon on Saturday,” he said. “So, if you would like ten points added on to your quiz grade, it would behoove you to tune in and write a one-page essay on what you learned. This extra-credit assignment will be due when we meet again next Monday. I won't be accepting papers that aren't typed, double-spaced or don't have a cover page. So ain't no half-steppin'.”

Less than one minute after Dr. J's little announcement, half of the class had finished the test. Unfortunately, all of the students sitting around me were included in that number. Timothy was my last hope. He was sitting in the very front row, but I could vaguely make out the answers on his test when he held his paper up to double-check them. Apparently the prescription for his glasses wasn't strong enough, because he held his paper up in the light like he was investigating a counterfeit twenty-dollar bill to check his answers. I tried to capitalize on the situation, but reading his answers from where I sat was like reading the bottom row of letters at the optometrist's office. I tried to squint hard enough to make out an answer, but it was no use. Besides, the last time I tried to make out the words on Timothy's paper, I saw Dr. J looking at me out of the corner of his eye, and I had to fake like I was trying to blink an eyelash out of my eye to create a diversion. At that point, I chalked it up. It was officially a wrap for this quiz. Besides, after Timothy left, I was the last student left in the class. I tried to drop my answerless quiz on Dr. J's desk upside down, and hurry to the door before he found out I had left the blanks the way they were when the quiz was given out. But he was on to me. Just as my sweaty palm grasped the doorknob, I heard his voice.

“Not so fast, Mr. Dawson,” he said. “I don't think you read the directions.”

“I read them,” I said, staring at the clock on the wall to avoid making eye contact with him.

“Well, it looks like you had a problem following them. There's nothing on this paper except for your name and the date. As far as I'm concerned, you can take this with you.”

I grabbed the quiz from his desk, stuffed it in my pocket and headed for the door. I had walked out of the door and was headed down the hallway when I heard his aggravating voice again.

“Hold up, James,” he said in an authoritative tone as he walked toward me clutching his leather Gucci briefcase under his armpit. “I ain't gonna let you off the hook that easy.”

I rolled my eyes, took a deep breath and turned around to see how Dr. J would put the finishing touches on the torture.

“Man, don't give me an attitude, because I'm only trying to help you out,” he said. “What's your major?”

“Business.”

“After you get your degree, what do you plan on doing with it?”

“I know I want to be an entrepreneur. I know I don't want to work for a company my whole life. I don't know exactly what I want to do yet, though. I guess that's why I came to college. Ya know? To figure it out.”

“Hey, there's nothing wrong with that. You've got plenty of time. Honestly, I used to be just like you. When I left L.A. for Lighthouse College, I felt like I was leaving my homeboys behind. Most of them were still on the block, gangbangin' and smoking weed. For some reason, I felt like I owed them something. I felt like I had to represent by sagging my pants and actin' a fool on campus. By the time four years rolled by, all of my
real friends
who came into college with me were ordering caps and gowns for graduation. I had to stick around for an extra year to get my diploma. I was full of potential without a hint of responsibility or motivation.”

He put his hands on my shoulders and looked me square in the eye. “You're not in high school anymore, brotha. This university couldn't care less whether you come to class on time, or at all for that matter. Nobody is going to call home and leave a message on your mama's answering machine telling her you haven't been in class. There aren't any parent-teacher conferences. Once the school gets your money, the responsibility is placed squarely on your shoulders, man. And right now I'm concerned that you're not taking that responsibility seriously. You follow me?”

“I got you,” I said.

“I see you waltz into class late as if it's fashionable. I mean, you're already on academic probation. You don't have much room for error. If you don't get a 2.5, you're going home, and you won't even be able to apply to any school in the Atlanta University Center again. This is a one-shot deal for you, bruh. Don't blow it. I've seen it happen to too many young guys just like you. Hell, it almost happened to me. You go away to college hoping for a change of pace, and end up hanging with the same crowd and doing the same things you were doing back home. Don't let that happen to you, my man. You feel me?”

“I hear you,” I said.

“Look, I'm not trying to tell you how to live or how to choose your friends, but I've been in your shoes before. And if you haven't heard anything I've said to you today, hear me when I say this—don't make friends based on where you are in life. Make them based on where you're going. Don't let the people around you dictate your future.”

“I can dig it,” I said.

“Why did you choose to come to this university anyway?” he asked.

