Next Semester

by Cecil R. Cross

  For a moment, I didn’t care if people thought that because I’d slept with Kat, I was HIV positive. And it didn’t matter that the only money I had to my name was the money I was supposed to spend on my books. I was just happy to be back on the yard. Away from the gritty streets of Oakland and back on campus. For a moment, as I stood with my Jansport strapped to my back, I felt free.

  A familiar ruckus catapulted me back into reality. The sorority girls stopped doing their steps and hurriedly stepped aside as the fellas inside the circle began pushing and shoving each other. All of the onlookers began backing up to give the guys some room, in case it came to blows. I took a couple steps back, not knowing what was going on.

  “What just happened, blood?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. But it looks like the Kappas are getting mad at the Sigmas for twirling canes,” Fresh said. “As soon as they started twirling, one of them got their cane snatched.”

  “So you mean to tell me that these fools are beefing over who can twirl a cane?” I asked. “They’re going at it like some Crips and Bloods.”

  “These niggaz be taking that fraternity stuff serious, joe” he said. “Plus, the Kappas were founded first, so they feel like the Sigmas are biting their style.”

  “Who cares?” I asked.

  “There’s a lot of history behind why they carry those canes, G,” he said.

  “What are you? Some kind of Kappa-ologist?” I asked. “How do you know so much about Kappas all of a sudden?”

  “Sssssshhh!” Fresh whispered. “I don’t want everybody all up in my business. But, if you must know, I’ve done a little research here and there.”

  “Research?” I asked. “Are you serious? You wanna be a Kappa now?”

  “I’m not sure just yet. But I don’t think it’s a bad idea. I mean, think about it, fam. They always dress clean.”

  “True.”

  “They always get the baddest chicks on the yard.”

  “For the most part.”

  “And their parties are always off the chain!”

  “You’ve got a point there,” I said.

  “Plus, from what I heard, they do a lot of community service,” Fresh added.

  “Man, please!” I said. “You know good and well you ain’t thinking about no damn community service. You’re just tryna get some.”

  “Who ain’t?” he asked, laughing. “I bet you wouldn’t have any problem pulling that lil’ cutie from Elman if you were a Kappa.”

  “I wouldn’t have no problem getting with her if I wasn’t,” I said confidently. “Besides, I ain’t even tryna get caught up chasing breezies this semester anyway. I gotta get my grades right and stay focused. Speaking of which, let’s go to the bookstore real quick.”

  “I hear you talkin’,” Fresh said, wearing a facial expression that clearly stated he didn’t believe anything that was coming out of my mouth. “C’mon.”

  The first thing I saw when we walked inside the student center, heading to the bookstore, was a large sign on one of the walls that read Student Government Applications Available Now! It made me think of my mom. The next thing I saw made my eyes bug out. The line from the cash register inside the bookstore stretched all the way out into the hallway in the student center. For every person who walked out, the security guard let one in.

  “I ain’t about to stand in this line, fam,” I said. “We might have to come back.”

  “You ain’t lying, joe,” Fresh said. “This line is bogus as hell.”

  Just as I was about to make my exit, I felt an arm wrap around my shoulder.

  “What’s crackin’ blood?” Dub-B asked, mocking my West Coast slang.

  I couldn’t help but laugh. Sometimes Dub-B sounded blacker than us when he spoke.

  “What’s demo, joe?” Dub-B continued, mocking Fresh’s Chi-Town slang, as he nudged him. “Where y’all headed?”

  “I guess back out to the strip to try to kill some time,” I said. “That line in the bookstore is way too long for me.”

  “Not a problem,” Dub-B said. “Just let me know what books you need and I got you. You know my girlfriend works in the bookstore, so I can skip the line.”

  “That’s what’s up,” I said.

  “Just write down what books you need, give me the dough for ’em and I will hook it up.”

  “That works,” Fresh said. “But since your girl can get you to the front of the line and all, you think she could hook a brotha up with a lil’ discount? I’m a little short on ends right now.”

