First Semester (20 page)

I laughed, changing the subject as the four of us started walking toward the stoop.

“Where did you flip them tennis shoes?” I asked, looking down at Dub-B's crispy white Air Force Ones. “They don't even usually release the white ones until the spring.”

“You talking about my sneakers, son?”

“Yeah, your tennis shoes.”

“They're not called tennis shoes. They're sneakers.”

“Where did y'all New Yorkers get the word ‘sneakers' from anyway?”

“I don't know, but that's what they're called, son. And you can get these
sneakers
up north all year round.”

“Those
tennis shoes
are the truth, blood,” I said as I started to walk away.

“Where you headed, folk?” Fresh asked.

“To the ATM across the street at the Student Center.”

“I could've sworn you went broke tricking off at the club before we left,” he said. “Is what's her name paying your pockets too?”

“Nah, Moms slipped a nigga a lil' bit of cheese for his birthday.”

“Today is your birthday, kid?” Dub-B asked.

“It's tomorrow.”

“Oh, your birthday is on Friday?” Fresh asked. “We've gotta hit the club!”

“You already know!”

IN THE CLUB

W
e were stuck in traffic, about ten minutes away from the club, when my heart shattered into pieces. I was on the shuttle, looking out of my window, watching a large crowd form outside the front door of Chicken 'n' Waffles, when I saw the one thing I wish I hadn't. Downtown-D was walking from the parking lot holding Kat by her waist. He whispered in her ear, and both of them started giggling. I didn't see the humor in the situation.

I couldn't believe my eyes.

Every time Downtown-D's hands touched Kat's body, my heart burned. I watched helplessly as he wrapped his arms around her, and she closed her eyes and folded her arms over his forearms, securing his grip.

My forehead became damp with sweat.

I felt like I was trapped on the eighty-sixth floor of a burning building with no windows. I was short on wind. I tried to swallow, but couldn't. I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach and stabbed in the back at the same time.

I didn't want to look, but I couldn't blink.

All of a sudden, my imagination began taking me places beyond reality. I saw everything in flashes. I could see Downtown-D running his tongue across Kat's nipples. I could see him thrusting Kat on her back, lifting both of her legs with one hand and removing her panties with the other. I envisioned her slowly unbuttoning his jeans with her teeth, grabbing his manhood with two hands and placing it in her warm, wet mouth. I could see her caressing his balls with her hands, while licking up and down his shaft, then flickering her tongue across the top. The vision was surreal. It was as if I could actually hear her moan as he grabbed her by her soft ass, lifted her up and placed his bare shaft inside her warm glove. I could hear her calling his name over and over again. I cringed at the thought. My eyes teared up. My moment of despair was brought to a halt by a strong tug on my shoulder.

“J.D,” Fresh said, tugging on my shoulder. “J.D.! C'mon, folk. What's wrong with you?”

“I must be trippin', blood,” I said.

“Must be. I've been calling your name for the last two minutes, joe. Snap out of it. We're at the club.”

“Let's do the damn thing,” I said in a grim, low tone.

I tried not to wear my emotions on my sleeve, but I couldn't hide 'em. I didn't cry, but my anger was written all over my face. While everyone else on the bus took off on an all-out sprint to secure a spot in line, I slowly lugged myself toward the club with my head down. Fresh and Dub-B were the only two who waited on me.

“C'mon, fam-o,” Fresh said. “Why are you dragging?”

“It's Katrina, blood.”

“What about her?”

“I just saw her outside Chicken 'n' Waffles with Downtown-D. He was all hugged up with her…in front of my favorite restaurant!”

“You can't turn a ho into a housewife, kid,” Dub-B said.

I must've looked at him like I was about to take his head off, because he walked behind me and stood on the other side of Fresh.

“So he took her out for dinner,” Fresh said. “What's the big deal?”

“I don't think you're hearing me, fam. He had his hands all over her.”

“He's Downtown-D. What do you expect?”

Fresh wasn't helping the situation by playing devil's advocate. Apparently, he knew that I was beginning to get fed up with his insincerity, because he quickly tried to change the subject.

“My bad, man. I'm just trippin' off how much you're feeling this girl. It's usually the other way around. They say a man can fake a relationship like a woman can fake an orgasm. You believe that shit?”

Fresh wasn't doing a very good job of taking my mind off the subject. I didn't say a word.

“I wouldn't trip if I was you, though,” he continued. “I know the type of nigga you are. Ain't no slackin' in your mackin' and ain't no slippin' in your pimpin'.” He patted me on my back. “I know you ain't about to let no brizzle ruin your birthday. I ain't even figna sit back and watch you turn in your player card like that, joe. We figna go up in here and juke with some dime pieces.”

“I hear you talking,” I said as we blended into the middle of the line. You would've thought they were giving out full scholarships to the first five hundred people, because we were a good football field away from the door—and standing in the male line. The female line was moving fast, but ours was at a standstill.