“I just needed a change of environment. I needed to get out of the hood and make something of myself.”

“Well, by coming to class late and neglecting to study for your tests, you're only making a fool out of yourself and whoever's paying your tuition. You're on the right train, but you're on the wrong track. And I can help you get back on course if you let me. Can you get down with that?”

“Fa sho.”

“A wise man once told me
‘All progress requires change, but not all change is progress.'
So, are you content with change or are you looking for progress?”

“Progress.”

“In that case, I've got an ultimatum for you. But you've got to keep it on the low, because I don't do this very often.”

“Cool.”

“You can either bite the bullet and take a zero for this assignment or head next door to DuBois Hall and sign up for a tutor. I know it's only the first week of school, but I figure we can nip this problem in the bud before it starts to affect your grade. If you bring me a blue slip from the dean of student affairs saying that you've signed up for a tutor, I will think about dropping this grade. The choice is yours.”

At that point, I had a newfound respect for Dr. J. I had never heard a man break down the science of my actions like that in my life. Other than my mom and my sister, I didn't think anybody really gave a shit. But Dr. J was the first person to get at me with a genuine concern for my success, and I respected him for that. I could only think of one question to ask him.

“Which way is DuBois Hall?”

“It's just a few buildings down,” he said, smiling as he patted me on the back. “As a matter of fact, I'm headed in that direction, so I can show you.”

“Good lookin' out,” I said.

“Hey, that's what I'm here for,” Dr. J said. “And remember, this is only your first test. Believe me, there will be plenty more where this one came from. So hopefully, you'll have all of this out of your system by the next one. Get yourself signed up to a good tutor, and you'll be just fine.”

“You think so?”

“Hey, man, the only time you can't afford to fail is the last time you try.”

THE STOOP

I
t seemed a little awkward. I'd never signed up for a tutor before. I'd always been too proud to ask for help. But this time, I knew I needed it. Plus, I really wanted to live up to the promises that I'd made to T-Spoon and my mom. As it turned out, signing up was easier than I thought. At first, I was a little embarrassed. I tripped and damn near fell down the steps in DuBois Hall as I headed for the Tutorial Center, because I kept looking behind my back to see if anyone was following me. Ironically, I ended up being embarrassed anyway because the secretary sitting at the desk saw me stumble, and she was fine as hell. She had to be in her late thirties, but she had a young, sexy aura about her. She tried to muffle her laugh, but she didn't do a very good job of it.

“I didn't even see that,” she said, raising her coffee mug to her mouth to hide her laughter.

“Keep that on the low,” I said, trying to laugh it off.

After that brief exchange, the rest was easy. All I had to do was write down my name and phone number, along with the best days and times I would be available. I stopped writing for a second to watch my back and make sure nobody was spying on me signing up. Once I was sure the coast was clear, I signed and dated the sign-in sheet and handed it to Stella, the secretary.

“See, it wasn't that bad was it?” she asked, hinting at my apprehension. “We'll give you a call in the next few days to confirm which days and times a tutor will be able to meet up with you.”

“Good lookin',” I said as I headed for the door.

As I approached my dorm I was surprised to see everyone who stayed in the dorm, including all of the R.A.s, standing outside near the stoop. It looked like the building had been evacuated or something. I walked a little faster when I heard a fire engine siren and saw the reflection from its lights. Just as I made it to the staircase, four firemen rushed past me, headed for the entrance to my dorm. Since following them inside didn't seem like a viable option at the time, I headed to the top of the staircase to investigate the scene. As I scaled the stairs, I noticed three fire engines lined up back-to-back along the curb in front of my dorm. I saw Lawry chilling on the stoop smoking a Black & Mild. He was sitting next to Dub-B and Fresh. Dub-B was sitting in between some girl's legs holding a handful of black rubber bands, getting his hair braided.

“What's crackin' wit' y'all pimps?” I asked, dapping each of them up with my closed fist. “Why y'all out here looking like y'all at a middle school fire drill?”

Dub-B was the first to speak out. “It's hot as hell out here, kid,” he said, tugging at his Marcus Garvey T-shirt for ventilation. “You know we ain't out here for our health, yo. See, what happened…your boy Lawry was trying to cop this female's number. But he started talking too fast, and the heat from his breath got too close to his collar and started scorching! It just spread like a wildfire, kid. It was bananas!”

