Up at the College Read online

  “He’s won the conference title ever since becoming the head coach at Bouclair. They never won anything before he took over, and that alone gives him a lot of leverage. Plus, he’s a crook and knows how to bend the system to his will,” Maurice told them, trying not to get upset over the mere thought of that man. He’d been studying Sonny Todd Kilpatrick all during the first semester. He was determined to figure that man out and find a way to kick his little narrow Barney Fife–looking white behind. It didn’t make sense that this racist white boy had beat out several good coaching candidates—black and white—for that position at Bouclair College.

  “Okay, Cuz,” Yvonne said, “I know your position on Barney Fife. But I asked Coach Parker.”

  Curtis couldn’t believe that Yvonne Fountain was clowning on him like that. What does she know, he thought. She wasn’t even a real faculty member. She was listed as adjunct faculty. She spent all of her time on campus in the Department of Design mixing paint colors, painting furniture, sawing on wood, and figuring out what kind of flooring went where. What did that itty-bitty adjunct construction worker instructor know?

  Trina had not missed any of what transpired between Curtis and Yvonne. Pride. There wasn’t anything wrong with that boy but he was puffed up with pride he didn’t need—especially since that pride wasn’t helping the team win any games. She said, “Yvonne, you were at that first game with Bouclair College, right?”

  Yvonne nodded.

  “Did you see the fight?”

  “Which one?” Yvonne asked. “The one where one of the players’ gangsta grandmothers pulled out a switchblade and started swinging at everybody in Eva T.’s black and red? You know there was more than one good fight, right? Danesha kept count, and she said there were six.”

  “Seven,” Maurice corrected. “There was a fight in our locker room involving two of their players and three of ours.”

  “Did we win?” Trina asked, hoping in vain that those three boys whipped some Bouclair College behind.

  “Heckee naw,” Maurice said in disgust. “They let those boys beat them like they were some hos on the wrong corner, and the resident hos had to teach them a lesson about encroaching on the wrong hos’ territory.”

  “Well, I don’t know about what was happening behind the scenes during that game,” Trina said, laughing, trying to ignore Maurice cutting his eyes at her. “But what I do know is that they better be happy that they didn’t have to face off with that octogenarian gangsta in the electric-blue satin jogging suit. That old lady, with those electric-blue highlights in her shoulder-length wig, cleared those bleachers out with a simple flick of her wrist.”

  “Yeah, she sliced that switchblade through the air right next to President Redmond’s wife, Grace,” Yvonne added.

  “You lyin’, Yvonne. That OG didn’t mess with Grace?”

  “Naw, I ain’t lyin, Trina. That original gangsta wanted to put something on Grace Redmond’s mind and it worked, too. Because the second time she took a swing at Grace, slicing off a chunk of that expensive weave, Mrs. Redmond took off faster than a running back on Super Bowl Sunday, and in a pair of black-and-red Manolo Blahniks, too. I didn’t know that stuck-up heifer had it in her like that.”

  Maurice and Curtis started cracking up. They would have loved to have seen that. Curtis used to kick it with Grace before she married Sam Redmond back in the early 1990s. She was a lot of fun back then. But she turned into the “stuck-up heifer from Hell” when Sam was put at the helm of Eva T.

  Curtis often wondered how Sam Redmond managed to pull that one off. He never liked Sam Redmond because he didn’t act like a man with too many scruples. Sam had spent his entire career at Eva T. brown-nosing, serving as some high official’s henchman, and being rewarded for this behavior by moving from one administrative position to the other—each one a step up the career ladder. But that kind of behavior must have carried more weight at Eva T. than actual administrative, corporate, academic, and scholarly capabilities. Come to think of it, their university had more than its fair share of Sam Redmonds. And that was most unfortunate for an institution with as much to offer as Evangeline T. Marshall University.

  About the only decent thing Curtis could say about Sam Redmond’s administration was that it raised a lot of money. Dr. Redmond had raised more money during his three-year tenure as the university’s president than his predecessor had done in the entire ten years he’d been running the school.

