Chapter Eight #2
He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m on the basketball team. People let us do whatever we want within reason. Betta recognize.”
“Well, recognize this,” I said, pointing at him. “I can’t lose this RA job and my free room and board because my guests are breaking policy.”
“Don’t get your panties hunched in a bunch, Larenz. Sorry. I’ll message you in the future when I’m on the way.”
“Thanks.”
“Last thing, though, before we get started,” B.D.
said. “I’m glad to know you’re getting some, at least. Macy went back to California again this morning for the rest of the intersession.
Some Miss Teen California work she gotta do.
I ain’t getting none for at least a month because when she comes back to campus, I’ll be on a week-long road trip with the team. ”
“I don’t know how y’all do it.”
“Oh, Macy and I made an arrangement. Whenever we’re taking a break or either of us is on a trip, we get a hall pass to play around. Just to relieve a little stress, you know. No feelings or strings.”
“I was talking about being a student athlete, B.D. Not whatever you and Macy do in your personal life.”
“Sorry again.” He scooted the desk chair around and manspread out his long legs.
“Appreciate you stopping by the game today. I saw you and that Diego guy dip before halftime. Thanks for coming. Means a lot to see a familiar face in the crowd. Especially during break when not a lot of people are on campus.”
“You must miss Macy being around during break,” I said, pressing the speaker remote to turn the music down a bit.
I’d had it on to muffle any noises Diego or I made while I was sucking him off.
Diego tended to be a bit of a yeller when he reached his peak.
“I know how much you like my musical taste.”
“Yeah, I don’t like your music, and Macy being gone for the rest of the break is all right,” he said, laughing.
“Since I don’t have much of a family life or anyone specifically coming to games for me, I like seeing people I know in the stands—believe, we do notice.
Speaking of, sorry for acting like I didn’t know you when Macy introduced us yesterday.
That was foul, I know. I’m just weird like that sometimes. ”
“I mean, I was your summer orientation leader. And you have been giving the cold shoulder to my orientation follow-up messages for the past six or seven months. What’s up with that?”
“I have teammates, my best friend Jalon, and other athletes living in the athletics dorm to show me the ropes of campus now. Guess I ain’t need help, Larenz. Don’t make a big deal about it, okay?”
“But you need my help now. Wanna show me the syllabus?”
He bent to retrieve his backpack. I inhaled as I noticed how long his fingers were when he handed me the syllabus, which resembled a small magazine. Hands and fingers were a turn-on for me, and B.D.’s were in a league of their own. But this was not the time to let my mind wander.
“Looks like you need to have a poem by a Black poet memorized by the end of the first week of class,” I said. “I have a nice short one for you.”
“A nice, short one, huh? That how you roll?”
I wondered what the innuendo was all about, much like his “Big Dick” joke about his name during summer orientation. So I decided to push it a bit.
“You don’t know me well enough to flirt like that,” I said. “Not that you’re flirting. I’m just saying.”
“Nigga…hell nah, I ain’t flirting.” He crossed his arms as he sat back in the desk chair, legs nervously widening and closing. “Anyway, the poem?”
“It’s called ‘We Wear the Mask’ by Paul Laurence Dunbar. It’s about the ways we as Black people wear one face in front of society and how the mask hides the real-life feelings and experiences we go through. Kinda like pretending. You know anything about pretending to be something you’re not?”
He was silent for a few, like he was thinking or wanted to say something. “Nah.”
“Well, I’ve taken Dr. Darder’s class, and it’ll get you brownie points if you memorize it. Trust. We’ll practice this week until you remember it.”
“What else?”
“I know you hate me being corny and all, but I love what you…what I get to do for you for this class. This is right up my alley.”
Focusing on contemporary Black Literature of the 1990s and 2000s, the three-week syllabus was as rigorous as I remembered. I was glad to see Dr. Darder had shifted the class to more current and accessible books rather than the Black classics I had to read in the class.
Each student needed to choose two novels to read by either Beverly Jenkins, E.
Lynn Harris, Eric Jerome Dickey, or Terry McMillan, do a ten-minute class presentation on the author of their choice, and write a twelve-page paper on the major themes of their author, how each author presented Black life, and how the books and authors connected to a personal issue in their life as a Black college student.
I described each author and then asked B.D. which one he wanted to choose for the class. His response unnerved me.
“Let’s do the messy gay drama by E. Lynn Harris,” he said, chuckling. “I’ll read, or you’ll read, Invisible Life and Just As I Am .”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure sure.”