Everyone laughed except Lawry. He took a long drag of his Black & Mild, stared Dub-B down and exhaled two clouds of smoke through his nostrils before opening his mouth to speak.

“I know you ain't trying to jone on me, Wonder Bread,” he said, with a hint of intensity in his voice. He was clearly offended. “No, the hell you ain't tryin' to get crunk. Why don't you tell them what really happened, shawty? Tell 'em about that care package you got.”

“What care package?” Dub-B asked.

“C'mon, Wonder Bread. The one your mama sent you with Usher's hit single wrapped in her draws. Tell 'em about how when you opened the package the entire thang burst out in flames.”

Everyone sat still-faced, waiting on the punch line.

“'Cause she had to
let it burn,
” Lawry sang, using his best Usher impersonation.

Nobody laughed except Lawry. For one, Lawry's comeback wasn't that funny. For two, it was a low blow. I personally would've tried to knock that nigga's head off his shoulders if he would've said something like that about my mom. But Dub-B played it cool.

“I told her not to let you go down on her with your hot-ass breath, but I guess that's what she gets for not listening,” Dub-B said. “Play with fire, you get burned.”

Once again, everybody except Lawry started cracking up. He looked hella embarrassed. Dub-B wasn't done yet.

“I don't got a problem with you talking about my mom,” he said. “But my name is Dub-B. That's what I go by, and that's what I prefer to be called.”

Lawry looked like a school bus had run over his big toe. Our laughter undoubtedly made the situation worse.

“I'll call you whatever I want to call you,
Wonder Bread
,” he said as he put his Black & Mild out on the railing aligning the stoop. “Who the hell started calling you Dub-B in the first place? Just because you walk around here wearing baggy jeans and black power T-shirts don't give you no ghetto pass. Not round here, shawty. Next, you're gonna think it's cool to start saying nigga, and we gonna really have problems.”

“Whateva, yo,” Dub-B said. “You're taking it mad overboard.”

“Nah, shawty!” Lawry said in a fed-up tone. “You think just 'cause you got a little ball game and talk all that New York slang, it's cool for you to act black. But somebody's got to pull your card, shawty! This is an H-
B
-C-U—Historically
Black
College—and I ain't figna let all that
acting
you doing ride.”

An uncomfortable silence followed. But Dub-B didn't wait long to respond.

“So y'all think I'm acting, B? Because if y'all think I'm acting, then y'all must've been acting too—pretending to be my friends.”

“Hey, I ain't said shit, joe,” Fresh said with a grin on his face, as he pulled a brush out of his pocket and began to tighten up his waves.

“You cool with me, blood,” I said, cosigning.

“I'm too old for this shit, B,” Dub-B said, looking right into Lawry's eyes. “Ever since I was a kid, people have been trying to figure out why I act the way I act. I'm to the point where people can either accept me for who I am or just go on about their business, yo. It's not my fault that mostly everybody else who looks like me grew up listening to the Vanilla Ice, and I liked MC Hammer. This is who I am, kid. I dress the way I dress because I prefer looking fly. I rock Marcus Garvey tees because I like what he stood for—self-pride. I'm comfortable with who I am. But don't let my security make you feel insecure, B. I can't explain the reason I talk the way I talk, but can you explain why you call everybody shawty?”

“Nah, shawty,” Lawry said, seemingly lost for words.

“It is what it is, B,” Dub-B said. “My parents don't understand it either. I'm a white kid who thinks Eminem is overrated, keeps a fresh pair of Air Force Ones and has a subscription to
Vibe
Magazine. But this is who I am. This is me, every day. If you got a problem with that, then you do you, and I'll do me.”

“Just know, I ain't the nigga you wanna test, shawty,” Lawry said as he turned and walked away.

Dub-B turned to us with a look of disarray. “He be bugging out, kid.”

I wondered if I'd missed something. I thought maybe the big secret about Dub-B trying to get with Lawry's crush Jasmine had been leaked before I walked up. Once again, it was up for me to try to ease the tension.

“You're hilarious,” I said. “What was that all about?”

“I can't even call it,” Dub-B said. “I mean, it's like lately, Lawry can't take a joke. I was just fucking with him about his breath.”

“I wouldn't even trip off of him if I were you,” I said.

“Yeah,” Fresh said. “You was jappin' on that boy. He's on some ol' bogus shit.”

“But now, what's up with the dorm, blood?” I asked.

