Next Semester

by Cecil R. Cross

  Leslie’s girls began swinging their purses at him wildly, trying to get him to release his grip, but their pitty-pat hits seemed to do little more than infuriate him. I balled my fist, cocked it back and hit the guy with everything I had, right in the temple. He never saw it coming, but he damn sure felt it. He instantly released Leslie from his clutches and toppled over sideways. He tried to use his hand to catch himself, but it was no use. His elbow folded and he came crashing down on his face. I stood there, hoping I’d knocked him out with a one-hitter-quitter. But when I saw him squirm to get up, I knew I had to finish him. I heard Leslie gasp for air, and then an all-out brawl ensued. As I was in the midst of being overpowered, wrestling with the guy on the floor, Fats, Fresh and Dub-B had locked up with members of his crew, exchanging blows. The guy I was tussling with was so strong, I knew I wouldn’t be able to maintain control much longer. Thankfully, security came and broke things up before it got too ugly. Boy, was I happy to see them. Of course, when they pulled me off of him, I acted like I wasn’t.

  “Yeah, boy!” I taunted. “You better be glad these security guards are pulling me off you!”

  The entire fight, I hadn’t even got a good look at the guy’s face. But when the security guards pulled him to his feet, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The guy I’d pummeled and damn near knocked out was Dex. He had a puffy eye and was bleeding from the nose. I had no idea.

  “You’re finished, nigga!” he said, blood spouting from his bottom lip. “Wait ’til we get back to school! You should’ve never got in the middle of this.”

  As the security guards were pulling us through the club by our shirt collars, making a point to embarrass us by parading us through the middle of the main dance floor, I tried to lower my head so nobody would recognize me. I was tossed from the club like Uncle Phil used to kick Jazz out of the house on Fresh Prince of Bel Air—both feet off of the ground, arms flailing. Fresh was right behind me. Dub-B and Fats were next.

  As for the single most embarrassing moment of my life, getting physically thrown out of a club ranked right up there with my campaign speech debacle. But as I stood there with my shirt tattered, a hole near the knee in my shorts, looking around at my friends, all of us breathing heavily, I realized one thing. They were really my friends. In a time of conflict, none of them ran. We all stood our ground, together. Fresh had a small knot on his forehead and a long scratch on the side of his neck. A sliver of glass from broken glass had cut me on my forearm, and Dub-B’s bottom lip was cut. Before long, the feeling of embarrassment turned into one of pride—each of us showing off our war wounds like badges of courage. Even with a swollen forehead, Fats was still smiling, talking trash.

  “Them fools didn’t wanna see us from the shoulders, cuz!” he said. “They better be glad security came when they did. I think a couple of them were Kappas from U of A.”

  “I know they were,” Fresh said, shaking his head, shooting me a look that said “Why the hell would you go and do something like that?”

  As we headed back toward our hotel, Fats and Dub-B were exaggerating about what they did in the fight, while Fresh and I contemplated our fate with the whole prepledging process internally. Next to stealing one of the Kappas’ girlfriends, beating one of them up was right up there on the “How Not to Become Kappa” list. It was clear Fresh had more on his mind than Kappa Beta Psi and uppercuts.

  “I hope they didn’t really charge my credit card twenty-five hundred bucks,” he said as we stumbled down the hallway toward our room. “We didn’t even get to pop all the bottles.”

  While waiting to board my flight back to Atlanta, Leslie called to apologize. She felt bad for involving me in her domestic dispute. She said that Dex confronted her about coming over to our section and she told him that they weren’t together anymore and she could say hello to whomever she wanted. That’s when Dex snapped and got physical. Leslie concluded by thanking me for my bravery and assuring me that her relationship with Dex was officially over.

  “That’s what they all say,” Fresh said. “She ain’t going nowhere, though. Don’t believe the hype, joe. I don’t care what she says!”

  “How long were they together?” Fats asked.

  “Not that long,” I said. “Like a year and a half, I think.”

  “Fresh may be right, yo. That’s a mad long time to be committed to someone, J.D.,” Dub-B said.