“To be honest, I really don't feel like standing in this long-ass line,” I said. “I don't even know if I'm feeling this club thing at all. By the time we get to the front, they're gonna be charging fifty bucks to get in.”

“Don't you see all the females waiting to get in this club? We're halfway to the front. We can't turn around now.”

“You know they figna be charging hella, though, blood.”

“If it's fifty bucks, I'll pay your way, folk. This latex party looks like it's juking.”

“Why do they call it the latex party anyway?” Dub-B asked.

“Because the flyers look like condom wrappers,” Fresh said. “Plus, everybody from Louisiana and Texas gets in for free with their IDs.”

“I didn't even see the flyer for this party,” Dub-B said. “I know it's probably gonna be bananas in there!”

“Man, this shit is for the birds, cousin!” I said. “Y'all can stay, but I'm outta here. Where's Fats?”

“Why is he bugging out?” Dub-B asked Fresh.

“Don't worry about all that,” I said aggressively. “Where is he?”

“Whatever the problem is, it ain't that serious,” Dub-B said. “Be easy. It's gon' be all right. I saw Fats hop out the back window as soon as the shuttle pulled up to the club. I think he did that so he could beat everybody to the front of the line.”

“I'm ready to get outta here,” I said.

“Personally, I feel like we've been waiting in this line way too long to even think about leaving,” Fresh said. “But it's
your
birthday, joe. And since we came together, we're leaving together. Let me run in and get Fats.”

“Hurry up, blood,” I said.

We waited fifteen minutes for Fresh to come out of the club. He never did. So I decided to send Dub-B inside to find Fats and Fresh. After thirty minutes of standing outside waiting for the fellas to come back out, something told me they'd given up the search. I figured if I was going to be standing outside shivering, I might as well be warm, inside having a drink.

The club was separated into two floors—the DJ upstairs was only playing music by Louisiana artists, while the DJ on the bottom only spun songs by Texas rappers. Even though the party was crackin', I wasn't in a dancing mood. Besides, there were so many people in the club, you didn't even have to be dancing to work up a sweat. Just walking from one side of the room to the other would leave you drenched.

Finding Fats and the rest of my crew was like searching for a needle in a haystack. By the time I'd rounded up Dub-B from the dance floor, the DJ was announcing last call for alcohol. That was right before he made the most embarrassing announcement of the night.

“If you're a freshman, and your mama ain't picking you up, and you ain't got no damn car, you better get outside because the last shuttle is figna leave yo ass! Last call for the shuttle!”

The freshmen without cars tried to play it cool, acting like they all had to go to the bathroom at the same time, when they were really rushing to catch the last shuttle. I wanted to go upstairs to find Fresh and Fats, but there were so many people rushing down the staircase it looked like somebody upstairs had started shooting. I stood on the steps with Dub-B, waiting on Fats and Fresh to come down. The DJ had finished playing another song before I saw Fresh and Fats running down the stairs.

“C'mon, joe,” Fresh said, running past me. “We're about to miss the last shuttle back to campus!”

I hurriedly followed him outside. When we got to the parking lot, we had to pump our brakes. There were way too many fine-ass females in the parking lot to let them see us running for the shuttle. So we speed-walked instead. Except for Fats. He ran so fast you would've thought he was being chased by a police dog.

“I thought you were going in to find Fats,” I said to Fresh as we tried to walk as fast as we could to catch the bus.

“I was. But you see…what happened…I spotted him. Then—”

“I ain't even trying to hear that shit, blood,” I said, cutting him off.

By the time we made it out of the parking lot our speed walk had turned into a light jog. When we saw the bus close its doors our light jog turned into a fifty-meter dash. Just as we made it to the bus, it pulled off. But Fats was determined to catch it. He surprised all of us when he jumped up and held on to one of the windows on the bus. He was holding on for dear life, kicking his feet, trying to pull himself up as the bus pulled away. Everybody in the parking lot was cracking up laughing—from the bouncers to the people who were mad they'd missed the last shuttle.

“Oh, hell naw,” Fresh said, pointing at Fats. “It's never that serious.”

Just when it looked like Fats had gotten his footing and was about to heave himself into the bus, it picked up speed and he lost his grip. He was dangling off the bus with one hand for about half a block before he went flying off the side. He looked like an Olympic gymnast. First, he tumbled. Then he rolled, curling himself into a ball and tucking at the end. Everybody outside busted out laughing so loud you would've sworn Dave Chappelle was performing in the parking lot. Fats popped up quick and started walking back to the parking lot like nothing happened. But I knew that shit had to hurt. Other than a small hole in the knee of his blue Dickies, two buttons missing from his shirt and his hands being scraped up, he looked fine. But if I'd had a camcorder, I could've won a million dollars on
America's Funniest Home Videos
with that shit. I don't think I've ever laughed that hard in my life.

“I almost made it, cuz,” he said, breathing hard. “I guess we gotta walk back to campus now.”

