Next Semester

by Cecil R. Cross

  “As you can probably tell by now, I am not Katrina Turner,” I said, inciting a few laughs from the stone-faced crowd. “But I am James Dawson, a member of her campaign team. And I am here to speak on her behalf, because I believe in her motto—the status quo has to go!”

  The APAs and Alphas erupted in a standing ovation. To my surprise, more than half the crowd followed suit. That was my shining moment. Ten seconds of applause. I relished every last one of them. Somewhere between the first hand clap and the last, I completely blanked out. Even with my speech written out in front of me, I was overwhelmed by the pressure. I’d never spoken in front of that many people before. And all eyes were on me. All of a sudden, I couldn’t read my own handwriting. I stumbled over my words and stuttered indiscriminately. By the time I made it through my intro, the heat from the spotlight was cooking me like a rotisserie chicken. I thought wiping the small stream of sweat from my temple would help me get back on track, but when my hand slipped awkwardly from my head and crashed down onto my neatly arranged sheets of paper, causing them to flutter to the stage, I completely lost it.

  “Excuse me,” I said, before bending over to scrape up my papers scattered across the stage.

  At this point, my ineptitude was on full display. By the time I collected my speech and put it back in the correct order, the guy in the back of the room was flashing his red beam in my face, signaling me to wrap it up.

  “I apologize for this,” I said. “As you can probably tell, I wasn’t prepared to deliver a speech today. In closing, I just ask that you look at all of the qualities Katrina brings to the table. She is more than qualified to be student body president.”

  “Well, where the hell is she?” a heckler in the back of the room yelled.

  A few people laughed. Then, before I could muster up an answer, it started. What began as a soft chant near the back of the auditorium snaked its way to the front like the wave at a baseball game, growing louder as it approached.

  “Howard! Howard! Howard!” the crowd chanted.

  I tried talking over them, but it was useless. Over half the crowd was chanting Howard’s name at the top of their lungs. I saw a few people waving me off stage like I was stinking it up at the Apollo. A few others held their key-chains up and rattled their keys, signaling me to hit the road. To add fuel to the fire, the DJ started scratching and spinning a song before I could say “Vote for Katrina” one last time. Even as the music played, the chant continued and fists pumped. I couldn’t have done a worse job representing Katrina and her campaign. I’d been given a chance to salvage my own GPA and help Katrina win the election and I blew it. Oddly enough it wasn’t the hecklers rattling their keys or the DJ cueing me off the stage that hurt the most. Not even the thought of how mad Kat would be when everybody told her how bad I’d bombed. It was the sight of Dr. J dipping his head into his hands in shame and the dejected look on the faces of my group members that made me feel like the scum of the earth. I’d all but single-handedly ruined any chance of Kat being elected student body president. I hoped her support from the Greeks on campus and friends she’d made over the last three years would be enough to at least get her on the final ballot. By the look on their faces, I was certain my speech didn’t win over any of the Kappas. As I walked off stage, my head slightly drooped and tears formed in my eyes. I felt hopeless.

  “And now for the man who has served three consecutive terms as president,” the host said as I made my way toward the backstage exit, “it is my pleasure to introduce Howard Harrell!”

  The crowd went wild. I went back to Marshall Hall. I didn’t care to stick around for his speech. Instead, I snuck out the back door, careful to avoid all of my group members. I’d bombed so horribly, I didn’t even want to see them. Just when I’d made it to the stoop outside Marshall Hall and thought I was home free, I was spotted.

  “You didn’t do that bad, cuz,” Fats said, catching up with me as I walked down the stairs.

  “I needed that to go a lot better than it did,” I said, my head sunken. “Everybody was depending on me and I blew it!”

  “Pick your head up, cuz!” Fats said, patting me on the shoulder. “It was just a speech.”

  “It was more than just a speech,” I said. “I really shot myself in the foot on my midterms, so I’m probably gonna need an A in public policy class to make the cut.”

  “Hey, everybody flunks a midterm exam every now and then,” he said.

  “Try two out of three,” I said.

