Next Semester

by Cecil R. Cross

  As I sat there trying to wiggle my way out of his class, I couldn’t help but laugh. He was right about that.

  “You just don’t understand,” I said. “I think if you knew the circumstances…”

  Again, he cut me off in midsentence.

  “I probably know more than you think,” he said. “I know that Katrina is HIV positive. And I know that you and Katrina were dating last semester. Kids talk.”

  “That’s the problem right there!” I said. “People on this campus gossip too much. Yeah, Downtown D is HIV positive and so is Katrina, but I ain’t! I got tested as soon as I went home. I’m straight.”

  “Well, first off, let me say that I am extremely proud of you for stepping up and being tested,” Dr. J said. “That takes a lot of courage. However, if you got tested when you say you did, that means you were tested in December.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said proudly. “December twelfth, to be exact. HIV free!”

  “Your excitement tickles me to death,” he said, chuckling heartily. “Again, I must commend you for taking the initiative to know your status. That’s more than I can say for a lot of your peers around here.”

  “Who you tellin’?” I asked.

  “On the flipside though,” he continued, “while I hate to rain on your parade, I must remind you that the incubation period for HIV is six months. And if your scare occurred last semester…”

  “Incubation period?” I said, interrupting him. “I don’t know nothing about that. All I know is I took the test, and according to those results, I’m in the clear.”

  “Well, son, the Good Book says ‘our people will be destroyed for a lack of knowledge.’ So while I definitely don’t want to jinx you by any means, I will have you know that HIV can take up to six months to show in a person’s bloodstream. So while your negative test results may give you some sense of confidence in regards to your health, if you want to be sure of your status, it would behoove you to retake the test toward the end of the semester. Just to be on the safe side.”

  There was a long, silent pause.

  “Man, I never even thought about it like that,” I said. “But as of right now, the test results I have say that I’m HIV negative, so that’s what I’m rolling with. And I’m just sick and tired of people speculating about what they don’t know. Everybody automatically assumes I got the shit. I mean…my bad for cursing…Everybody thinks that just because I was talking to Kat last semester, I’m HIV positive, too. So this semester I just wanted to create as much distance between the two of us as possible. And I can’t see that happening with both of us working on a campaign together.”

  “Hmmm,” Dr. J said, stroking his chin, contemplating what I’d said.

  “I mean, everything you said about folding under pressure and being a stand-up guy…I understand where you’re coming from,” I said. “But…”

  Dr. J cut his eyes at me.

  “Oops,” I said. “It’s just a difficult situation, man. You don’t know how it feels to walk into a room and know that everybody is talking about you. I’m tired of going to the caf, and acting like I can’t hear people whispering, spreading rumors about me that ain’t even true. I’m already to the point where I wanna snap on somebody.”

  “So what’s your solution to the problem?” Dr. J asked.

  “I think you should switch me into a different group,” I said.

  “I can’t do that,” Dr. J said. “That would open up the floodgates to everybody else who wants to switch into a different group.”

  “Well, I guess there’s only one thing for me to do.”

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Drop the class.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s say you do. You really think that’s going to stop people from talking about you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I do know Kat and I working so closely together in the same group ain’t gonna help the situation.”

  “Look, J.D., you’re your own man,” Dr. J said. “I think that you are a very bright, intelligent young man capable of making responsible decisions for yourself. Do keep in mind that you are on academic probation. And if you decide to drop my class, you’d better be sure you will be able to perform exceptionally well in your other courses. That being said, I am not telling you not drop my class. What I am telling you is that if you think dropping my class is going to solve your problem, you might wanna rethink that. If you’re afraid to get an F, you can never get an A.”

  As I was leaving Dr. J’s office, I noticed two things hanging on his wall that I had never seen before. One was a paddle. Not just any paddle. A wooden Kappa Beta Psi paddle, painted red and white.

