First Semester (26 page)

“What about her?”

“She won't take me back, folk.”

“And what? I know this can't be Mr. ‘I don't chase 'em, I replace 'em' sounding all depressed.”

“That rule doesn't apply to wifey, G. You know that.”

“Damn, blood. I don't even know what to say. You must've really loved that girl.”

“I still do.”

“Well, what have you done to get her back?”

“Man, I done tried just about everything I know to do. I tried to call her, but she won't answer my calls. I sent her text messages, but she won't return them. I bought her an early Christmas present from Victoria's Secret and tried to take it by her crib, but her mama told me that she didn't want to see me. I think she's got somebody else. She probably linked up with him when I was at school.”

“There you go, jumping to conclusions,” I said. “You're probably overreacting, blood.”

“I mean, don't get me wrong, she's said she was through with me in the past, and she always came back. But, man, I think she's really, seriously for real this time. I ain't never felt like this before in my life.”

“All I can say is, if she's the right one for you, she'll be back. If I was you, I wouldn't even call her anymore. She's probably just acting like that because she knows you're on her. Ya know? She's probably just playing those mind games that girls like to play. As soon as she realizes you ain't stuck on her like that and she starts to think you've moved on, she'll be back like a Frisbee. Mark my words.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You know what? You're probably right.”

“I know I'm right. I did the same thing with Keisha, and it worked. She broke up with me right before I left for U of A. It hurt at the time. But then I just decided to flip the script. As soon as she suspected I'd moved on, she was blowing me up like a balloon at a first grader's birthday party.”

“See, that's exactly why I had to call, my man,” he said. “I can always count on J.D. to keep it real. Speaking of keeping it real, did you hear that shit about your boy Downtown-D? When all of those NFL scouts were saying he had the total package, I didn't know they were talking about AIDS,” he said, laughing halfheartedly.

Before I could answer, I heard a beep on my phone, letting me know I had an incoming call. When I looked down at the caller ID, my fingers turned cold. It read: North Oakland Medical Clinic.

Then I accidentally dropped the phone.

“Hello?” Fresh asked. “Hello?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I dropped the phone. My bad.”

“I thought I told you about trying to talk on the phone and take a shit at the same time, folk.”

“Ha, ha,” I said sarcastically. “That's real funny, man. Hey, look, I've gotta take this call on the other line. I'm gonna call you back.”

“That's cool. I gotta get off the phone anyway. Ever since Chantel stopped paying my phone bill, Nextel has been real bogus on the daytime minutes, joe. If you don't pay that bill, they'll cut your phone off in a second. So, shit, if you're planning on calling me back, wait till after nine, when my minutes are free.”

“All right, blood.”

With that, I clicked over and faced my destiny like a man. It had been five days—113 hours to be exact—since I'd left the doctor's office, my entire future waning on the brink of this one phone call. I'd made my bed; I figured I was as prepared as I'd ever be to lay in it if I had to.

“Hello,” I said solemnly.

“Yes, hello,” a familiar voice said. “May I please speak with a Mr. James Dawson?”

“This is him.”

“Oh, hey there. This is Dr. Goldstein. How are you?”

“I'm okay.”

“Good. Well, I know you've probably been on pins and needles these last few days, so I don't want to keep you waiting any longer than you already have. Are you sitting down?”

When he asked that question my heart rate increased to that of a marathon runner's. All the times I'd seen the show
ER,
the only time a doctor asked a patient if he or she was sitting down was when the doctor had bad news to deliver. I closed my eyes and braced myself for the worst.

“Yeah,” I said, my heart racing.

“Okay, cool,” the doctor said nonchalantly. “So here's the deal—I've got good news and bad news. Which would you prefer to hear first?”

“Give me the bad news.”

“Well, the bad news is that, after analyzing your mental health status, I've determined that you're suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder.”

“That's the bad news?”

“Yes, sir. Judging by the things you shared with my assistant, this could have resulted from your close friend dying in the car accident while you were at school, being robbed at gunpoint or you finding out that you may be infected with HIV. The side effects include nightmares, flashbacks, difficulty sleeping—”

“Excuse me, Doc.”

“Sir?”

“If that's the bad news, then what's the good news?”

“Oh, well, the good news is that your HIV test came back negative. You are not infected with the virus.”

After six days of listening to my mom constantly nag me about finding out my GPA, I finally turned on the computer and faced my fate. When I first sat down at the computer, my fingers became jittery, and I could barely keep them hovered over the home keys. After I'd checked my e-mails, read an article about Downtown-D on ESPN.com and checked my e-mails again to make sure I hadn't missed anything the first time, I figured I was ready to log on to my school Web site to check my final grades. By that time, my mom was a nervous wreck, pacing back and forth in the kitchen.

“So, what did you get, J.D.?” she asked.

“I don't know yet,” I said. “I'm about to log on now.”

“About to log on?” she asked. “You've been sitting there for about forty-five minutes! What have you been doing the whole time? I mean, how long does it take to find out? I could've called the school and found out for myself by now. What's the number?”

“Mom, I'm checking right now,” I said.

“Well, what do you think you got?”

“I don't know, Mom. All I know is, as long as I passed my biology class, I should be straight. That's the only class I'm really worried about.”

By the time I typed in my password—the last step before finding out my final grades—I'd come to the conclusion that if I could be man enough to face my HIV test results, finding out whether or not I'd be allowed to return to college shouldn't be too tough to swallow. After all, those test results were a matter of life and death. But judging by the way my mom was acting, I had a feeling my final grades could prove to be just as deadly.

“Okay, J.D., this is taking way too long. Is there something you want to tell me?”

“Mom, it's loading now. Hold on.”

“Oh, good!” she said, scampering around the dining room table to look over my shoulder. “Okay, here they come.”

At that point, I couldn't take it anymore. I looked away as my mom read my grades off the screen.

“All right, here we go,” she said, clapping her hands, then placing them on my shoulders. “First Year Seminar, A. Good. Okay, we can work with that. Music Appreciation, B. That's what I'm talking about! English, C. We can work on that. African-American History, B. Yes! That's my baby! Algebra, C. Oh, my goodness, J.D.! So far, I think this is the best report card I've seen you bring home in a long time! I haven't gotten to the bottom, but the way this is looking, you would've had to fail your last class in order for you not to have at least a 2.5. Let's see what you got.” She grabbed the mouse to scroll down. “You got a C! J.D.!” she said, gyrating my shoulders. “You passed, baby! Look at that! You got a C in biology. You go, boy!” The tears were streaming from her eyes. “Let's see. That brings your GPA to a 2.67! Oh, my God! I am so proud of you. I knew you could do it! Where is the cordless phone? I've got to call your sister and tell her the good news!”

Now that I look back on my first semester, of all the frivolous banter tossed around by Dub-B, Lawry, Fresh and Stretch, and the wise, philosophical statements made by Timothy and Dr. J, none of it sticks out more than the words uttered by the disgruntled woman who helped me in the registration line. She said I'd never get a second first semester—and she was right. But after all I'd been through, I was just glad my first semester wasn't my last.