My Muted Love (Muted Hoplessness Book 1)

by Love Belvin

  “The fact that you have no idea of the opportunity being handed to you.”

  “Being tutored?”

  “Yes.”

  “Newsflash, club foot. Tutoring happens all the time.”

  I laughed at her dumb ass. “You’re one of them.”

  “One of who?”

  “One of them welfare recipients. The new student who didn’t earn their way to BSU, but got here by way of the pity train.” I shook my head.

  “Why do people talk about this place like it’s so damn special? It’s a school full of rich, bratty ass kids, acting like them Beverly Hills 90210 people, only Black.”

  I laughed again. Harder. “You’re fucking clueless, too.” I couldn’t stop cracking the hell up. I wiped my wet eyes when I could. “Well,” I sighed, trying to calm myself, leaning into the table. “you’re right about the wealth of some of the students here. This campus is steeped in Black culture, tradition, wealth, excellence and, most of all, superiority. Nothing expressed here, represented here, or cultivated here is subpar to any PWI.”

  “PWI?” Her face was tight.

  “Predominantly white institution.”

  “Okay. It’s a Black college. Whooptie woo!” She tossed her arms in the air, dropping back into her chair. “It’s a state school.”

  I leaned closer to her uneducated ass. “Do you not realize Blakewood State University is unparalleled to any academic institution in the country? We’re not the oldest or the largest historically Black college or university, but we are by far the most superior. Founded in 1842, BSU—the original Panthers—was the first institution to be funded and established by a Black coalition consisting of, not just a Christian church, but Black business entrepreneurs, doctors, and educators.

  “It was created on the premise of, not equality, but Black superiority, culture-foundation, maintenance, and pride of African Diaspora ancestry. Yes. Originally, it functioned as a state school, receiving funds from the government. But what was boss about BSU was the founders fought for the agreement of total control of the curriculum and admissions. Eventually, when it was able to function independent of governmental aid, back in 1875, the S in BSU became silent, as those ‘negroes’ were able to establish an academic endowment program. Even today, the likes of Oprah Winfrey, Eli Richardson, Michael Jordan, Tariq Evans, and many more unrecognizable names of Black wealthy people around the globe sharing a passion for the economic advancement of Black people, endow the education before you.” I winked. “We’re revolutionists, revolters.”

  “So, you’re a Black Panther here?” she hissed cleverly.

  My brows rose.

  Ahhhh…so, she does have a brain...

  I lifted my BSU Panthers letter jacket, exposing the logo.

  Tori rolled her eyes, likely defeated. “It’s not like this is an Ivy League school or something.”

  “Do you even know what constitutes Division I, let alone Ivy League institutions?”

  “Can we just get on with this?”

  I extended my arm, halting her haste. “No. You made me wait. So, you can spare a few minutes understanding the privilege you sit in right now. Maybe it’ll help you be on time moving forward.” She dropped back into her chair again. “Blakewood, having Division I intercollegiate varsity sports teams for women and men, is unlike the Ivy Leagues you speak of because it does offer scholarships. We reach back, understanding the wealth disparities of our people. Thirty-one of BSU Panthers teams participate in Division I intercollegiate varsity sports teams for women and men. That’s the largest of its HBCU’s kind. Your assignment is understanding how, while boxing isn’t of that number, your success in that program can expand the BSU athletic brand.”

  Her mouth balled even tighter. Ignoring it, I continued, “As far as Ivy League: we couldn’t give a shit about being locked outside of the traditional eight’s circle. It could be because of our high caliber of academics; we have a 98.2% graduation rate, and our library system is a beast, encompassing eighteen individual libraries holding over eleven million items with 40% of it dedicated to Black relevance.” I was on a roll at this point, but I had her attention.

  “Like those Ivy League institutions you like to throw around, BSU is a predominantly research institution confluence of Black economics. There’s a heavy emphasis on cycling the production, distribution, and services through Black families and communities. And let’s not talk about BSU’s intricate admissions standards. At 24%, it is higher than most of ‘your’ Ivy Leaguers, however, with reason. Again, we award scholarships to talented students around the country because we understand the wealth gap.

