First Semester (9 page)

“I know you ain't talking, joe,” Fresh said. “You were hugged up with that one girl all night.”

“What girl?” I asked.

“The light-skinned chick with the long braids.”

“It ain't nothin',” Dub-B said.

“It had to be something,” Fresh said. “I saw you holding on tighter than a hubcap in the fast lane.”

“She was tight, though, huh?” Dub-B asked.

“Oh, she was bad as hell,” Fresh said. “She kinda reminds me of Alicia Keys. Where's she from?”

“Maryland,” Dub-B said.

“I've met a lot of cute girls from Maryland since I've been here,” I said. “What's her name?”

“I think she said her name is Jasmine. I've got so many phone numbers the last couple of days, sometimes I get them confused. But I'm almost positive her name is Jasmine.”

I knew that there were lots of fine girls who went to the University of Atlanta. But I was hoping there were two light-skinned girls from the D.C. area with braids named Jasmine who looked like Alicia Keys. If not, I knew Lawry was going to be heartbroken. Just as I thought about the repercussions, I saw him out of the corner of my eye, making his way back to the table. I decided to abruptly switch the subject again.

“Anybody else taking Professor Obugata for biology?” I asked.

“Hell nah, shawty,” Lawry said, laughing. “You talking about that dude from Africa, with the thick accent?”

“Hell yeah, blood.”

“I could've told you not to take his class,” Lawry said.

“I wish you would have.”

“I barely passed it when I took it in summer school, and I'm a
biology
major.”

“Man, I can't stand science as it is,” I said. “But I couldn't understand what he was saying, even if I knew what he was talking about. The only part I understood was when he said we've got homework tonight, and our first quiz next week.”

“Good luck,” Fresh said.

“You're gonna need more than luck to pass that class, shawty,” Lawry said.

BACK TO CLASS

O
n Sunday night, I asked Dub-B to come by my room the next morning at seven-thirty. Monday morning, I heard what sounded like the Atlanta police chief knocking at my door bright and early. I wiped the sleep from my eyes and looked at my alarm clock. It read 7:29 a.m. Although Dub-B talked, dressed and played basketball like he was black, after this timely effort, there was no questioning the fact that he was still as white as snow.

“Who actually wakes somebody up on time?” I mumbled as I rolled out of my bed and stumbled to the door. Dub-B was standing on the other side wearing a blue Yankee hat tipped over his eyes, a navy-blue New York Yankees T-shirt with a picture of Jackie Robinson painted on it and a fresh pair of navy-blue Timbs. He looked like he was headed to a Dipset video shoot.

“What up, kid?” he asked in a hyper voice.

“Not me, I was knocked out,” I said, crashing back onto my bed.

“Get up, J.!” he said. “You told me to wake you up at seven-thirty.”

“I know what I said 'cause I said it. I forgot you don't operate on BPT.”

“What's BPT?”

“Black people time! I wouldn't expect you to know nothing about that, Wonder Bread.”

“Whatever,” he said. “I know one thing. If you don't hurry up and get dressed we gon' miss out on breakfast.”

I threw on a pair of royal-blue basketball shorts, a fresh white tee and a pair of tennis shoes, and headed for the bathroom to brush my teeth. My roommate was already gone to the Caf. As usual, his bed was perfectly made. When I made it back to my room, Dub-B was sitting on the edge of my bed watching “
SportsCenter
.”

“You just missed the interview with Deiondre Harris,” he said.

“On ESPN?”

“Yeah, son. I couldn't believe it either! Dude is mad athletic. His arm is crazy! They said he's supposed to be the first quarterback from a black college to get picked in the top ten of the NFL draft next year.”

“Is that right?”

“Word is bond. They were comparing his rushing yards to Walter Payton's because he got drafted out of a black college too. I didn't even know that. I can't wait to see what Downtown-D is going to do in the homecoming game.”

After catching a few more highlights, we headed to the Caf. It didn't take long for me to find out that breakfast was the best meal of the day in the Caf. Just as Dub-B polished off the last of his bacon, cheese eggs and grits, he asked the one question I didn't want to hear.

“Did you finish up that paper on Thurgood Marshall?”

“What paper on Thurgood Marshall?”

“The one that's due in…” He paused to check his Movado. “Twenty-five minutes.”

“Oh, shit,” I said. “I had forgotten all about that. Did you finish yours?”

