That Saturday, he called. He was in the middle of leaving a long, rambling message on the answering machine when I picked up.
“This better be an emergency,” I said.
“It is, kind of. Can I come over? I really need a friend—”
“—Scooter—”
“—please, Ailey. Please.”
He always seemed so collected, but now his voice was wavering. A half hour later, when I answered the door, he was wearing a sweat suit and tennis shoes. He carried a six-pack of imported beer. I tried to joke, saying I hadn’t known he owned casual clothes, but he didn’t smile. He asked, could we watch the game? but I told him I didn’t have cable. My little thirteen-inch television only received the public station. Not that I had time to watch, anyway. I was too busy studying. I told him to wait, while I put the beer in the freezer.
When I came back from the kitchen, he had his head in his hands.
“Scooter, what’s wrong with you?” I hesitated. “Is Rebecca all right?”
“She’s fine. Whatever.”
I sat down beside him, waiting. I had a book review due in three days, but I didn’t want to seem impatient. If you cared for somebody, you were supposed to be there for him. And I guess I cared about Scooter, after a fashion. When he didn’t talk, I asked, was he hungry? All the chicken I’d bought at the grocery store was in the freezer. But I had some leftover pizza in the fridge. He asked, could I get him one of the beers? I tried not to be annoyed, but I sighed. Sure, and went back to the kitchen. After he drank that beer, he asked for another one. When I told him this wasn’t a bar and I wasn’t his waitress, he caught me off guard: he started crying. That’s when the story came out.
Like me—like nearly every African American graduate student on campus—Scooter was the only person of color in his department. He’d been recruited by the business school, and was on fellowship, and when he arrived, he’d made every effort to fit in. He wore suits and ties to his classes, like his peers. He studied hard. He’d made As on his individual projects for the first modules of his three classes. And he’d joined a study group. One of the guys in the group was even a past member of the fraternity he’d joined at Brown University, where he’d attended undergrad.
“I thought you said you were the only brother in the B-school here.”
“I am.”
“So this dude, he joined a Black fraternity?”
“No, Ailey. It wasn’t. It was integrated. And why does that matter?”
Scooter looked around, as if he’d brought anything but beer over. Maybe he should go, but I stroked his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, sweetie. I didn’t mean to judge.”
When he leaned back against the couch, he told me that the members of his study group had told him that they’d decided to disband. That’s why he’d started studying on his own, out at Shug’s. But yesterday morning, he’d found out that his study group had been meeting three days a week without him, instead of breaking up, like they’d told him. Then they’d the nerve to ask for his individual study notes. And Scooter had handed the notes over. He’d wanted to take the high road.
I was prepared to tell him, what did he expect? That’s how these white folks rolled at this university. But then Scooter started crying anew. I looked at him, sobbing like a kid, and opened my arms. When he laid his head on my shoulder, I told him, it was all right. It was over now. And when he fell asleep against me, I didn’t have the heart to wake him. I gently pulled my arms away and found a blanket for him. And in the morning, I acted as if nothing had happened.
*
At the end of that semester, I held my breath when I saw the envelope from the registrar’s office. But when I opened it, I’d received an “A” in all three of my classes. When I called up Uncle Root, he didn’t seem surprised. I’d been brilliant since I’d been born, he calmly said. Even as a baby, my facial expressions had indicated intellectual profundity.
My next call was to Dr. Oludara, who showed far more excitement. Then I called my mother, who said she guessed this meant I wasn’t going to medical school. But then she said her baby girl was still going to be a doctor—now she’d have two kinds of doctors in the family. So folks in Chicasetta could put that in their pipes and smoke it.
For winter break, I drove up to the City, but only stayed two days. The house still made me sad, without Lydia there. But I didn’t want to bring up her name and remind Mama of her. I left the day after Christmas; that evening Scooter called: could he come over again? At my front door, he carried a huge box, his muscles straining through his cashmere sweater.