  “People like you, who are deemed talented in a specific area, BSU sees a value in and believe deserves the higher education experience. So the university relaxes its admissions filter just slightly to be sure we’re providing an opportunity to our own, who may not have had the financial means of pursuing academic excellence, but have the ability to change the world as a Black man or woman.” I cocked my head to the side. “So…anything else you wanna say my school ain’t, tomboy?”

  Unable to look at me, Tori rubbed her lips together, arms crossed protectively. Seconds later, her deservingly broken spirit uttered, “I didn’t mean to trash the school. I was just telling you to relax.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “My Black ass can’t afford to relax when I’m against the odds in this country.”

  “Says the big man on campus.”

  “The campus of BSU is safe, the world it’s planted on isn’t. That’s why you need to pursue the wealth of opportunities here like time is fleeting, because it is.” I flipped through the papers on my clipboard for her information. “You clearly have no respect for time. Please let me be the catalyst of that enlightenment.”

  Tori didn’t speak, which was wise. She was wasting my time. As I studied her writeup, I finally discovered what she was here for.

  “Writing.”

  “What?” she finally spoke again.

  “You scored low on the writing portion of the admissions exam.”

  She shrugged, eyes cast into the distance. “That’s what they said.”

  “They? Who are they?”

  “The athletic director,” she muttered.

  “Byron Jones?”

  She shook her head. “Trisha Gaskin.”

  Oh…

  “Trisha is an A.A.D.”

  Tori finally gave me eye contact again.

  “What’s that?”

  “A.A.D.? She’s an Assistant Athletic Director. There are dozens of them here. One for most of the athletic programs.” She didn’t know that?

  What did this…KaToria McNabb know? Just how to throw a fucking jab?

  “Who do you have for writing?”

  “What?”

  I closed my eyes tight, jaw flexing. “Your Basic Writing course. Who’s the professor? Johnson or Brown?”

  “Oh. The fat lady that makes those weird noises with her nose and throat.”

  An unexpected bubble of laughter pushed through my throat. I shook my head.

  “What?” Tori eyed me untrustingly while looking to hold back on her own laughter.

  “Nothing.” I shook my head again. “It’s just that…never mind.” I took a deep breath. “Okay. Shanice Brown—who, by the way, suffers from allergies and asthma—typically kicks the semester off with having you write about yourself. Next, she’ll have you write about a little known Black figure. What do you have in mind for those?”

  “What do you mean?”

  My head reared. “What do I mean?” I repeated. “What do you plan on sharing about yourself in the first paper? It should be due next week. Do you have an outline? And for the Black figure: do you have someone in mind for it?”

  Her eyes glazed over. “Outline?”

  “Yeah. Bullet points of your ideas that’ll structure your paper. It’s an arrangement of points you’ll cover.”

  Tori bit her bottom lip, eyes falling in shame.

  “This is
it,” I muttered, exhaling.

  “This is what?” she hissed.

  “It’s what those who feel BSU shouldn’t recruit athletes without strong academic backgrounds are arguing.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, you don’t know what a damn outline is, clearly couldn’t pass the general admissions test, yet you come in here late with a damn attitude!”

  She banged her fists into the table as she shot to her feet. “I didn’t ask to be here! Still don’t want to be here. Yeah, Blakewood may be rich in culture and tradition, but that doesn’t appeal to regular people who want basic respect!” Her eyes were hard, lips tight as she spewed her little anger. “Maybe I came late because I decided earlier I wouldn’t come at all. I knew you were my student-tutor and don’t feel like taking any more shit from stuck up, mean people like you and your princess girlfriend and hyena-looking and acting friends. Classes started only two weeks ago, and I’m sick of the cool kids’ club already!” She snatched her book bag and headed for the door.