  “If I had the hookup on a discount, I would have hooked myself up by now, yo,” Dub-B said.

  I was looking through my backpack for a scrap piece of paper to write on when Fats walked up.

  “Did I hear somebody say something about a hookup?” Fats asked. “How much you got to spend and what you need?”

  “Not a lot,” Fresh said. “And textbooks.”

  With Fats being from L.A., he took it upon himself to show me the ropes when I first got to U of A. He was the resident super senior on the yard. Short and stocky in stature, Fats was the man when it came to getting the hookup on anything and everything on campus.

  “Well ‘not a lot’ doesn’t sound like enough, but we may be able to work something out,” Fats said, struggling to hold two extralarge plastic shopping bags full of textbooks.

  “There you go,” I said. “What you doing with all those books you got in those bags? I know you ain’t taking all them classes.”

  “C’mon now,” he said. “You know I keep more hustles than janitors keep keys. I can get you whatever books you need for twenty-five percent off. They will be photocopied. But it’s still the same thing.”

  “Twenty-five?” I asked. “That’s the best you can do?”

  “Well, between me and you, since y’all my little homies, I’ll look out and give y’all an additional ten percent off my usual prices, but don’t tell anybody.”

  “Can’t beat that with a baseball bat,” Dub-B said. “Now, I wish I woulda holla’d at you before I bought mine.”

  “You really be making bread off of photocopying books and slangin’ ’em for the low?” I inquired.

  “Do I?” Fats asked, with a laugh. “I’ma make a killing, cuz. My roommate put me up on the hustle. That fool made so much cake doing this last semester, he bought some chrome rims for his ride and furnished our whole apartment. Fly shit. A living room set you would see on MTV Cribs. Flat screen and all, cuz.”

  “That’s crazy,” I said. “All that just off selling some books for class? Wow!”

  “What classes you taking anyway?” Fats asked.

  “You know I’m a business major, but I’m still taking a whole lot of my prereq classes right now,” I said, looking over the sheet of paper I was about to hand Dub-B. “So I’m taking Biology, English, African-American history, Algebra II, and one more class. Either public policy or intro to technology.”

  “Oh, that’s a no-brainer,” Fats said. “You gotta go with the public policy class, without question. Dr. J teaches that Intro to Tech class. And you know him. He will actually have you up in there doing some work, so you definitely don’t wanna take that. But that public policy is an easy A. I know who teaches that class. Wussername? Ummm…Uh…man, it’s right on the tip of my tongue. Miss…Professor Mitchell,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Yep, that’s her name. Professor Tessa Mitchell. That’s whose class you want to take.”

  “Why Miss Mitchell?” I asked.

  “Because I took her class last semester, and she was about four months pregnant then. She was always canceling class because of her doctor appointments. It was beautiful. It’s been at least a month, so that means she’s gonna have even more visits to the doctor. She’s never gonna be there! Think about it. More doctors visits mean less homework. And less homework equals less exams. Man, I wish she taught every class!”

  “Oh, hell yeah,” I said, scratching intro to technology off of my list and replacing it with public policy. “Sig
n me up!”

  “Me, too,” Fresh said. “An easy A sounds good to me.”

  After placing our order with Fats, Fresh and I went back outside. Things were back to normal. The Greeks were still battling. Students interested in joining their organizations standing off to the side, looking like groupies. Vendors set up along both sides of the strip peddling everything from fresh fruit and water to socks, CDs and knockoff jewelry. I was strolling by the bootleg CD stand when I felt someone tap my elbow.

  “What it is, folk?” Lawry asked in his signature Southern twang.

  Lawry stayed next door to me in Marshall Hall. He was one of the few people I’d met on campus who was actually born and raised in Atlanta. Clad in classic ATL dopeboy garb, it seemed like Lawry had an endless supply of white tees and Atlanta Braves fitted caps. He wasted no time flashing his gold fronts and giving me a hug shake—one of those half-handshake, half-hug displays of affection guys who are good friends can share in public without being viewed as gay—and continued: “You ain’t holla’d at ya boy since you been back, shawty! What the business is?”