“About twenty minutes ago the fire alarm went off and your boy V-Man came around to everybody's room telling us to evacuate the building,” Fresh said.

“I think somebody just pulled the fire alarm, playing around,” Dub-B added.

The girl braiding Dub-B's hair began pulling his stringy hair harder and braiding tighter in frustration because he kept moving his head around.

“Sit still,” she said with an attitude. “I ain't got all day to be sitting here braiding your hair for free when I could be getting paid for braiding somebody else's. It's hard enough gripping your thin-ass hair as it is. Now pass me the gel.”

Dub-B didn't respond. His mouth was wide open and his head was slowly following something. Fresh had the same dumbfounded look on his face. Apparently he and Dub-B had spotted the same thing, and I was missing out.

“What y'all staring at?” I asked.

Dub-B broke the silence without taking his eyes off the prize.

“I think that's her,” he said.

“It ain't but one body on this campus that grown and sexy,” Fresh said. “That's gotta be her.”

“Who?” I asked in a high-pitched voice, as I tried to follow their heads to the dime piece in question.

“With a walk that mean and a shoe game that ill, I don't see how you could even ask that question,” Dub-B said.

When I finally spotted the treasure that Fresh's radar had already picked up on, no further explanation was needed. It was good ol' Katrina—Dr. J's voluptuous assistant. She sashayed toward the stoop at a quick pace in her jean skirt, pink pumps and matching pink and green tank top. There were other females outside, but she stood out like a sore thumb. I knew what I had to do. She was walking swiftly, like a last-minute Christmas shopper in a mall on Christmas Eve, five minutes before closing time. Just as she was about to walk past the stoop, I made my move.

“Excuse me, gorgeous,” I said, walking directly in front of her to impede her progress. Surprisingly, it worked. “I think we've met, but I don't think we've been formally introduced. My name is J.D. I don't usually go out of my way to meet a female, but something tells me that you're worth it. What's your name?” I asked as if I didn't already know.

“Katrina,” she said. “But everybody calls me Kat.”

I tried to capture her eye contact, but she was clearly more interested in the melee behind me.

“What's really good with this dorm over here?” she asked. “Why is everybody standing outside?”

“I think somebody pulled the fire alarm or something.”

“Why am I not surprised?” she said as she laughed and shook her head. “Freshmen are so immature.”

With that statement, she'd indirectly shot me down before I even had a chance to crack my whip. But I was determined to at least let her know that I was interested in her, especially since she had no problem keeping conversation going. She looked me up and down and kept talking in between laughs.

“Hey, don't I know you from somewhere?” she asked.

“Well, I think I've seen you around a few times,” I said, trying to avoid the whole tissue-stuck-to-the-bottom-of-my-shoe memory.

“Aren't you in Dr. Johnson's class on Mondays?”

“Yeah.”

“I know I've seen you there,” she said, momentarily giving me hope, “but I think I remember you from somewhere else too.”

“Girl, you shouldn't be having those kinds of dreams about people without at least getting to know them first.”

“Boy, please!” she said, laughing. “I know where I remember you from—orientation. You were the one with that toilet tissue stuck to the bottom of your foot, right?”

“Are you sure that was me?” I asked, smiling.

“Yeah, that was you!” she said, laughing.

I figured laughter was a good thing.

“You're the guy who Dr. J picks on in class all the time.”

“You noticed that too, huh?”

“He played the hell out of you earlier today. That was funny,” she said, still looking at the firemen standing behind me talking to V-Man on the top steps. “I see these dorms are still as ghetto as they were when I stayed in 'em.”

“Safe to say. But I ain't even trippin'. At least I know the fire alarm works, in case there's ever a real one.”

“Oh, you stay here?” she asked, looking surprised.

I could tell that was a setup, but it was too late to lie. Maybe I had said too much. Maybe I should've gotten straight to the point and asked for her number, instead of letting her know I stayed in a freshmen dorm. But then again, maybe she didn't care.

“Unfortunately,” I said.

Before the word got completely out of my mouth, she was checking the time on her platinum-looking Tiffany watch. Maybe she did care.

“Look, D.J., I'm late for a meeting and I've really gotta go. But I'll see ya around.”

Her mouth was saying one thing, but her body language said another. She said that she had to go, but hadn't stepped away from my personal space, so I kept the conversation crackin'.