  It was the incident in the cafeteria two days ago when she quit her job. I was only fucking with her. Didn’t mean for her to go bat shit crazy and lose her little job.

  “And another thing.” She glanced back at me. “I may not be rich, and needed a scholarship to live on the same campus as you pompous fucks, but I didn’t come checking for this school. Y’all came for me. And if you and your friends keep fucking with me, I’ll show you why I’m here!”

  The door slammed hard, and I blinked several times with a growing smirk.

  “I want to go to Saint Justin this spring break,” Andrea announced out of nowhere, pushing back her cuticles. “Shit!” She stomped her foot. “If the nail techs here in the BSU cosmetology program want to be taken seriously, they should focus more on their craft than complaining about low wages and thirsting after the campus guys.”

  “Shut the hell up, Andrea.” ShawnNicole grumbled, pushing her oversized plastic frames up her face. “If you don’t like one tech, go to another. There’s no shortage of them in that program.”

  Andrea rolled her eyes without looking up from her hands. It was the same message she’d heard before when she went to the nail salon on campus and complained.

  ShawnNicole was a business management major who had taken one of BSU’s special tracks, which were non-degree programs offered for those in pursuit of technical vocations. She was sensitive about those programs as she was pursuing a career that required more of the technical license than it did the degree. This was a constant battle between some students; degree-track students respecting vocational training students. Half my attention was present in the conversation and the other was in my gaze around the pool room in the student union.

  It was the third week following the official start of the semester, and the freshmen had realized who the top dogs of the campus were. They flocked around us, trying to capture our attention. For the first time in my BSU tenure, this was wack. Standing against the wall with Aivery under my arm and having our crew circle around as though posing for a Ralph Lauren photo shoot, I was bored.

  “You didn’t go this summer?” Aivery asked. “I thought that’s where your family was.”

  Andrea shook her head. “That was the plan, but my dad won a big account at his firm and all he did was eat, shit, fuck, and shower at home this summer.” She rolled her eyes. “Strange how, that ‘grueling’ regimen didn’t let up until last week, well after I’ve moved back to school. I said fuck it; I’ll go alone.”

  “We should all go for winter break.” Aivery turned in my arm, face melting in a smile. “You think your people can find us a few suites somewhere on the island?”

  “Shit!” Dre scoffed. “Anywhere on that bitch would be fire. Just say the word. I’ll cover liquor and plants for the whole week.”

  “Damn, that sounds like fun!” Karmen breathed wistfully. “I hope so. They book up fast in the winter. Christmas is impossible.”

  “Please, woobie,” Aivery gave her baby point, but kept it sexy.

  I had no intention of spending my winter break with Aivery and her friends this year. But I would never say that. I kissed her on the cheek as a sweet gesture to back the hell off. It worked because Aivery turned again, her shoulders leaning into my chest. And I continued my countdown to when I’d blow this wack ass post up.

  “She looks like she reeks,” Karmen snarled. “And those sneakers are just as hideous as her hair.”

  “Where?” Andrea asked, twisting the end of one of her long braids around her index finger.

  “Passing the pinball machine right now,” ShawnNicole assisted. “I wish I could run my comb through that fucked up so-called ‘installment.’”

  Not knowing what the hell an installment was, my eyes raced in that direction, knowing the target before they landed. Tori trekked the student center with her palms fisted around her stained red book bag. She wore black cropped running pants, a BSU jacket, and those busted ass sneakers that I now knew for a fact held an odor. Her head was down, baseball cap low on her face. A flash of anger bolted through me.

  Why does she make herself such a damn target?

  The girl gassed herself before doing a slow walk into the fire. A few people tapped a friend on the low, drawing attention to the spectacle on the lower level of the student center. I’d seen countless cases of this in my tenure here, but usually with corny ass guys.

  “So fucking diseased,” Aivery hissed, little body tensing beneath me. “I swear. They just let anybody in now. This place was so much more exclusive when my grandfather and great-grandfather attended. Scholarships are such a Dems handout to the fucking poor. And now we’ve got to smell and endure the sight of this trash.”

