The Scammer(39)

I don’t know where he met them. He just showed up with them and said, “Kammy, fix some tea.”

He goes on to talk about men and women, and our roles, and what the white man has done to the nuclear family.

“You should dress modestly . . . like Jordyn,” he says, pointing to me. “She doesn’t walk around campus with her skin out and yet she is gorgeous.”

Heads turn and I lower my gaze, face steaming hot.

When we wrap up, I head for the bathroom, eyes landing on his black soap, raw shea butter, and wooden beard brush. He threw away all our toothpaste and hair products, replacing them with organic ones. So swept up in his tailwind that I didn’t realize he just about moved in without any sign of leaving.

In the shower, something else occurs to me—I didn’t immediately recognize the look in Kammy’s eyes when he called me gorgeous. Then it hits me.

It’s jealousy.

I swipe the thought away and change into my pj’s. All I need is a good night’s sleep. In my room, I find my phone sitting on the desk, face down. I grip it tight, a lump snowballing in my throat.

Because I know with unwavering certainty that I left it on my bed.



* * *




I haven’t been to the library in weeks, but I decide to finish my Ethics paper, now two days late. Late papers are penalized one-third of a letter grade for each day, so if it’s not perfect, I could end up with a D. I’ve never had anything less than a B in my life and even that grade I challenged. Because I wasn’t going to bring a B home to my parents. Not when their expectations of me sat somewhere next to Pluto.

At times I wonder, if they didn’t have such lofty goals for me, would our lives be any different? Would Kevin still be alive? Would he be here, at Frazier U, rather than me?

I stop short on the first floor, spotting Nick at a table, books spread out.

I bump my hip into his seat. “Surprised to see you here.”

Nick doesn’t look up. “This is usually where people study for midterms.”

With not many free tables left, I sit across from him and take out my iPad and computer.

“You’re roommates with Kammy, right?”

“Yeah. Why, how’d you know her?”

“I’m TA-ing one of her classes.” He shakes his head. “That girl is as sharp as a bowling ball.”

I snort and throw hands over my face.

He chuckles. “Did you just snort like Miss Piggy?”

I laugh louder and someone says “Shhhhh” and we fall silent, him mouthing the word “sorry” to anyone nearby. It feels good to laugh. Almost unnatural.

When I think about it, Nick is actually a great catch. Funny, flirty, super smart, and cute. It would be a shame to let that go to waste.

“Hey, can I ask you a personal question?”

“Depends.”

“Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”

He shrugs. “Don’t want one. That simple.”

“You ever had one?”

Nick pauses, his smile slowly fading. “Yeah.”

“You don’t think that’s a sin against God not to take a woman?”

He frowns. “A what?”

Stunned by my own word vomit, I fumble with my computer.

“Nothing,” I squeak, with a nervous laugh. “That was silly, never mind.”

Nick doesn’t seem convinced and on the brink of asking his own personal questions of me, which I can’t answer. I need a distraction.

Principle number four: Become genuinely interested in other people.

I scan his setup and notice a bright painting on a textbook—Slavery to Liberation: The African American Experience.

“Why do you have this?” I ask, tapping the cover.

He looks at me as if I’m asking a dumb question. “It’s for Afro-American Studies II.”

“YOU’RE taking Afro-American Studies?”

He laughs. “Worse. It’s my minor.”

“Seriously? Laying it on kinda thick, don’t you think? We see you love Black people, you don’t have to overdo it.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s a university requirement. You can’t graduate without taking one Afro studies course. I’m hooked on history, so I decided to make it my minor. Plus, you can’t fight for injustice without having an intimate knowledge of the history of how we got here.”

I’m impressed, but I refuse to admit it.

“Okay. So what do you know about the Willie Lynch papers?”

“Pff. That’s a myth.”

I purse my lips. “Of course YOU would say that.”

He looks at me for a moment, studying, his smile slowly fading. “Wait, are you being serious or are you joking? Why are you asking about the Willie Lynch papers?”

Don’t tell him. He’ll just try to gaslight you. That’s what they all do.

I stack my books, stuffing my computer back in my bag, and shoot up to my feet.

“Forget it! It’s not important. I don’t even know why I brought it up.”

I rush out of the library, still thinking about the course requirement I didn’t even know existed. But who needs to take a class on Black history when I have a man, right at home, who’s allegedly teaching me everything I need to know about being Black?