The Scammer(18)

“All student government offices are located on the first floor of this building,” Nneka says toward the end of the meeting. “If you’re interested in joining the councils for your respective schools, please gather at the tables placed around the room and sign up. Thank you!”

The council for Arts and Sciences meets near the front. We sit in a small circle and do quick intros.

“Hi, I’m Mercy.”

“Brianna.”

“I’m Jordyn.”

“Hey! I’m Neveah, your vice president. Welcome! Like Nick said, we’re looking for people to help in the office, volunteering a few hours a week, doing admin work, answering phones, emails, and help with programs. I head the homecoming committee and I definitely can use the extra hands with the parade float. That’s about it. Just fill out the application with all your contact information and availability and we’ll put you on the schedule!”

As we sit scribbling, Brianna tips her nose across the room.

“That’s White Boy Nick,” she whispers to Mercy.

“Yeah, I figured that,” she says, shaking her head with a laugh.

“You sure he’s all the way white?” Brianna asks. “I heard some seasoning in that voice.”

Mercy grins. “That is the finest white boy I’ve ever seen.”

“He’s aight,” Brianna says, combing back her hair. “Too bad he’s not into the swirl.”

“Wait, seriously?” I ask. “He goes to a Black school and he doesn’t date Black girls?”

“Oh no, I heard he loves himself some chocolate now,” Mercy corrects, raising her eyebrows. “Maybe a little too much. He just doesn’t do ‘the girlfriend thing.’ Our luck the one white boy on campus would be a fuck boy.”

“But he’s cool,” Brianna says. “Heard he’s big on social justice and advocacy work. Interned with the NAACP last summer and—shhh.”

I look up as Nick passes. He gives me a knowing grin.

“Bambi.” He nods.

“Nick,” I shoot back without an ounce of warmth.

He shakes his head and moves on.

Brianna turns to me. “Girl, I thought your name was Jordyn?”



* * *




A few of the students from my Intro to Prelaw class planned a study session at the library. It’s a chance for us to exchange notes on case briefs before our big midterm. If I was at Yale, I bet my parents would be salivating at the idea of me studying cases. It’s how they met at law school, at Columbia. They’ve retold the story about a thousand times: Two lone Black students, two only children, first in their immigrant families to graduate from college, learning from their elders that the key to success and survival is assimilation. Between their drive and their upbringing, they had so much in common, it only made sense to marry and carry on the tradition of pinning all their hopes and dreams on their children’s proximity to whiteness.

Of course, my interest in case briefs is abysmal but my notes are spectacular, so I have something to contribute. Neveah is there, and it’s cool to hang out with peeps outside of class. But even as I sit there, trying to focus, I keep obsessively thinking about Devonte. How everything out of his mouth has some morsels of truth to it.

We wrap up our study session around ten p.m., deciding to make it a weekly date. The chilly air and glowing streetlights greet us as we spill out onto the darkened quiet campus. And just as I wave bye, I hear someone call my name.

“Hi Jordyn.”

Devonte steps out of the shadows, hands in his pockets, a pleasant smile across his face. My body goes completely still.

“H-h-hey,” I stutter, trying to calm my nerves.

He has on his typical uniform of baggy jeans, white T-shirt, and green army jacket, his locs pulled back off his face.

“Is everything okay?” I ask. What is he doing here?

“Vanessa mentioned you were working late on something tonight. She asked if I could walk you home. Late night, woman alone on campus, you know.”

“Oh.” When have we ever worried about each other like that? But maybe Vanessa’s just being nice or overprotective. Especially after the protest, she probably still feels pretty guilty.

He extends his arm, as if to say, “After you.”

“Oh. Um, okay,” I mumble, and we head down the hill. He gently touches the crook of my elbow, moving me to his opposite side.

“Men should always walk on the outside, closest to the curb. Just in case anything happens, we can protect you.”

I nod, appreciating the thoughtfulness.

Devonte saunters like he’s a poem; you can count two Mississippis between each footstep. I grip the straps of my book bag, skimming all the principles I can remember, trying to find a way to strike up a conversation to hide my nervousness.

“Nice night,” he says, glancing up at the sky. “I noticed you didn’t eat the breakfast this morning. Was it my cooking or you just weren’t hungry?”

“I, uh, don’t eat much to begin with. But thanks anyway.”

“Hmm,” he says, as if making a note of it. “You know, I’m actually glad we can find some time to be alone together. You know, to get to know each other.”

I grip my tingling fingers tight. “Well . . . what do you want to know?”