The Scammer(21)

As if reading our mind, Vanessa jumps in to explain.

“Y’all it’s so hard for Black men to get back on their feet after being locked up. Especially in this cruel, unforgiving, racist society. He just needs a little time around me, his family. The only family he got. I don’t want to lose him.”

Kammy’s eyes fall to the floor in shame. Loren sighs, her shoulders softening in surrender. Neither one of them wants to say what they’re thinking about the impossible positions she’s put us in.

The elevator opens with a ding that finalizes our fate. So, I paste on a smile and speak for all of us.

“Of course he can stay. He’s your brother!”

And I, of all people, know what it’s like to lose a brother.



* * *




I volunteer in the FUSA office twice a week. Anytime people need anything, I’m able to run around the building and get it. Order cookies for the town hall? Got it! Ice cream for the social? No sweat! AV equipment for the African Art presentation? Not a problem. I’m almost on a first-name basis with the Malcolm Center staff.

But tonight, I’m out in the parking lot by the football field with Neveah and Nick, trying to figure out how to put the custom-designed backdrop up on the homecoming parade float bed.

Nick stares at the wobbly sign, hand under his chin, as I hot glue tassels around the bed’s edges.

“It looks dumb,” Neveah groans.

Nick grunts.

“Maybe we can just paint over it?”

Nick grunts twice.

“It cost two thousand so we gotta use it.”

Nick grunts again.

“I’ll go get some paintbrushes.”

He turns to her. “That’d be great. Thanks!”

Neveah chuckles and walks back into the Malcolm Center. Nick hops on the float, testing out the sign.

I wait until Neveah is out of range before making a comment. “You know, you’re really nailing the whole down-ass broody white boy act.”

“Who said it was an act, Bambi,” he says, pulling the sign across the bed.

I’ve worked a couple shifts with him in the office. He’s a man of few words. Ask him any questions about himself, he’ll either ignore you or laugh it off with a flirtatious smile, melting hearts all over campus. But when you ask him about business, he’s all in. I was really impressed with the town halls he put on, advocating for more student involvement and brokering a meeting with local police officers after the protest.

“Bet you’ve been listening to hip-hop all your life.”

He winks. “And country too. Are you just gonna sit there like a bump on a log or you gonna help?”

I laugh. “Bump on a log? HA! What Black woman raised you?”

He hesitates before taking a steadying breath and ignores the question.

I climb up onto the float. “Why are you so pissed about a sign?”

He pushes the frame down. He is stronger than his slender frame gives him credit for.

“The money could’ve gone to better use. Fund programs. Not a sign that’s going to be thrown out by the end of the weekend.”

We grab each end of the banner, stretching it over the framing, but it’s like playing a game of tug-of-war. He pulls a little too hard and I’m yanked forward, falling right into his hands.

He grunts. “Did you do that on purpose?”

“Seriously?” Can he be any more full of himself?

We right ourselves and try again.

“Well, you can still do that if you make some cuts on other stuff,” I say, moving the banner diagonally, and it fits perfect. “Who makes budget decisions?”

Nick notices my changes and nods appreciatively. “We do.”

From our position in the parking lot, I can watch the band practice under the giant bright lights in the middle of the field. During homecoming, they’ll lead the parade down the main street toward the Frazier stadium, followed by a procession.

Nick peers over my shoulder, so close that I can see how long his lashes are and the specks of gold in his blue eyes. I can’t lie that there is something . . . to him. But I didn’t come to a Black school to fall for the only white guy around. That’s something old Jordyn would do. New Jordyn needs to keep focused.

“Wait, is this float for you, Mr. President?” I laugh. “Are you gonna wave like this?”

He smirks. “I prefer a cool head nod.”

“President of a school is a pretty big deal. What are you going to go for next?”

“Don’t know yet.”

There he goes again. Being cagey. He knows. He’s just not saying. What do girls see in this aloofness?

Nick hops off the float, grabs my waist, and lifts me down with ease. He dusts his hands, standing back. “Okay, it’s a little better.”

I turn back to my glue gun, hoping to keep him from seeing me blush.



* * *




Around eleven, I enter the suite, surprised to find the living room empty. Maybe everyone’s asleep or studying. It’s been a wild few days. I haven’t asked about anyone else’s classes but I wonder what our grades are looking like now.

I open my door and throw a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.

“Oh! Hi! How did you—”

“You left your door open,” Devonte says. He’s sitting at my desk, hands folded on his lap as if he was waiting for me.