  Eva T. was established by the second pastor of the original Fayetteville Street Gospel United Church in 1933. It had always been viewed as the “farm school” or the “rural college” when juxtaposed next to the more urbanely placed North Carolina Central University, a mere twenty minutes northwest of Eva T. Whereas NCCU was conveniently placed in the heart of Durham’s historically black community, Eva T. was located in what had once been the country, or the lush farmland right outside the Bull City’s traditional urban limits.

  Eva T. alumni always wondered why Central folk were so hard on them. Because the truth was that Eva T. had top ratings and had earned the distinction of offering the best education for a reasonable amount of money. Evangeline T. Marshall University may have started out as a little country college for “farm negroes” but it wasn’t that anymore. And now, with the ever-increasing growth and development occurring on the Durham side of Chatham County, it was rapidly losing its rural identity to a more suburban persona.

  The school was positioned several miles southeast of where Fayetteville Road intersected with Highway 751, not too far from Okelly Chapel Road. It was the most scenic campus in the Triangle, once described as the best-kept secret in Durham, North Carolina. And the university had experienced a growth spurt in the past five years, causing it to return to its glorious heyday of the mid-twentieth century, when it had attracted the best and the brightest of black high school students from across the state.

  The school’s newest programs were fast-growing and rapidly garnering national recognition. The Building, Construction, and Interior Design Program, along with the School of Entrepreneurial Studies and the Crime Scene Investigation Training Program, were innovative twenty-first-century programs. Some of Durham’s most imaginative and financially successful entrepreneurs had matriculated through one of these programs. Unbeknownst to most Bull City residents, Metro Mitchell, owner of the Yeah Yeah Hip-Hop Store, was one such graduate. He was in the first class of graduates from the School of Entrepreneurial Studies, and their valedictorian.

  Eva T. boasted pretty dorms, lush landscaping, and good food, much of it grown by the students earning degrees in the Agriculture Development Program. Its graduates came out well trained and had their pick of jobs, as well as graduate, law, medical, and professional degree programs. But the one department that made the university stand head and shoulders above all other schools in the area, including the big three (Duke, Carolina, and N.C. State), was its Department of Architecture, which had been built almost single-handedly by one of the most prestigious early twentieth-century black architects in the country, Daniel Meeting. And the school was now earning a top-notch rep with all of the great things happening in its Building, Construction, and Interior Design Program, an offshoot of this program.

  Trina finished tossing the salad and drizzled a heaping helping of homemade bacon ranch salad dressing in the bowl. Yvonne inhaled—Trina’s bacon ranch dressing with fresh peppercorns in it was the best.

  Maurice ran his finger over the dressing on top of the salad and licked it off. “Mmmm, baby. I don’t know what you do to that dressing to make it so good.”

  “I put my butt in it,” Trina said, laughing.

  “You know your self is just as crazy, Trina Fountain,” Yvonne said. “But I don’t know. You may have stuck your booty or feet or toe jams or something in that salad dressing to make it taste so good.”

  Curtis shook his head, smiling, and started putting some of that delicious-smelling food on his plate. He was starving and couldn’t wait to finally dig in t
o the meal he’d been waiting to eat all evening. He took a seat next to Yvonne and picked up his fork, ready to dig in.

  “Hold up a second, Curtis, man. We need to bless the food,” Maurice said as he slid into his seat at the head of the table.

  Trina put the pitcher of tea on the table and sat down. Maurice reached out his hands. Trina took one and Curtis took the other, and then reached out and wrapped his large hand, which could palm a basketball effortlessly, around Yvonne’s.

  Yvonne knew that boy had big hands but she didn’t realize just how big they were until she felt her own lost in the warmth and security of Curtis Parker’s. Curtis wanted to squeeze Yvonne’s hand but feared he’d hurt her because it was so tiny and delicate. But then again, it was also a very strong and sturdy little hand—the kind that cared for babies, cooked delicious meals, trimmed hedges, painted, stripped wood floors, washed cars, and did a host of busy-bee types of things.