  “I’ma put it to you like this,” Fats said, removing his iPod headphones. “I don’t care how much this girl tells you she’s feeling you or whatever, just know that if they’ve been talking for that long, chances are he’s still hittin’ those, cuz. Plain and simple. They may not be a couple anymore, but think about it. Of all the breezies you dated on a serious level, how many of ’em can you still get it crackin’ with if you wanted to?”

  “Shoot…” I said, thinking as my eyes rolled to the back of my head. “All of ’em!”

  “Exactly,” Fats said. “So you know ain’t nobody quitting a long-term relationship cold turkey like that. Don’t get me wrong. Ol’ baby is bad as hell. But when you’re dealing with her, just be sure to keep everything in perspective.”

  The good thing about having close friends is they always have an opinion on what they think is best for you. Most of the time, their advice is unwarranted and unadulterated. But some of the time, it’s sound. In this instance, it was probably a little bit of both. But I listened anyway. As Fresh, Fats and Dub-B continued to chime in with their opinions, I noticed that Timothy hadn’t said a word. In fact, he was sitting across from us wearing his earphones, working on his laptop. It was as if he was there alone.

  “Yo!” Dub-B screamed, pointing to the TV displaying CNN overhead. “Ain’t that Downtown D?”

  “Sure is,” Fats said, as the words Breaking News flashed across the screen.

  “This just in,” the anchor said. “University of Atlanta’s star quarterback Deiondre Harris, also known as Downtown D, has been arrested in Louisiana for drug trafficking. Officials say he had over two pounds of ecstacy pills and two semiautomatic weapons in his trunk when he was pulled over this afternoon. All this after Downtown D shocked us all a few months ago with his announcement that he was withdrawing his name from the NFL draft because he was HIV positive.”

  None of us said a word. We couldn’t. So much promise and hope down the drain. Finally, Fats broke the silence.

  “Can you believe that fool, Downtown D?” he asked as we stood in line to board. “They better put homie on suicide watch. I can’t imagine how it feels to be that high up and fall off like that. I mean, to go from a Heisman candidate and guaranteed top NFL draft pick to being HIV positive and on his way to prison. Whew!”

  “I still can’t believe it,” I said. “Why would he be trying to sell some x pills anyway?”

  “Probably trying to keep up that image,” Fats said. “It’s bad enough he caught the package. But to risk your freedom just to make it appear as if you ain’t fell off, when everybody already knows you have…man, that was just retarded, cuz. It wasn’t even worth it.”

  “Hey, look at the bright side,” Fresh said. “At least he don’t have to worry about nobody trying to get with him in the shower!”

  Me, Fresh and Fats chuckled halfheartedly. Dub-B remained stone-faced.

  “That’s not even funny, B,” Timothy said. “That dude needs prayer, yo. Put yourself in his shoes for a minute.”

  “I’m straight,” Fresh said. “As a matter of fact, every time I put a condom on, it’s so I don’t end up in his shoes. But since I’m the only one in our crew who got some new-new in Miami, y’all probably wouldn’t know nothin’ about that.”

  “Hey, I got some,” I said.

  “I said new-new, fool,” he said. “Leslie don’t count. You’d already hit that before you got to Miami.”

  “Come on now, cuz,” Fats said. “The only reason you got some ass is because you were using your little credit card to buy the breezies drinks and food and whatever else they wanted.�
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  “And your point is?” Fresh asked.

  “My point is that you’re spending money like you got it to burn,” Fats said. “You have one credit card. One!”

  “Yeah, but my credit card has a ten thousand dollar limit, folk,” Fresh argued. “Ten thousand! This little bit of money I’m spending on chicks is nothing. I ain’t losing no sleep behind it. Why are you so worried about what I’m doing with my money anyway? I damn sure didn’t hear none of y’all complaining when we were poppin’ bottles in the club last night.”

  He had a point there. No complaints from me.

  THIRTEEN

  BALLOT BOXING

  The campus wasn’t the same after spring break. For one, there was a group of about eight gay guys walking around campus in pink-and-green T-shirts with line numbers and weird line names like Pig in a Blanket on the back. Apparently, it was some “sorority” the gay guys had started, mimicking Alpha Pi Alpha. They wore pearl earrings, necklaces and all. From what I heard, the APAs were pretty upset about it.

