The Scammer
Tiffany D. Jackson
Dedication
For my Bison Babes:
Nicole J., Nicole W., Tiffany S., Tiffany T., Tonia, Simone, and Adana.
Thank you for the countless times you’ve saved my life.
One
Through all the college preparation—the SAT courses, applications, essays, GPA fights, and interviews—no one ever mentioned how you had to fit your entire life into two suitcases and a duffel bag. Maybe people assume you don’t have much of a life to pack. As if we spent the last four years of high school twiddling our thumbs.
I heave my suitcases off the Amtrak train, sweat dripping down my neck, and immediately twist my hair up into a claw clip. Don’t know the next time I’ll be able to have it straightened, so this silk press needs to last as long as possible. Shouldn’t there be a bellhop or something?
Scanning the platform, I grip the handles of my bags and roll them toward the direction of the foot traffic, not wanting to stand around like some clueless tourist. A guide on our summer vacation in Italy once said, “That’s how you are taken advantage of. Appearing like easy prey instead of a worthy adversary.”
I know I don’t look like I carry an ounce of street smarts. More suburban-Connecticut, private school chic. Skinny jeans, a simple white T-shirt, and black ballerina flats. I own one pair of sneakers for gym, which I barely used since it would require me risking sweating out my hair. Like I’m about to do in this train station as I head for the exit, breaking a nail in the process.
Outside, the humidity grabs me by the throat. But I’m too busy taking in the picturesque view of the marble domed US Capitol Building, only a few short blocks away, rivaling Greek temples and architecture. It looks just like it does on countless news stations.
Washington, DC. I’ve made it, Kev.
Around me, the world goes on, indifferent to my presence. I hoped that I would see other kids in a similar predicament—fresh meat, arriving alone to a new city, with no family to help them settle. But it’s just me on the sidewalk, with her life inside a few matching pieces of luggage. The fear I’ve been ignoring starts to boil up again.
Maybe I am making a mistake, just like everyone has said. Maybe it’s not too late to jump on the next train, back to what I know, what’s familiar, what’s safe. But there is something inside me so hard it could crack teeth if you tried to bite it. So empty that the air smelled old, carrying the echoes of heartbreak and grief. If I don’t go . . . it may never soften.
Above my head, a giant American flag smacks the wind like a whip, and I straighten. The new backbone I acquired won’t let me turn around. Especially since I may never get this chance again.
* * *
The cab drives by the official school sign bookended by short pillars. Frazier University. It looks so much smaller in person. Online, it’s a sprawling campus, with bright chrome-green lawns and redbrick buildings soaked in history. It’s touted for being a college up on a hill, surrounded by a bustling city.
Frazier University is one of the most established, well-known HBCUs, or Historically Black Colleges and Universities, in the country, located smack in the middle of the nation’s bustling capital. The complete opposite of my all-white high school deep in the wooded suburbs. I once mentioned Frazier to a white classmate, and she had never heard of it, which wasn’t surprising.
The car pulls up to Rockland Hall, a coed dorm at the bottom of the hill. For a moment, all I can do is stare at the front door, busy with students flowing in and out. A rainbow of Black and Brown faces, laughing and smiling, donning school colors, sneakers, and T-shirts. I look down again at my wardrobe, well overdressed for freshman orientation, and fidget with my hair.
The driver grunts as he grabs my bags out of the trunk. I slip him a tip, not as much as I would usually. I have to watch the cash I have on hand now. I pass by a security booth and weave through the lobby, straight to the desk with the Welcome Freshmen banner swooped overhead. A girl in a Frazier crewneck clicks her pen, smiling.
“Hey girl, hey! Name?”
“Jordyn Monroe,” I say, scoping out the scene of scattered lounge chairs, dinging elevators, and giant posters of football and basketball games with roaring crowds.
She flips through her clipboard. “Okay. Got you right here. This is your welcome packet and your key. You’ll be in a quad on the sixth floor. Suite 610, room A. The loading dock is on the side of the building for you to bring up the rest of your stuff.”
“This is all I have,” I mutter at the table.
She glances at my bags, her mouth making an “oh.”
“Mmmkay. Well, all of your roommates have already settled in, so they’ll give you the rundown before you meet your RA at tomorrow’s house meeting. Oh! Almost forgot. A mug! Welcome to the Rock!”
I palm the black mug like a new bestowed heirloom, thumb tracing over the school logo.
“Thanks,” I mumble and head to the elevators.
Today is the last possible day to move into the dorm. Most kids moved in four days ago. It was still a question of whether I was going to go through with this crazy plan of mine. But here I am, practically vibrating with adrenaline. The elevator dings and I hold my breath up the six flights.
The moment I open the suite door, I’m accosted by a scent so strong it burns my eyes. Smoke billows out of the end of incense sticks tucked into a wooden holder sitting on the coffee table. Thumping music beats out of a shaky speaker behind one of the closed bedrooms. I set down my bags, taking a moment to appraise my new home. The small living room has two yellowish love seats forming an L shape, facing the tight kitchenette. I’ve never seen a fridge and oven that narrow before. And no dishwasher?