We tried not to laugh in his face, but none of us could help it. I couldn't even look at him without cracking up. Our laughter infuriated him even more.

“Y'all thinking shit is funny now, cuz. But that walk home ain't no joke.”

ICING ON THE CAKE

T
he walk home from the club was long and quiet. Mostly because the club was about three miles away from the campus, it was about four o'clock in the morning and I didn't have shit to say to the clowns I was walking with.

“What's your problem, kid?” Dub-B asked.

“I just ain't feeling social right about now, blood.”

“You've been flashing on us all night,” Fats said. “What's wrong, cuz?”

I didn't want to talk, but I couldn't hold it in any longer. We were walking through the projects, three blocks away from campus, so I thought I'd better let them have it before we got back to our dorm.

“I can't believe you just asked me what's wrong,” I said. “What's wrong? Everything is wrong. What's happened to us tonight that was right?”

“You can't be this mad about missing the shuttle, cuz,” Fats said. “Is all of this really just about Katrina trying to play you?”

“Honestly, that probably has something to do with it,” I said. “But looking for y'all for two hours in that hot-ass club didn't help. Neither did missing the shuttle. Come to think of it, this has just been one of my worst birthdays ever. It's like, what else could go wrong, blood?”

Cue more drama.

“Shut your bitch-ass mouth and stick your hands up, shawty,” a muffled voice said.

“It's way too late at night to be playing games, blood.”

“Didn't I just tell you to shut your fucking piehole, shawty?” the voice asked in a more serious tone.

“Lawry, where the hell you been at all night, blood?” I asked, spinning around slowly. “You need to quit playing like that.”

Once I saw that Lawry was nowhere in sight, I froze up and closed my eyes. I hoped that when I opened them I would roll over on my pillow and awaken from a bad dream I was having. But this was no dream. I was staring down the barrel of a .40-caliber Glock, and we were getting jacked. The rest of the guys had stopped walking about five paces ago. Fats and Dub-B were standing at gunpoint, with their hands in the air. Fresh had already taken off his shirt, kicked off his Jordans and was ripping off his jeans as fast as he could. There were three guys dressed in all black, wearing black ski masks. They sounded like they were from Atlanta and all of them were strapped.

I heard one of the guys say, “You know what the fuck this is, white boy. Strip!”

Dub-B turned red. He was in his boxers and wife beater in about five seconds flat.

“You too, shawty!” the dude standing with his gun aimed at my hat screamed. “And take them earrings off too, fuck boy.”

I tried to move but couldn't. I wasn't trying to be a tough guy. I was in shock. I grew up in one of the toughest hoods in Oakland, and I'd never been robbed. I couldn't believe I hadn't even been in Atlanta for four months and this shit was happening to me. I was stuck.

“Oh, you wanna play the hard role?” the guy said, cocking the hammer back on his strap. “I got an itchy trigger finger, nigga! Take that shit off! I want everything too—from your hat to your shoes. Break bread, bitch! And hurry your punk ass up.” He flipped my hat off my head with the barrel of his gun.

As I slipped out of my brand-new jeans and kicked my Timbs to the side, I gazed down the street at the fellas. They were all on their knees with their hands on the back of their heads. One of the armed robbers was picking up all of their clothes and putting them in a large, black, plastic garbage bag. The other guy kept the fellas in check by waving his gun over their heads. It looked like they were preparing to murder them execution style. By the time I'd slipped off my last garment, I was convinced I wasn't about to go out like that.

“You thought I forgot about them earrings, huh?” he said, popping me in my temple with the butt of his gun.

I felt a stream of blood trickle from the side of my head as I fell to the ground.

“Not my earrings,” I mumbled.

“Unscrew them mufuckas before I leave you lifeless! I should blast your neck off, throw your head in the bag and unscrew them mufuckas myself!”

I could barely see. The shot to my temple jarred my equilibrium. For a second I didn't even know where I was. But judging by his voice, dude was seriously about to kill me. Somehow I had the sense of mind to unscrew both of my earrings and lay them on the ground next to me.

“That's what I'm talking 'bout!” he said as he scooped the earrings in his hands and scattered into the dimly lit backstreets of the projects. “I'm figna be bling-blinging now, ya bitch, you!”

I'm from the hood where this type of thing happens all the time, so I know that the best thing to do in these types of situations is to play dead until it's cool to get up. I closed my eyes to keep the blood from seeping into my eye. I lay there shaking, with the tip of my head submerged in a puddle of mud until I felt a bunch of hands grabbing at me. At first, I shivered and started throwing wild punches, until I figured out that it was just Fresh and the rest of the guys trying to help me up. I found my cell phone lying in the middle of the street. I don't know how it got there, but I picked it up.

The four of us walked to Marshall Hall in our underwear, trembling. They had taken Dub-B's socks. None of us said a word. Dub-B walked straight into the Public Safety Office to file an incident report. The rest of us staggered back to our rooms. I felt like I was at my lowest point. But I was happy to be alive.