  Some things never change. Lawry’s breath was one of them. There is a difference between something stinking and something stankin’. Lawry’s breath crossed the threshold. His breath stank like he had food from last month stuck in the back of his teeth. And on top of that, it always seemed hot. I could literally feel the heat from his breath around my lip and nostril area every time he opened his mouth. Last semester, it got so bad, a few times I seriously had to hold my breath every time it was his turn to speak. And Lawry, of all people, had the gall to be a notoriously close talker, which further complicated things.

  “I just got here a day ago, blood,” I said as I quickly reached in my pocket and pulled out a pack of gum I’d had since the plane ride. Two sticks. Just enough. I offered him the first piece. Thank God he accepted. “I’m surprised you ain’t came by my room asking to borrow anything yet.”

  “Funny you should say that,” he said. “You got a dollar you can loan ya boy? I’m trying to see what this new Lil’ Wayne mix tape is talking ’bout, but I only got four bucks and penny pincher over here won’t let me slide.”

  “Same old Lawry,” I said with a smile as I whipped out my wallet. “You can have this dollar as long as you make me a copy of that CD. I heard it’s tight!”

  “I got a couple of blank CDs in my room. I got ya!”

  “Make me one, too,” Fresh said. “As many times as you came to my room last semester asking for ramen noodles, I know I’m good for one.”

  “I know you ain’t still talking about last semester,” Lawry said. “Shawty, that was soooo long ago. I got you, though.”

  When Lawry pronounced the th in his last word, I heard something flick against his teeth. Unless he’d just become the first human being I’d ever seen pop a bubble while talking, there was a foreign object in his mouth.

  “Did you hear that?” I asked.

  “Hear what?” Fresh asked.

  “Don’t tell me you’re still having flashbacks from when we got jacked by them dopeboys last semester,” Lawry said.

  As he spoke, I paid close attention to Lawry’s mouth. In the middle of his sentence, I saw something metal flicker.

  “Hold up, blood,” I said. “I know I didn’t just see what I think I saw.”

  “What the hell is you talkin’ ’bout, shawty?” Lawry asked.

  “Damn it, man!” I said. “What made you go and do that?”

  “Go and do what?” Lawry asked.

  “Get a damn tongue ring!” I said, pointing at Lawry’s mouth.

  “No, he didn’t,” Fresh said.

  “This little thing?” Lawry said, sticking his tongue out for all to see.

  “Yes, he did!” Fresh said, covering his face with his hands. “What the hell was you on over Christmas break?”

  “Man, me and my girl were wildin’ out one night, drinking and stuff,” Lawry explained.

  “What girl?” I asked.

  “Oh, me and my girl from high school got back together for a second over the break. And you know how that is. She got a nigga drunk. Next thing you know we talkin’ about getting matching tattoos. We get all the way to the parlor and she gets scared of the damn needle. So instead of getting a tattoo, she convinced me to get a tongue ring and shit. Ya know, something I can take out when I get ready.”

  “Nah, I don’t know about that one, joe,” Fresh said. “You lost me there.”

  “Me, too, fam,” I said, a look of perplexity on my face. “Matching tattoos…piercings…You were definitely wildin’ all the way out on that one. Where they do that at?”

  “It ain’t even that serious, shawty,” Lawry said. “I can take it out whenever. Plus, people barely ever even notice it.”

  “Hey, I’m ’bout to see what they talkin’ ’bout over here at this pizza table. Looks like they’re giving ’em away for free,” Fresh said.

  “I’m with you, pimpin’,” I said. “I’ll holla you later, Lawry. Tongue ring or no tongue ring, I still want my copy of that Gangsta Grillz mixtape.”

  “’Preciate that dollar, shawty,” Lawry said. “I’ma burn that for you as soon as I get back to the dorm.”

  We hadn’t taken five steps before Fresh burst out in laughter.

  “What’s up with your boy?” he asked, laughing hysterically. “I think he might have a couple of screws loose.”