“I'm almost done.”

“Let me hold that real quick, blood.”

“Mine ain't even all the way complete yet,” he said. “I still have to type it out and put on the finishing touches, but I'll tell you what Web site I got all of my information from.”

I could tell he was lying. For one, he was looking everywhere except my eyes. And if he was, in fact, still working on it, he would've just said that. But any time someone offers you an alternative that involves actually doing the research yourself, they don't want you to copy theirs. His final copy was probably sitting right in the notebook in his book bag. He didn't look like he was in a rush. I started to con him out of the paper, but I decided to just throw something together real quick—cut-and-paste style. I got the Web address and headed straight for the Marshall Hall computer lab.

When I made it to the dorm computer lab, Varnelius was the only person inside. He was wearing a purple Omega Beta Phi T-shirt, pajama pants and some corduroy slippers. We exchanged glares. But I didn't have time to play games with V-Man. I had to find an open computer. My frantic search for one was brought to a halt by V-Man's annoying voice.

“Did you sign in?” he asked.

I tried to act like I didn't hear him. Then he repeated himself.

“I didn't see a sheet,” I said, with an attitude. “But I ain't really had the time to look.”

V-Man motioned toward a piece of paper on the desk at the front door. I knew he was just asking me to sign in to aggravate me, but I did it anyway. I had him all figured out. As long as he knew he was getting under my skin, he'd keep pouring it on. But the more I acted like he was irrelevant, the less he got on my nerves.

I quickly logged on to a computer and found the Web site Dub-B told me about. He was right. All of the information I needed to do it was there. The only problem was that I had less than ten minutes to complete the assignment. Luckily, I knew that this job would only require two items from the toolbar—the cut-and-paste tools. I hurriedly slapped a two-pager together that sounded way better than anything I could ever have written myself. I misspelled a few of the words on purpose, just so it resembled my work, and hustled back to my room. After throwing on some sweats, I knocked out a quick fifty push-ups to pump up my chest, because I knew Katrina would be in attendance with her fine self.

As soon as I made it to the door of my First Year Seminar class, Dr. J was closing it shut. He gave me an ice-cold stare, then a fake smile as he reopened the door for me.

“Still on West Coast time, I see,” he whispered under his breath.

I could feel Dr. J's eyes following me as I searched for an open seat. Once again, the class was as overcrowded as a slave ship. I must've been the last person to make it to the class, because everyone, including Dr. J's exquisite assistant, Katrina, was already seated. Just as I was about to sit down at an empty desk, I heard Dr. J clear his throat.

“Not so fast, sir,” he said.

Without making eye contact with him, I sat down next to a thick redbone and unzipped my backpack, as if I hadn't heard him talking to me. Once I looked up, I saw Dr. J looking right at me.

“You weren't in that big of a rush to get here, so don't be in such a hurry to sit down,” he said. “Come on up here and rap with me a taste.”

I swiftly turned my head to look at the people sitting around me, as if his comments were directed toward one of them, but all of them were looking back at me with that “He's talking to you” face. Somewhere between checking out the tiles on the ceiling and looking on the floor for loose change, I exchanged glances with Dr. J.

“You talking to me?” I asked in a surprised tone.

“Yeah, you,” he said. “Cool Cali.”

Just as I was slowly rising from my seat, Dr. J caught me off guard.

“Oh, and bring your assignment with you,” he said.

After fumbling through my backpack for my paper, I made my way to the front of the class.

“Let me borrow that assignment so I can copy it real quick, shawty,” Lawry whispered as I walked by.

By the time I made it to the front of the class, I could sense Dr. J was up to something foul.

“Well, I see we've got one scholar in the class,” he said, while looking at my paper. “I've got to admit, I think I may have underestimated you, Jamie. This looks very professional, or as you would say, off the heezy. I'm proud of you. I hope the rest of your fellow scholars were as studious as you were.”

“The name is James,” I said with a laugh. “And that's off the hizzle. But now, I can dig the compliments.”

As much as I appreciated his kind words, something told me this was some sort of good news, bad news speech. And I was running out of good news.

“So, tell me, which dorm do you stay in?” he asked.

“Marshall Hall,” I said.

“How 'bout you tell the class three facts that you included in your paper about the history of Marshall Hall that they may not be aware of?”

Uh-huh. Just as I suspected. I stumbled to come up with a clever, roundabout answer. I counted to three in my head as I recited my three facts aloud.