  “Damn! That’s a bad look, cuz. Well, maybe you can make up for it on your finals.”

  “Nah, man,” I said. “I messed up real bad this time, blood. The only way I’ma be back at U of A next year is if Katrina wins this damn election. And the way I just fumbled that speech, it’s a long shot.”

  “Ain’t she running against Howard Harrell?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Ha!” He chuckled. “It was a long shot before you took the stage, homie. Good luck with that! You know that fool ain’t lost an election since he’s been here.”

  “Thanks, Fats,” I said sarcastically. “I feel a lot better about it now.”

  “Well, hey, look at the bright side,” he said.

  “What bright side?”

  “At least you’ll be able to kick it on the beach in Miami in a few days before you have to go back to Oakland,” he said. “You still going down there for spring break, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But damn. Why you gotta kill my dreams like that, though?”

  “I didn’t mean to,” he said. “I just gotta call a spade a spade. I mean, I’ma get as many people to vote for Kat as I can, but I ain’t even gonna lie, when it comes to student government elections, Howard has the campus on lock, cuz.”

  “Whatever, man,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Anyway, I’m ’bout to hook up with Fresh in a minute and give him my money, so he can book our room with his credit card.”

  “I need to do the same thing,” he said. “Who’s all staying with you down there?”

  “Right now, it’s just me, Fresh, Dub-B and my roommate, Timothy.”

  “Four freshmen in Miami,” Fats said. “Y’all are definitely gonna need an OG like me to show you the ropes. Plus, you’re gonna need me to get the drinks. You got a spot in the car for ya boy? I’ll put in on it.”

  “As high as gas is, you know we ain’t driving,” I said. “If you’re coming, you better hurry up and get a plane ticket.”

  TWELVE

  SPRING BREAK

  Our plane landed at Miami International Airport forty-five minutes ago, and still, there was no sign of our bags. With all of the spring breakers flying in from all over the country, I suppose the baggage claim folks were backed up. But I didn’t mind the wait. The terminal was jam-packed and swarming with dime pieces—most of whom looked like they’d come from exotic parts of the world I’d only seen on the Discovery Channel. I was so sidetracked by staring at all of the females, it was quite possible my luggage had been circling for the last half an hour and I’d just missed it. We hadn’t even made it to the beach yet, and already, it felt good to be away from the campus for a while. After being accused of being HIV-positive for the greater part of the semester, taking orders from the Kappas and doing all kinds of ridiculous things as part of their “prepledge” process, the whole election speech meltdown and blowing my midterms, I just needed some time to chill and clear my head. While waiting, the five of us talked about everything. Our conversations helped keep our minds off of our missing luggage and made time fly by. We started on Fresh and his credit card spending habits.

  “Take it from an OG,” Fats said. “Spending all your bread on those females you’re trying to get with is gonna catch up to you, cuz. I heard about what happened to Kat’s car the other day at the mall.”

  “That was an isolated incident,” Fresh said.

  “Yeah, right,” I said. “I’m surprised it didn’t happen earlier. I don’t know how you were keeping up with all o
f those girls anyway. A Tiffany necklace for this one, a bottle of perfume for that one.”

  “Tiffany?” Fats asked in amazement. “Tiffany, my nig? Damn, I didn’t know you were trickin’ off like that!”

  “Hey, Lil’ Wayne said it best,” Fresh said calmly. “It ain’t trickin’ if you got it!”

  “Yeah, but when Lil’ Wayne said that, he had like five million bucks in his bank account,” Dub-B said. “You have one credit card, yo.”

  “You guys are real funny,” Fresh said, laughing halfheartedly. “I mean, I know I’m smashing some of the baddest chicks on campus. I know this. But you don’t have to hate.”

  “Is that all you guys ever think about is sex?” Timothy asked. “Who is smashing this girl and who is cutting that chick?”

  I thought getting some would have made Timothy a bit cooler, but clearly he was still as square as a box of Apple Jacks. The rest of us simultaneously gave Timothy a menacing look, before sounding off at the top of our lungs, “Yes!”