  “Dr. J,” I said. “I didn’t know you were Greek. I’ve never seen you wear any ’nalia.”

  “I wear ’nalia from time to time,” he said. “But that’s where you youngsters get it twisted. You don’t always have to wear letters on you when it’s in you.”

  “Deep,” I said. “Thanks for your time, Dr. J.”

  “Anytime,” he said.

  Just before I walked out, I noticed a poster on his other wall opposite his paddle. It was simple with black-and-white lettering. On the poster was a single quote from Benjamin Banneker that read “Whatever you do in life, strive to do it better than anyone dead or alive has ever done it before.”

  Truthfully, the odds of my group defeating Howard Harrell’s in the presidential election were about as slim as David’s were against Goliath. But after talking to Dr. J and reading that quote, I knew I had a chance as long as I stayed in the class. But with the deadline for dropping classes just hours away, I didn’t have a lot of time to make a decision. While I didn’t want to have anything to do with Kat or the election, I didn’t want to let my mom down, either.

  NINE

  CLUB WOODY

  Decision making was a whole lot easier in high school. Things were a lot simpler then. Mostly because I was in my comfort zone. I knew what classes I could B.S. my way through and which teachers didn’t play that. I could tell you which streets were safe to walk down alone at night and which to steer clear of. I knew Oakland. But after spending a semester at the University of Atlanta, the only thing I knew for certain was that Atlanta was nothing like Oakland. Sure, there were plenty of black folks in the ATL, just like back home. But the difference was, most people from my hood in Oakland were born and raised there. Their parents, too. So when it came to doing a background check on a particular young lady, her entire resume was accessible—usually no more than two phone calls away at the most. Back home, all I needed was a first name, last name or a nickname and, after calling up a few of my homeboys, I could find out what side of town a girl grew up on, what guy she dated in high school, whether or not she was a freak and what her parents did for a living. Gathering this type of intel was virtually impossible in Atlanta. Mostly because damn near everybody in Atlanta was from somewhere else. Especially on campus. And with everyone being from various parts of the map, from Miami to Philly, Houston and Seattle, most people chose to leave their past in their hometown. So many people came to Atlanta for a “fresh start” and a “clean slate,” sometimes I wondered what they were like in high school. Atlanta afforded people the opportunity to essentially become “brand-new” and build a new reputation for themselves. Atlanta gave the guy who everyone back home knew was gay an opportunity to explore his sexuality and pretend to be straight and date women. It gave the young lady known around her hometown for sleeping with every guy who owned a letterman jacket on the first date a chance to present herself as the hottest thing since sliced bread. Pure and unadulterated. A virgin, even. Without any reliable source to verify that a person really is who they appear to be, Atlanta forced you to give a person the benefit of the doubt.

  And, really, is there ever any benefit in doubting?

  For this reason, it was hard for me to trust girls I met on campus. Nine times out of ten, their history was a mystery to me. And after everything that went down with Kat la
st semester, I felt like it was important to know as much about a person’s past as possible, especially when dealing with them on an intimate level. That’s why I was so impressed—and half-startled—when Leslie ran down all of my priors the first time we spoke on the phone. Our conversation was like none I’d ever had with any other girl on campus before. It was as if she’d known me for years.

  “So how was it growing up on the West Coast?” she started.

  “Excuse me,” I said, caught off guard. “When did I tell you where I was from?”

  “Oakland, right?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “But how did you…”

  “That’s not important,” she said. “It’s a lot different out here, huh?”

  “Way different,” I said. “It’s hella cool, though. I love ATL, actually.”

  “Hella?” Leslie said, laughing. “You’re from Cali for real! Your accent is so strong!”

  “Ya think?”

  “I know,” she said. “And I bet you do love it out here, with all these girls on campus to choose from. What is it, like eight girls to every guy?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “So out of all the girls on campus, why did you holla at Downtown D’s girl? I mean, you’re handsome. I’m sure you could’ve had just about any freshman you wanted. Why Katrina? You got a thing for older women?”