  When it came to things being weird around the yard, that was only the beginning. Timothy was moping around heartbroken. He refused to talk to me, and spent most of his time in the room studying and reading his Bible. On top of that, there was a nasty rumor spreading around campus that the real reason Kat didn’t show up to give her speech in the prelims was because she was hospitalized for HIV treatment. I didn’t have to guess who’d drummed up that lie. I knew it had to have come from Howard’s camp. Somehow word got back to campus about my scuffle in the club. Thankfully, no particulars, though. Since Leslie went to Elman, nobody really knew all of the details. Everybody just knew that the Kappas had been involved in some kind of altercation. For me, that was a good thing. I hadn’t heard a peep from them since I’d been back on the yard and neither had Fresh. The other two guys we were prepledging with hadn’t heard from them, either, so as far as I was concerned no news was good news.

  As for the election, the momentum had definitely swung in favor of Howard Harrell. Walking around the yard, you would’ve thought he’d founded the University of Atlanta. His picture was everywhere. There were billboard-sized posters hanging from lampposts on the strip, posters on the walls in the caf and a new, full-color, high-gloss flyer with his greasy face on it under my door every time I walked in my dorm room. There was no escaping it. Howard Harrell was bigger than life. He even had his campaign slogan posted in huge letters above the urinal in the men’s bathroom. It read Don’t Be A Coward, Vote For Howard. Sure, we’d spent the last few weeks putting up posters here and there around the yard promoting Kat’s campaign, reaching out to her supporters and Facebook friends as frequently as we could, and trying to drum up as much of a grassroots following as possible to support all of the votes she’d get from the Greeks and Greek wanna-bes. But even with all of them on board, things still looked shaky for Kat. With less than one week until the big election, word around campus was that Kat was in for a good old-fashioned ass whoopin’ at the polls. And I couldn’t allow that to happen. If Kat lost the election, the best I could hope for is a B in Dr. J’s class. And a B in Public Policy would significantly reduce the chance of me making the 3.0 GPA I needed to be able to pledge Kappa next semester, and could lower my GPA to the point where I couldn’t even make the 2.5 GPA that I needed in order return to college for my sophomore year. Truth be told, the grades I expected in other classes were fair at best. The only way to sure things up was for Kat to guarantee me an A in Dr. J’s class by winning the election. She had to win.

  “Sorry I’m late, but I’ve got good news,” Kat said, smiling from ear to ear, as she entered our conference room in Club Woody, five minutes late for the meeting. “Make that great news!”

  Before she could explain, I felt my cell phone vibrate. I checked it. It was a text message from some number I didn’t recognize that read, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Howard Harrell for President!”

  “Well I sure hope it’s good, because Howard is killing us right now,” I said. “This fool is sending out mass text messages and everything.”

  “You got that, too?” Destiny asked, holding up her BlackBerry. “I ain’t even gon’ front. That’s smart. We should do that, too.”

  “I got something even better,” Kat said, still cheesing.

  “What?” Dub-B asked in exasperation.

  “Well, I didn’t tell you guys,” Kat said, “but, as soon as I found out I’d be running for president, Timothy and I got together, wrote up a letter and sent it to the Magic Cure Foundation, letting them know my situation. Just to see if they could help me out in any way.”

  “And?” Fresh asked.

  “I’m about to tell you, if you’ll let me,” Kat said. “Dang! Anyway, about a week ago, I got a call from them and they said that they may be interested in sponsoring a concert on campus, free for all students who get tested for HIV. You won’t believe who he got to come perform.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Kanye.”

  “You are lying, girl!” Destiny said, her face lighting up.

  “That’s bogus as hell, G,” Fresh said. “There is no way Kanye East is performing here on Friday. You’ve got to be kidding. Other than Lil’ Weezy, Kanye is the biggest hip-hop artist in the game. Do you have any idea how much something like that would cost? You need to quit playing.”

  “Do I look like I am playing?” Kat asked, still grinning wide. “I am dead serious.”

  “Oh my God!” Fresh said. “We’re bringin’ him to the yard? That’s gonna be off the chain!”

  “Oh, now we’re bringing him, huh?” Kat said, giggling. “Fresh, you are hilarious. But, yeah, we got a star coming.”

  “For the freeski?” I asked.