“Marshall Hall was founded by a man named Thurgood Marshall,” I said.

Fact number one.

“Marshall Hall is the only male dorm on campus.”

Fact number two.

“And when I moved into Marshall Hall two weeks ago there was a huge roach on my floor when I opened the door. But from what I hear, roaches have been around Marshall Hall for a long time.”

My third fact drew thunderous roars of laughter from my classmates. Everyone was cracking up, but Fresh laughed the loudest. They knew I was bullshitting. But unfortunately, so did Dr. J. At first, he chuckled. Then his face turned to stone. Dr. J was visibly upset by my reply. But the way the class responded seemed to add to his frustration. Something told me that Dr. J was having a bad day, and my impromptu BS might have added fuel to the fire.

“Thank you for that little bit of insignificant information, James,” he said. “Go ahead and have a seat. You're a pretty funny guy. I wonder if you'll be laughing when you see your final grade.”

I heard Timothy snicker as I walked sluggishly back to my desk with my head down. I pulled my sagging sweatpants back up to my waist before slouching into my seat. Silence followed me to my desk. When Dr. J finally broke the serenity, I could tell he was steaming.

“Everybody in this class starts out on the same page, with an A-plus,” he said. “It's up to you to lower your own grade by coming to class late and blowing off homework assignments. When preparation meets opportunity, the end result is success. In my class, you will be afforded plenty of opportunities. Whether or not you're prepared when they arise is up to you.”

Although Dr. J was looking at everyone around the room, I felt like he was subliminally talking to me. It kind of reminded me of when my mom used to drag me to church on Sunday mornings, and the preacher's sermon was about fornication. I hadn't been prosecuted, but I felt guilty.

“I see some of us have already begun to take initiative, making a few moves,” he said. “Too bad some of us are moving in the wrong direction. Everybody please pass your papers to the front of your row.”

Dr. J lifted his arms in the air, using hand signals like a traffic controller directing the onslaught of papers to the front. Then he pointed toward what had to be the most beautiful teaching assistant in University of Atlanta history.

“Katrina, if you would be so kind as to pick up these A-plus papers from my scholars I'd appreciate it,” he said.

When Katrina stood up I saw mountains move. I felt like maybe I should have knocked out an extra fifty push-ups before thinking of stepping to a woman of this caliber. She was wearing a white blouse that exposed just enough flawless cleavage to make me wonder what else she was hiding under there.

I was intrigued.

How much of her white lace bra you could see depended on how low she'd bend down to pick the papers up from the desk. But you could see her cute belly ring clinging to her tight abs from any angle.

I was impressed.

Her firm breasts were held in place by toothpick-thin brown strings that held her blouse together. I licked my lips uncontrollably. You would've thought I was LL Cool J. She wore some fly-ass blue jeans that clung to her hips. And from what I could tell, there was definitely no more room in those jeans. You could set a cup on her booty and it wouldn't fall off.

I was aroused.

Just as all of the blood in my body rushed to my groin area and my anatomy began to protrude through my sweats, I was turned off by the sound of Dr. J's voice.

“What I'm about to say may be music to your ears, so enjoy it, because you won't hear it often. I've got to catch a flight to Washington, D.C., to sit on a hip-hop summit panel at Boward University with Russell Simmons. Unfortunately, my flight leaves in an hour and a half, so I'm going to cut class short today.”

I had already started packing up my things before he finished his sentence. Just as I had zipped up the last open compartment of my book bag and began to stand up, my bad class experience turned worse when Dr. J spoke again.

“So you're all welcome to…”

He paused, and mostly everyone followed my lead, grabbed their bags and stood up. Then he continued.

“You're all welcome to clear your desks and get out a pencil or pen to take a quiz on the school anthem.”

The classroom responded with an overwhelming “Aaaaaahhhhh!”

“C'mon with that, shawty,” I heard Lawry yell from across the room.

“That's bogus,” Fresh said. “He's tweaking, joe.”

Dr. J laughed. “Hey, I didn't tell y'all class was dismissed. Now this is just a standard, one-page, fill-in-the-blank quiz. I'm taking it easy on y'all.”

One of the females in the class let out a high-pitched whimper that sounded like someone had stepped on a puppy's paw. The girl next to me whispered to her friend, “What is this,
Lean on Me?
”