  Curtis marveled at how this tiny and delicate hand could hold such strength, and yet contain such delicate sweetness. He knew that Yvonne Fountain had been “going through” as his grandmother and her girls would say. But for a woman to come through a crisis, remain strong, and stay sweet was something worth praising God about. Because Curtis was certain that the only way anybody could come through like this was by the grace and favor of God, and with faith in God.

  He took a chance and squeezed Yvonne’s hand gently, allowing their palms to touch. What he felt in that second set his heart on fire. He couldn’t believe the power of this woman’s touch. It took a considerable amount of restraint to refrain from lifting her hand up to his lips and placing hot kisses on Yvonne’s fingertips. What an experience that would be—to feel her fingertips on his lips, and then have the pleasure of witnessing the girl’s reaction to him when she felt all of that heat searing through her entire body.

  Curtis smiled at that thought, and before he could stop himself, slipped his fingers through Yvonne’s. His smile broadened when she blushed. It felt so good to behold a woman’s simple and honest reaction to the feel of his fingers sliding through hers. Curtis closed his eyes for a second. How had his life become so sophisticated, of the world, and jaded that he’d forgotten how heartwarming such a straightforward response to him could be?

  “Lord,” Maurice began in a voice that sounded like he was getting revved up for a very long prayer, “we are some blessed people. And we just wanted You to know that we know it. We also know that everything we have comes from and will always come from You. Thank You, Lord.”

  “Yes, thank You, Lord,” Curtis said hurriedly, hoping that this would push Maurice to focus on blessing the food so they could eat. He was hungry.

  Maurice ignored Curtis. He could wait. “And, Lord,” Maurice continued, “I just want to thank You for this basketball season. I want to thank You for the victory You have in the wings for us. I can’t see it but Your Word has given us permission to call things that have not yet come, as if they are already right here in our midst. So, Lord, I’m calling for a victorious and blessed season in spite of what I see. Because Your Word does not return void. Thank You, Lord, in Jesus’s name, amen.”

  “In Jesus’s name,” Trina and Yvonne said together.

  They all sat there waiting for Curtis to say something to affirm that he was in agreement with them. When Curtis remained silent, Maurice frowned at him and said, “You need to get in that Word and come back to church. God just gave us a victory but He is not going to bless you in a tangible way, dawg, if you’re not in line with His Word and will for your life. We’ve been hanging in there by God’s grace. And I’m sure the only reason you and I are still employed at this university is because God wants us there, and He has kept us there so that you can get it together, so that He can bless you and the team. But, dawg, I hate to tell you this—God doesn’t leave those windows of opportunity open forever. He does close them after a season.”

  Curtis acquiesced and said, “In Jesus’s name.” He then let go of everybody’s hand, picked up his fork, and dug in to his food, stuffing a hefty piece of fish in his mouth. Curtis couldn’t believe Maurice had clowned him like that—even though he knew in his heart that Maurice was right. Still, it hurt like heck to hear it, and especially in front of Trina and Yvonne.

  “Baby,” Trina said, “we’ve been praying so about the team and winning, I’m thinking that we might want to say a word lifting up the cheerleaders. ’Cause Lawd knows those little girls need somebody praying over them.” She shook her head. “You know,” she continued, “I almost hate to see them coming, when they bust up in the Sheraton Imperial at Eva T.’s fall reception, sashaying up to everybody who thinks they are anybody in black Durham.”

  “No, not all of black Durham, all of the black Triangle,” Curtis said, his mood on the upswing after that Holy Ghost–inspired smackdown from the Lord. Maurice would have never spoken to him like that and especially in front of others unless he himself had received a nudge from the Lord to handle some heavy heavenly business. “’Cause y’all know,” he continued, “that every ed-u-mu-kay-ded individual with visible African ancestry will be at that reception.”

  “True dat,” Maurice said and scooped up a hefty forkful of salad, stuffing it in his mouth. “You know something, I’m sick of those little girls, and in particular that ShayeShaye Boswell and her partner in crime, Larqueesha Watts. I’m sick of having to deal with all of the mess they keep going with my players. Always something up with those two heifers.”