  “Anyways,” Fresh continued, clearing his throat. “Like I was saying before I was rudely interrupted by the twenty-year-old virgin.”

  “Hey, I’m only nineteen,” Timothy squealed. “And for the record, I’m no longer a virgin. Thank you!”

  “Wooo-hoooo!” Fresh said. “Break out the champagne glasses! Bible boy finally got some booty! It’s too bad damn near everybody on campus already hit that. But that’s a whole ’nother story. What I’m trying to express to y’all is you don’t have to be mad ’cause you can’t be me. None of you can do that. But that doesn’t mean you have to be a hater your whole life!”

  “Wait a minute, Fresh,” Timothy said. “When you said, ‘Every n-word on campus already hit that…’ What do you mean, man?”

  “Nevermind that,” Fats said. “Ain’t nobody hating on you, cuz. All we’re saying is, if you have to buy things for your breezies just to get ’em between the sheets, it don’t really count.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “You’re basically just paying for it.”

  “Trickin’ in other words,” Fats said.

  “C’mon, now,” Fresh retorted. “Every guy has come out his pocket to get some at one time or another.”

  “J.D.,” Timothy said in a frustrated tone, nudging me with his elbow. “What the heck did Fresh mean by that comment he made about Amy?”

  For a second, I contemplated telling him right then and there. Lord knows I wanted to. But I didn’t want to spoil his entire trip to Miami. Plus, I didn’t want to embarrass him in front of the fellas. So I decided to wait. I just continued right on talking as if he hadn’t said a thing.

  “Not me!” I said boldly. “I’ve never had to come out of my pocket to get the drawls. Never!”

  “Oh, so you’ve never taken a girl to the movies and paid?” Fresh asked. “Never taken a girl out to eat? Never bought a new outfit or got a fresh haircut just to impress a chick?”

  “Of course I have,” I said. “But…”

  “But nothing!” Fresh said. “It may have been indirect. But you definitely paid for it. Besides, with all this bread I got left on my credit card, I can afford to spend a little here and there. Like I said before, it ain’t trickin’ if you got it!”

  The longer we waited for our luggage, the deeper our conversations got. Somehow, Fats’s theory about college degrees came into question. Of course, Fats thought he was always schooling us about everything because he was the oldest.

  “All I’m saying is, you don’t necessarily need a diploma to be successful,” Fats said. “I mean, look at Russell Simmons and Diddy. Neither of them finished college.”

  “You can’t really compare yourself with them, though,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Fresh said. “They’re in the entertainment industry. That’s different.”

  “Okay. Well, what about Bill Gates?” Fats asked. “He never graduated from college, either.”

  “He didn’t?” I asked.

  “Nope,” Timothy chimed in.

  “It’s not about that college degree, cuz,” Fats said. “That’s why there are so many college graduates out here right now working bullshit retail jobs and gigs at restaurants! They think it’s about that piece of paper, but it’s not. It’s all about connections. It’s not what you know, but who you know. Or better yet, who knows you! It’s all about networking, homie.”

  I knew that the pendulum would swing in my direction. But I had no idea what the topic of conversation would be when it did. By the time we corralled our luggage and hopped in a taxi, I thought I was home free. But that’s when the verbal abuse commenced.

  “What the hell were you thinking about when you were up there on stage giving that damn speech?” Fats asked.

  “Here you go,” I said.

  Fresh covered his mouth with his hand and put his head down, trying to conceal his laugh. Neither Fats nor Timothy could hold in their laughter, both of them cracking up like a couple of hyenas.

  “Seriously, cuz,” Fats continued. “I mean, you started off so confident, like ‘Hello, my name is James Dawson.’ Then right after that, you just lost it.”

  “I think it was stage fright,” Fresh said.

  “Was I really that bad?” I asked.

  “You were worse,” Dub-B said with a straight face. “I don’t know who was counting the votes. But I don’t see how the hell Katrina made it on the final ballot after that speech you gave. I mean, we cool and all, but honestly, I thought you’d ruined us.”

  “Me, too,” Timothy added.