  I flinched and immediately hoped she didn’t sense it. That shit was harsh. McNabb’s existence annoyed me, but she was a human being. Hell, even though I ripped her ass a new one two nights ago, it was still clear to me she had feelings, a voice, and a damn pulse. Her comment reminded me of the funk I was in. Why was I here in this populated ass student center when there were a whole three hundred plus ass acres of this campus, and I likely had access to, at least, eighty-five percent of them?

  As I watched Tori step onto the elevator, I thought to myself, ‘this shit is wack.’ I needed more. This shit was boring.

  “Spence,” Dre called over. When he had my attention, he flicked his chin in the opposite direction.

  Byron Jones, the BSU Athletic Director, was standing in the doorway looking like a damn NARC. He tossed his head, summonsing me. I checked my wrist for the time, hoping I wasn’t late.

  “I’m out,” I murmured to the crew and took off.

  As I approached him across the busy room, he backed out of the doorway.

  “What’s up, chief?” I greeted, following him down the pathway. “I was shook at first, thinking I was late for our meeting.”

  “Nah.” He swung his arm in the air, dismissing the notion. “I was down, getting a sandwich from the cafe and thought you’d be in there with your crew. I drove a cart down and figured you’d appreciate the lift.” We made it down to the end of the walkway, where a golf cart awaited. Jones tossed me the keys. “Do an old man the honors.”

  I dropped my bag in the backseat and hopped in. We pulled off quietly and I drove us down the narrow pathways, rounding the few bodies we passed on the way.

  “How’re you making out, son?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been on campus for five weeks now, started classes three weeks ago, and I hear your crazy ass is tutoring again this semester. I wanna know how you’re balancing it all.”

  “Too early to say, sir.” Today wasn’t the best day to ask.

  “You sure? You don’t seem like a young man starting out the end of his collegiate career where he’s about to take the world by storm and declare for the League’s draft. The world is your oyster right now. I need you to live in that.”

  I considered that for a minute. “To
keep it real, sir, I’m wondering if I should have declared last year.”

  “Last year?” he echoed as we arrived at the blockades of the athletic facilities. Crossing over to this side of the campus was never anything short of a prideful experience. It was an athlete’s haven. With state-of-the-art equipment, a full-service sports spa, showers, break beds, and a small cafeteria, you could practically live here. “What’s going on?”

  When I pulled into an available park, I cut the engine and sat back. “Lackluster.”

  Jones laughed, covering his face. “You and these words. I swear, you may be a better wordsmith than you are anything else.”

  I shook my head. “Nah, sir. I’m a better lover than I am anything else.” He knew I was fucking with him and cracked the hell up.

  I needed to infuse humor. Talking about something I couldn’t quite define wasn’t easy.

  “Is that what it is?” he asked. “You need more time to…clear your pores? You and Aivery…”

  Shaking my head cut him off. “This has nothing to do with her.” Per se. “As a matter of fact,” I hopped out of the cart. “let’s forget I even brought it up. The semester hasn’t truly gotten started yet. Maybe getting back on my normal schedule’s got me buggin’.” I shook my head while grabbing my book bag.

  Jones left the cart and started for the building, his face tight. “Before we meet, I have another matter to bring to your attention.”

  “What’s that?” I followed him inside.

  “In my office.”

  We took the elevator and rounded several halls before arriving at likely the largest office in the building. One wall of his office was floor-to-ceiling glass overseeing the main gym floor. When Jones wanted privacy, he’d frost the glass so no one could peer up into his massive office, though he still had full view.

  “Have a seat,” he ordered me.

  As he ambled behind his desk and dropped the bag of food down, there was a knock on the opened door. Trisha Gaskin craned her neck inside.

  “Come on in, Gaskin.” He waved her inside. “Ashton and I just got here.”

  Trisha closed the door behind herself and my hackles shot in the air. She claimed the chair next to me facing her boss. My eyes swung from her to my A.D.