The Scammer(43)

“Girl, other students are blind,” Kammy scoffs. “They don’t see the world for what it is. He’s helping us open our third eye so that we won’t be taken advantage of.”

“But . . . he’s not even a student.”

“He’s a student of life,” Kammy counters. “He doesn’t need a degree to help us. Who even needs a degree, period?”

Outside, the rain is thick, an ocean dumping on our campus. We’re spiraling down a whirlpool to the bottom of the sea and no one knows it.

“He’s inviting people to live with us,” I say, unable to hold back my outrage. “Without even asking if it’s okay!”

“Well, it’s important that we stick together,” Kammy counters. “A united front against the white agenda.”

“He’s the best professor we could ever get,” Loren adds. “He’s teaching us about real life. About the culture. I wouldn’t know half the stuff he’s been schooling us on because everyone wants to whitewash history.”

“Does that mean we have to suffer while we learn?” I ask, leaning back in my seat. Of all people, I thought Loren would be at least sensible about this.

Loren looks at Kammy, something passing between them, and my stomach caves in. A secret. We’re not supposed to have secrets. Kammy crosses her arms.

“Jordyn, he’s been cleaning and cooking and mentoring us for free after he saved our lives, and you want to just kick him out? That’s cold-blooded.”

“Come on, Jordyn,” Loren says, more lighthearted. “He was in prison! Do you know what kind of conditions he had to live through? They had him in solitary confinement. Black men kill themselves every day after going through stuff like that. We can’t just ghost him.”

I hold my breath until knives stab through my lungs from the inside out and I’m ready to flip a table.

“Yeah,” I hiss, hands rolling into fists. “Trust me. I know.”

Loren sits back, as if sensing the danger brewing inside me.

“Well, I don’t know why you’re complaining,” Kammy mumbles bitterly with a neck roll. “He treats you better than the rest of us. He’s taken it easy on you.”

This comment catches even Loren by surprise.

“He does not,” I snap, losing patience. Didn’t she see him about to smack me the other night? “And I’m not the one getting extra sessions like you.”

Kammy’s eyes toggle between us, guilt setting in. She sighs, her shoulders slumping.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just . . . not myself. And I’m really hungry.”

“Me too,” Loren admits.

“But the truth. I think we’re in love,” Kammy says, a bashful smile taking over her face. “Real love. Deep twin soul flame love. I don’t want to lose that connection. Not when this is the only thing that makes me feel closer to God.”

Loren doesn’t look surprised by Kammy’s revelation, which means they’ve been talking about it behind my back. I wince, feeling the familiar sting of being left out in the cold without even knowing it.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. Guess I’m just being hangry.”

Loren grins, placing a hand on my arm. Her fingers are like ice chips.

“We in this together, girl! Besides, Devonte’s good for our cred. Look how many people we got up in our spot now. Everyone knows who we are and trying to be down!”

I nod, realizing that it may be too late to save them. But maybe it’s time to save myself.



* * *




“Hi, is Ms. Rogers available?”

I wait at the front desk of the Student Housing office, located in the Frazier Administration building. The secretary returns, and a plump woman with dark chestnut skin in a teal sheath dress follows, her salt-and-pepper hair shaved close to the scalp.

“Hello sweetheart, how can I help you?” she says, her large orange earrings dangling.

I extend my hand. “Hi, I’m Jordyn Monroe. Can we talk . . . in private?”

Ms. Rogers blanches then quickly glances at the secretary before righting herself.

“Oh. Hi. Yes, this way.”

I hesitate before following her into her office, unnerved by her response. She shuts the door behind us and sits at a giant oak desk, fumbling with a cup of Frazier pens by the monitor. The cabinet behind her holds a dozen framed pictures from over the years at various school functions. She’s probably been working here for decades.

“How can I help you?” she asks, folding her hands, feigning confidence.

“I was just wondering if there are any other dorm rooms available.”

She blinks a dozen times in two seconds, glancing over my shoulder, as if making sure the door is closed tight.

“Is there something wrong with your current room?” she asks.

This part will be tricky. Trying not to raise any alarm bells or red flags. Nothing that could get back to the girls.

“No, no. I was just . . . checking to see if I have options.”

“Options?”

“Yeah. Options. Just in case.”

She stares at me for a moment, as if trying to figure me out. Then turns to her computer, pecking at her keyboard.

“Well . . . all our dorms are at full capacity. Your dorm has a wait-list of about fifty or more. But rooms tend to open up by spring semester. Often students drop out due to financial reasons.”