  “I can’t even call it,” I said, shaking my head.

  “You think he might be switch-hitting?” Fresh asked.

  “What you mean?”

  “I mean, do you think he might have a little sugar in his tank? You know, fruity.”

  “Do I think he’s gay?” I asked.

  I paused for a moment, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “Nah,” I said. “Hell nah. Not Lawry. I can tell a sweet dude from a mile away. I lived next door to that guy for a whole semester. If he was gay, I think I’d know.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” Fresh said. “That tongue ring is suspect as hell, though.”

  The smell of fresh pizza attracts college students like a moth to a flame. And everybody knows that the best way to get a college student’s attention is to attach the word free to anything. So the crowd of students hovering around the booth with the Free Pizza sign didn’t surprise me. When we finally made our way to the front of the booth I noticed that as with most things associated with the word free, there was a catch. In order to get your complimentary personal pan pizza, you had to fill out an application for a credit card. After I got accepted to college, my mom warned me about traps like these. She told me never to write my social security number or sign my name on any piece of paper without the University of Atlanta seal on it—especially credit card companies. She said that those companies targeted students and viewed them as easy prey. Her entire speech replayed itself in my head as I held the clipboard in my hand, contemplating whether or not to fill it out. Fresh had completed his and was getting ready to sign when I backed out.

  “I’m leery about this one,” I said, placing my blank application back on the table.

  “Why you say that?” Fresh asked as he signed and dated his app.

  “Yeah, it’s just an application,” the stubby white guy working behind the booth, wearing glasses, a hat with the credit card logo in bold letters and matching polo shirt said. “What’s the worst that can happen? Even if you are accepted, you can always turn it down. Hell, if I were you, I’d go for it, buddy. Get yourself a free pizza!”

  “I’m not really that hungry,” I said, cutting my eyes and frowning my face up at the rep for butting in. “Besides, my mom told me about little people like him. I think she called them credit predators, or something like that.”

  “Man, you got me feeling real paranoid all of a sudden,” Fresh said, still holding on to his clipboard, giving it some more thought. “If it was so bad, the university wouldn’t let them come out here. Besides, the card is accept
ed everywhere, so I know they’re legit. I mean, look around at all these people walking around with pizza boxes on the strip. Everybody is signing up!”

  “If everybody was jumping off a bridge, would you do it?” I asked. “I’m not saying don’t do it. I’m just saying, I’m not about to do it. Did you even read the fine print?”

  “I mean…I skimmed over it,” Fresh said. “I read enough to know that I can be approved for up to ten G’s.”

  “Damn!” I screamed. “For real? Ten thousand bucks is a lot of money.”

  “Yep! Ten big ones!” the credit card rep said, sounding like a sneaky used-car salesman. “That card actually requires you to have a parent cosign for you. I have a cell phone if you need to make that call.”

  “I sure could use that right about now,” I said, rubbing my hands together.

  “Sure you could,” the rep continued. “You should really think twice about signing up, pal. I mean, hey, what’ve ya got to lose?”

  “Everything!” I shouted. “Man, if you ruin your credit, you’re jacked up for life. Plus, my mom always said, if you can’t pay for something with cash, you probably don’t need to be buying it. So I’m straight.”

  I never heard Fresh respond. By the time I’d finished my public service announcement, my feet had already begun moving away from the booth and straight toward Leslie—the Elman girl who’d shot me down the first time I tried to holler. I had a better feeling about my chances this time. When I’d met her before, I’d just gotten off a five-hour flight from Cali, so my clothes were wrinkled, my hair was matted and my breath may not have been the freshest. But today, I knew my breath was fresh and my gear was on point. My swag was complete. The closer I got, the more beautiful she appeared. Her short hairstyle was unique and fit her well. I don’t usually go after girls with short hair, but she was so fine, it didn’t matter. Plus, just looking at the grade of her hair, you could tell she probably had Indian in her family. In fact, with her distinct features and petite frame, she slightly resembled the actress Nia Long. She was a natural beauty.