  Maurice finished chewing and then stuck some more salad in his mouth and proceeded to start talking again, as if the food in his mouth were helping with his ability to hold a dinner conversation. “You know, about the only thing I can think about lifting up on their behalf is that not a one of those baby skeezers in training gets knocked up by June Bug Washington or DeMarcus Brown this academic year.”

  Curtis shook his head in disgust. He said, “I’ve never seen young men act the way they do. In fact, other than Kordell Bivens and his boy Rico Sneed and dem, I really don’t think I’ve seen any other brothers acting like those two overprivileged thugs. It’s like they are running in some kind of pack of hos like they are in a pack of wolves.”

  “Who are the men running around with Kordell and Rico?” Yvonne asked, feeling bad that Marquita’s husband was out in the streets embarrassing her and making a mockery of their marriage.

  “Larry Camden, Castilleo Palmer, naturally, and Paulo Yates,” Curtis told her.

  “Are you kidding? Paulo Yates is in the ho pack with them?” Yvonne asked.

  “Umm … hmm” was all Curtis said.

  “But …”

  “But what, Yvonne,” he responded sternly. “You thought that because Paulo has a family and is on the usher board at the church that he was okay?”

  She really wanted to say “Yes,” but didn’t want to let on that she was that naïve.

  “I thought so,” Curtis said evenly. “You and half of the folks who don’t pay enough attention to people like that thought the exact same thing. But just ask Mr. Tommy, the head usher at Fayetteville Street Church—he’ll tell you all about them.”

  “Okay, so now we all know that Paulo and the rest are out there ho’in’ themselves out,” Yvonne said. “But seems to me that they would want to ho alone, not in a pack where folks know way too much about your business.”

  “Okay, Cuz,” Maurice said patiently. “First off, Paulo, Larry, and Rico are all married. They can’t just up and go out without some kind of cover or excuse. They need that ho pack to get out of the house.”

  “All married to some good women who look a whole lot better than those scuzzleducks they out there in the streets with,” Trina added.

  “Baby, have you ever seen their women? We don’t know that they look like scuzzleducks. They probably do. But we don’t know that, baby,” Maurice said.

  “Maurice, you know good and well that tricks like that don’t look like much. Even if they are technically cute, the way
they live is bound to show up and make them looked used and hard—like scuzzleducks.”

  “And kinda ugly, too,” Yvonne added.

  “Plus, Mr. Tommy told me when I was talking to him after church that he saw pictures of those women, and that they didn’t look like nothing.”

  “Trina,” Curtis asked, “I know Mr. Tommy gets around. But when did he see those women?”

  “At the new IHOP in Apex. Mr. Tommy said that he ran into Rico, Kordell, Larry, Paulo, and Castilleo at that IHOP. Said they were all huddled up over Rico’s new laptop pretending like they were admiring it but what they were really doing was looking at those women. Mr. Tommy told me …”

  “Baby girl, at first I was going to just stop by their table and say hi. Even though I ain’t got much use for them, I believe in speaking to people. So I went on over to their table. But those fellows were so deep into what was on that computer screen they didn’t even notice that I was hovering around. So, you know me,” Mr. Tommy said, his eyes getting big like they do when he’s giving you the 411. “I just kinda eased over closer and looked, too. And Lawd, those girls weren’t nothing but some cheap nothings. They were the kind of women who get up from laying up with a man, and then spray themselves with perfume instead of going somewhere to take a decent bath.”

  Trina wrinkled up her nose.

  “Uh … huh … I knew you know what I was talking about,” Mr. Tommy said, and scratched at his head for a moment. “I almost blew my cover and told them that I hoped they took some rolled-up newspaper with them when they met up those gals. ’Cause they were going to need plenty of it when those mutts started acting like the untrained dogs in heat they were, and the only thing that would calm those heifers down was a hard tap on the nose with some newspaper.”

  At that point, Curtis doubled over with laughter and almost fell out of his chair. He said, “Mr. Tommy is crazy.”