The Scammer(55)

He leans forward. “You’re not asking about me. You’re asking about my makeup so you can judge me.”

Judge him? I’m just asking simple questions. Then again, I can’t really tell him about the real me either.

I raise my chin. “Do you usually bring girls to Rec?”

He blinks. “Uh, no. You’re the first.”

This is a surprise. Then again, I am his first official “girlfriend.”

Another group of people pass by, fist-bumping Nick, giving me the curious once-over.

“You’re pretty popular,” I note, sipping my water.

He shrugs. “That’s just ’cause I’m the unicorn on campus.”

“A unicorn huh? Fancy.”

“Well, even unicorns have issues. It’s hard not fitting in.”

“Cry me a river,” I sing.

My phone buzzes. A text message in our group chat.

Vanessa: You better have that money tomorrow.





Nineteen




Online banking makes it easy to see just how broke you really are.

I consider calling my parents, asking for an advance on my allowance. Just something to hold me over the next few months of the semester. But then, they would probably smell that something is wrong and rip me out of the school. I don’t want to go back home to judgmental stares and I-told-you-so speeches. I’ll eat air before I grovel to them.

That is . . . if they don’t see my monthly statement first.

According to my accounts, I am three hundred dollars short of maxing out my credit card. The card my parents gave me for emergencies. Any day now they’ll call to ask if I’m going crazy and I need to come up with a reason before they drive here to find out for themselves.

At least that’s what I think they’ll do.

Kammy: Devonte wants to know where’s the money you promised.

Me: I’m working on it.

Vanessa: The movement doesn’t have time to wait on you.

Me: Please. Can we talk.



Silence. No response.

I reread my messages. If I give what I have left to Devonte, I won’t have much left to live on. But at least maybe the girls will talk to me, be my friends again.

But what if Devonte doesn’t? What if he changes his mind, moves the goalpost? What if I’m too late?



* * *




I tap my calendar on my iPad. “Okay. So we have two town halls planned in the spring, all confirmed. I’ve already sent invitations to community leaders. We need to schedule a door-to-door canvassing in the junior and senior dorms.”

Nick chomps on an apple in his swivel chair. “Why not the freshman dorms first? They seem easy.”

“Juniors and seniors will care more about what’s going on with the school than freshmen. Some freshmen don’t even know what a trustee does. Which leads me to my next idea: we need a social media campaign. Videos, badges, the works. I know someone on the AV team in Malcolm Center that can do the shoot for free and I’ll write up the script.”

“Well, I would want to pay them for their work,” he says.

“That’s . . . nice of you.” Nick doesn’t act like he has fat pockets, but he also doesn’t seem like a broke college kid either, which once again has me wondering about his home life.

“Um. In the meantime, I’ve drafted some slogans and a letter of intention. Hopefully your frat brothers can help with the petitions. I can put together a volunteer sheet.”

Nick leans over, his arm rubbing against mine, when I notice a familiar scent.

“Is that baby powder?”

He considers me for a moment with a smirk then nods in approval. “This is good.”

Nick and I mostly hang in his room, going over possible campaign strategies, or just sitting in silence studying. His frat brothers, who still snicker or stare every time I walk by, are downstairs watching the football game, TV volume on a thousand.

“You don’t want to watch the game with the bros?” I say, brushing my hair down.

Nick looks at me from his desk and frowns. “What are you doing?”

Nick is good at deflecting by asking his own question rather than answering any of mine.

“Wrapping my hair.”

“You can’t just stuff it in a bonnet?”

I chuckle. “No. I need to wrap it to keep it straight. My mom taught me this trick. And what do you know about bonnets?”

“I’ve seen a few,” he says, giving me a wink, and I gag with a laugh.

“Anyways, I gotta be cute. Heard we’re having a party on Saturday.”

Nick raises an eyebrow. “We are?”

I laugh. “Glad you’re in the know.”

Nick shrugs. “The guys come up with any excuse to throw a party. But it’ll be good for people to see us together. Appearances.”

“Yeah, right,” I say. One thing about Nick, he’s all about optics. I tie a scarf around my wrap and once done, my underarms are damp.

“Ugh,” I groan, fanning myself. “Why is it always so damn hot in here all the time? I’m going to sweat out my hair.”

“Why don’t you get braids if you’re always so worried about your hair getting wet?”

I bite my lip. Mom never allowed me to get braids. Thought it looked too . . . Black.