  It was like Leslie’s mouth was a machine gun, questions were the bullets and I was the target. She was pressing down on the trigger as hard as she could. We’d only been on the phone for a minute or so and I already felt like I was being interrogated. And these weren’t assumptions or presumptions, but rather questions only someone who’d done some research and came away with cold, hard facts could ask. Initially, I was taken back by her forwardness. But Leslie had clearly done her homework, so I decided to keep it one hundred with her.

  “Why I gotta have a thing for older women?” I asked. “Maybe older women have a thing for me. And how you know about all this anyway?”

  “I have my sources,” she said bluntly. “Soooo…Y’all still talkin’?”

  “Who?”

  “You and Katrina! Who else?”

  “Oh. Nah. Hell nah! No! Not at all. That’s old news. What’s it to you, though?”

  “I mean, you asked me for my number so I’m assuming that you’re interested in getting to know me. But I wouldn’t feel comfortable getting to know somebody who is already involved with someone else. Especially when word on the street is…”

  Leslie paused for a moment, as if to think carefully about how to choose her next words.

  “Awww, nevermind,” she said.

  “Come on,” I said. “Don’t do that. I hate when people do that! What were you gonna say?”

  “Everybody knows that Downtown D got HIV,” she said. “And everybody knows Katrina was his girlfriend, so that means she probably got it, too. And if you were talking to Katrina…”

  “Pump your brakes!” I said. “Not even. I’ve been tested and I’m straight. That’s the first thing I did when I got back to Cali.”

  After Dr. J’s whole spill about HIV taking up to six months to show up in a person’s bloodstream, I felt a little self-conscious proclaiming my status. But I sure wasn’t about to let that stop me from clearing my name.

  “Well, that’s good to know,” she said. “But you know how the streets talk. I heard you were the reason both of ’em got HIV.”

  “You heard what?” I asked vehemently.

  “Well, everybody knows that Downtown D ain’t gay. That boy has been with every girl and her sister on campus.”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “I probably shouldn’t be saying this,” she said.

  “No, you should,” I prompted. “I’ve heard a lot of false rumors going around. But I don’t think I’ve ever heard this one. Keep going.”

  “All right,” she said, still pondering whether or not to go on.

  “Go ahead! What did you hear?” I asked.

  “I heard you were gay,” she said. “Well, not gay-gay. But you know…swing both ways. Bi.”

  Since I’d been on campus, I’d had to defuse and dismantle all sorts of rumors I’d heard about my involvement in the whole Kat-Downtown D-HIV fiasco. I’d been questioned about it by my friends and overheard people I’d never met talking about it everywhere from the caf to the stalls in the bathroom. It was sickening and becoming more annoying every day. But this was the first time I’d heard my name and the term bi mentioned in the same sentence. And as far as I was concerned, it would be the last.

  “Bi?” I asked. “I ain’t bilingual! I don’t own a bicycle! I don’t wear bifocals. And I damn sure ain’t bisexual! Somebody got their facts mixed up! Who told you that?”

  “Honestly, I can’t even remember,” she said. “That’s just what people were saying. They say you were on the DL with one of your homeboys in Marshall Hall. Some guy named Larry or something like that.”

  My heart dropped. I knew exactly who she was referring to—Lawry. But I couldn’t let on that I even had an inkling of what she could have been talking about. Even though the rumor was false. I refuted her information immediately.

  “For one, I ain’t never been on the D nothing with nobody!” I said angrily. “And ain’t none of my homeboys I kick it with in Marshall Hall gay. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I don’t even know any guy named Larry! Somebody got you all messed up, baby girl. Ain’t none of that in my repertoire!”

  “I’m not saying I believed any of it,” Leslie said. “I mean, I know how people lie and spread rumors all the time. But it’s not safe to assume anything about anybody these days. You gotta ask questions. Besides, I don’t wanna be out and have one of your University of Atlanta groupies run up on me.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” I assured her.