  “Absolutely free,” Kat said. “When they heard about my ‘Testing for Tickets Day’ idea, they said the foundation would cover all of the expenses. I checked with the student activities coordinator on the way over here and he said that it was short notice, but he agreed to it anyway. He got on the phone and called over to the health center to see if they were down and they were. So everything is a go!”

  “Oh my goodness, girl!” Destiny yelped. “Do you know what this is going to do for our campaign?”

  “It’s a wrap!” I said. “Howard Harrell might as well kill himself.”

  “We’ll see what happens,” Kat said modestly. “I just hope a lot of students get tested.”

  “Shiiiiiit!” Fresh howled. “For free tickets to see Kanye? I’ll be the first one in line! You already know everybody on campus is gonna sign up.”

  I figured if the whole performance actually came through, Kat’s chances of stealing the presidency would increase tremendously. As much as I’d like to think that the student government election is all about the issues, Fats told me that in the end, it would basically come down to being one big popularity contest. And what better way to put your name on the map than have the hottest artist out cosign for you?

  Three days later, Kat’s campaign took a drastic turn for the best. As Fresh had so prophetically claimed, the line for tickets was around the block. As a group, we’d sent out event invitations to all of our friends on MySpace and Facebook, sent text messages and called everyone in our phones. And that got people talking. But when the radio station got wind of it and a couple of the DJs mentioned it on their shows, everybody in the city was talking about it.

  The concert tickets were being distributed on a first-come first-served basis, and only students who wore a red ribbon with “Vote for Katrina” on it, which they received after being tested for HIV, could get one. Even though the testing didn’t start until nine in the morning, I heard that students started lining up around four in the morning. When I got out there around eight, the line snaked nearly a half mile from the testing station in the front of the student center all the way down the strip. Professors might as well cancel class, I thought. Damn near every student on campus was standing in line for tickets to the concert. And more i
mportantly, to be tested.

  Testing for Tickets Day worked like a charm. Careful not to let the hoopla of the event overwhelm our subliminal motive, we made sure everyone standing in line received a pamphlet highlighting Katrina’s accomplishments and where she stood on the issues. Kat’s sorority sisters and the Alphas put on an impromptu step show for the students waiting in line, some of whom had been standing in line for over three hours. Not to be outdone, other Greeks soon flocked, showcasing their party strolls and chants in a friendly battle. Even the campus hustle man made a killing. Once he caught wind of the event, he set up shop right on the strip, selling his fruit cups and ice water. By afternoon, a few party promoters had taken it upon themselves to capitalize on the event, passing out flyers to the “official” after-party.

  Then for the grand finale, as promised, Kayne hit the stage, performing in front of a standing-room-only crowd in our packed gym later that night.

  I was standing in line outside the caf when I saw the first one. It was posted at eye level on the Plexiglas window everyone had to pass while waiting in line to enter the lunchroom. It was huge—about the size of one of those Coming Soon movie posters you’d see at the theater. In fact, it looked just like one of them, with the same fonts and everything. And it had to be expensive—printed full color on a high-gloss paperstock. Right there, for all to see, was a poster with a headshot of Katrina in the center. The top read: Coming Soon to a Ballot Near You…There was a triangle drawn around Kat’s photo, with arrows pointing to smaller photos surrounding hers. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I zeroed in on them. On top of the triangle was a photo of Kat hugged up with Downtown D in his football uniform. Underneath, in bold letters read The Jock. There was an arrow pointing from that picture to one of me and Kat smiling, hugging each other in front of Marshall Hall. Underneath, the title read The Freshman. Then there was an arrow pointing from that photo to one of me with my arm wrapped around a sweaty, shirtless Lawry. Now, the picture was actually taken inside the club at a party we’d gone to last semester. And there were originally five guys in it. But someone had cropped everyone else out and zoomed in on Lawry and I. Underneath the picture, the caption read The DL? An arrow pointed from that photo back to the one of Kat and Downtown D. On the bottom of the sign, in large lettering was a fake movie title that read The Irresponsible Candidate. If that wasn’t enough, there was a red, HIV awareness ribbon tacked next to a quote that read “Katrina Taylor turns in one of the best performances we’ve seen in years.”