  I could do nothing more than roll with the punches on this particular roast. I knew I’d dropped the ball on the speech. How Kat managed to eke by the prelims onto the final ballot was anybody’s guess. When I logged on to the school Web site to check the election results and saw her name listed as one of the finalists for student body president, I was convinced once and for all, that prayer really works. I felt the same way when we hit Ocean Drive for the first time. I saw the woman of my dreams on at least six different occasions before we even pulled into our hotel parking lot. When we hopped out and all of the fellas started slapping high fives, all of my previous concerns went out the window.

  Miami was like nothing I’d ever seen before. I’d been to Venice Beach in L.A. a few times, but the moment I stepped out of the taxi, I could tell Miami was on a whole ’nother level. Don’t get me wrong. I’d seen some of the most beautiful women in my life on the beach in Cali, but for the most part, it seemed there were more families vacationing together on the beaches out West. Whereas Miami was nothing but college students getting drunk and wildin’ out. And per capita, there were way more fine females on South Beach, rocking the skimpiest bikinis one could imagine. In fact, there were so many bad breezies, I didn’t even know where to start.

  “This is ridiculous,” Fresh said with a huge smile on his face as he adjusted his sunglasses. “I ain’t gonna lie, I haven’t ever even seen a real palm tree before.”

  “Me, neither,” Timothy echoed. “This weather feels so tropical. It has to be at least eighty degrees out here!”

  “Damn the weather and the palm trees,” Fats said. “You see all the bad brizzies out here, cuz? Let’s hurry up and take these bags in the room so we can get back out here and holla at some of ’em!”

  There were five of us and only two beds in the room. But we were determined to make do. There was a couch in the corner and we ordered a cot, so everyone had somewhere to sleep. We played rock-paper-scissors to see who had first dibs on the bed. We didn’t waste much time in the room. We dumped our bags, hit the showers, then headed to the beach. Fresh grabbed a Coke from the vending machine near the elevator.

  “Got my chaser,” Fresh said after taking a swig on the way down to the lobby. “Now, all I need to do is hit the liquor store for some Hen, so we can get right.”

  When the elevator doors opened in the lobby, Leslie was standing there with a few of her girls waiting to get on. Leslie was wearing a light purple, two-piece bathing suit so
skimpy it looked like she borrowed it from Lil’ Kim. Suntan oil glistened on her skin. My mouth watered. There were thousands of good-looking, horny girls I’d never met just steps away, strolling the beach and looking for trouble. But still, there was something about that damn Leslie that I just couldn’t get enough of.

  “Who you looking all sexy for?” I asked, pulling her close.

  She smelled of coconut suntan oil. It immediately turned me on.

  “Who else?” she asked, pecking me on the lips three times with her arms wrapped around my neck.

  Just as I was going in for a little tongue action, I felt the elevator door slam into my shoulder.

  “Get a room,” one of Leslie’s girls said, jokingly.

  “C’mon, joe,” Fresh said. “You two lovebirds can be all lovey-dovey on your own time.”

  Boy, did we ever take him up on that offer. The next three days I spent on South Beach turned out to be 72 of the best hours of my entire life. At the end of each night, I knew I was hooking up with one of the sexiest girls on the beach. But by day, we partied like rock stars. Thanks to our refund checks coming in just in time, each of us had a little dough to play with, so all of us were balling out. Every day before we left the room, all of us competed in a push-up contest. Toning up the pecs before hitting the beach was mandatory. Even though Timothy always lost, he always joined in to add a little definition to his scrawny bird chest. When we hit the sand, it was on and poppin’. There were groups of girls as far as they eye could see laid out on beach towels tanning, their bodies glistening in the sun. There were people vacationing from all over the United States. In my first few minutes on the beach on our first day out, I met chicks from Dallas, Maryland and South Dakota—three places I’d never been. A day later, while recruiting on the beach, I happened to spot Howard Harrell suntanning on a towel next to none other than Lawry, who was wearing nothing but some goggles on his head and a pair of neon green Speedos on his ass. It was by far the gayest ensemble I’d ever seen him wear. The only reason I knew it was him is because I recognized his tattoos when he stood up to shake out his towel.