  “So you and Katrina are really done?”

  “Oh, you can throw some A.1. steak sauce on that relationship, baby,” I said. “It’s well done! I don’t even talk to that girl at all anymore.”

  It didn’t surprise me that Leslie had heard about my relationship with Kat. Damn near everybody knew. What did catch me off guard though was how bold Leslie was in her inquiry.

  “I hope you’re not offended by my apprehension,” she said in timely fashion. “But you know this is Atlanta. There’s a whole lot going on down here.”

  “I definitely feel you…Oprah!”

  “Hey, unless you ask, you just n-e-e-e-v-er know,” she said, giggling. “I don’t give my number out often. So when I do, I like to know who I’m dealing with.”

  By the mere fact that she’d done a decent amount of research before talking to me, I figured she was genuinely interested. Her excuse was that she was naturally inquisitive because she wanted to be a journalist. As for the basics, I knew our personalities would mesh when she told me she was born and raised in Las Vegas, because it was so close to the West Coast. I was glad to hear that she was majoring in English, because when it came to writing papers, I sucked. When she offered her help, I knew I had a winner. But the more she spoke about her past relationship, the less comfortable I felt moving forward. She said that she’d dated the same guy for the last two years—an older guy who she’d been with since she got to college. The situation began sounding eerily familiar. She continued, adding that her ex was very popular on the yard. She alluded to the fact that he was in a fraternity at U of A, but wouldn’t specify which. But she was very adamant about the fact that he could have any girl he wanted on campus. As I sat there, stirring a bowl of beef-flavored ramen noodles I’d just prepared, I couldn’t help but wonder if she was referring to one of the Kappas. And if so, which one? She said that her ex made a ton of cash during his summer internship on Wall Street and spoiled her to no end—from high-fashion Giuseppe Zanotti heels to exclusive designer Birkin bags. On spring break, they lounged in five-star resorts and ate stuffed lobster tails. Let her tell it, he was a college girl
’s dream come true. But the one thing she really wanted was something he couldn’t give her—a monogamous relationship. Caught up in his own popularity, her ex-boyfriend couldn’t be faithful. And on top of that, she said that he was extremely jealous and became physically “aggressive” whenever he’d get drunk. I couldn’t help but wonder if that’s how she’d acquired the bruises I’d seen on her face. I assumed as much. The good news, though, was that after one and a half years of “staying down” for her man, Leslie decided she’d had enough. Still, I just had to ask.

  “So when you say your boyfriend was physically aggressive,” I said, “you mean, he hit you? Is that where the bruises I’ve seen on your face are from?”

  “Bruises?” she asked defensively. “What bruises?”

  I didn’t respond. She sounded like a battered woman suffering through an abusive relationship. Denial is always the first sign. There was a long, silent pause before she continued.

  “Look, there just comes a point when you know you can do better for yourself,” she said, intentionally sidestepping my deliberate question. “And I think I’ve reached that point. So I’m moving on. It’s gonna be hard. But it’s time.”

  I’d heard that line before. The irony of the similarities between Leslie and Kat was baffling. I could do nothing more than shake my head and take a deep breath as I pondered the repercussions of dealing with a girl who was in the process of detaching herself from a longtime ex. I knew all too well the feeling of being the “rebound” guy, and I didn’t like it. After the fiasco with Kat and Downtown D last semester, I promised myself I wouldn’t subject myself to chasing a girl who was still in cahoots with an ex. Why couldn’t I meet a cute girl who’d been single for more than six months? I thought about what I’d done to deserve such a fate—all the girls I’d snuck around with on the side while I was with Keisha and all of the hearts I’d broken in the past by telling other girls that my relationship with Keisha was “on the rocks” when, in the back of my mind, I knew I’d never leave Keisha. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was some kind of negative karma I’d brought upon myself.