“I don’t know. I just know he always talk in hushed tones, acting real serious. I stay out of his way as long as he don’t be touchin’ her.”
“That’s best,” Brandon said. “Listen, Pooh, don’t forget. Anytime you wanna talk, I’m here—”
“Excuse me, everyone!” Sheryl Gibson had taken center stage in the courtyard, her hands cupped around her mouth like a megaphone. Brandon noticed the wrinkles in her red pantsuit and the weariness in her eyes. Her condition reminded him that Sheryl, and the center in general, needed so much help. This private-donor campaign had to work. He’d been up most every night the last few weeks coordinating a Highland alumni pledge drive for Ellis, but there was only so much time.
“Listen, everyone,” Sheryl said as the counselors herded the children toward the center and instructed them to take seats on the cool concrete, “we have two Highland students here today to give you some information about the field trip next week. Yes,” she said, shaking her head at a counselor giving her grief from a few feet away, “this will be a short trip. You’re just going to go across the street and get a full tour of the campus. But you have to have your parents’ permission to leave Ellis’s premises. These ladies are going to pass out the forms and tell you more about the trip.” She stepped forward and motioned into the crowd behind her. “Monica?”
A young woman stepped forward and began speaking in a smooth, confident voice. Her athletic figure, trim but rounded in all the right places, was nestled beneath a flattering Guess jeans ensemble. “Boys and girls,” she said sweetly, “let me tell you about a special place, a land called Highland . . .”
From his perch near the back of the courtyard, Brandon gulped like an embarrassed child. Panic crept up his shoulders as his face grew dewy with sweat and the gallop of a crazed horse beat within his chest. Monica Simone! The woman he’d worshipped from afar since his first days at Highland had invaded Ellis, his private sanctuary, a place where he could selflessly serve and be free from the vagaries of his lonely nights. Again Brandon was reminded he was not your stereotypical brother, the sex-crazed, verbally adept hound that TV and movies portrayed every chance they got. No, Brandon’s rapping skills came straight from Dear Old Dad, and even today Pops was the first to admit he’d been no Bobby Brown in his single days.
As Monica completed her presentation and the kids rewarded her with a round of frantic applause, Brandon felt a burning in his chest and tried to gather his nerves. Monica rendered him as helpless as a child suffering his first crush. He watched her turn toward Sheryl and make conversation for a moment. By the time he’d leaned over and grabbed up his Highland backpack, Monica was a foot away, making her way through the shrinking crowd as the kids were rounded up for Sheryl’s comments. His chest still heaving anxiously, Brandon checked his watch and realized he was a few minutes late to meet someone. Should he even bother speaking to her?
“Hey, Brandon,” Monica said, flashing a polite smile and pausing as his eyes met hers. “You’re a counselor here?”
Caught in the thicket of her caramel complexion, flowing ebony mane, and soft cheekbones, Brandon was a deer in Monica’s headlights. His mouth refused to work. His mind swam in an alternate reality, one where he imagined the ways he would meet her every need, calm her innermost fears, and stoke her heart’s most passionate desire, if she would only let him. Oh, if only, he thought . . . What could he say to her, when the stakes of every word, every flirt, were so high? His legs planted into the courtyard’s cement ground like two stubborn iron poles, Brandon swallowed carefully. “I, uh, yeah, I do work here, with the eight- and nine-year-olds. Math,” he said, the last word coming out with a squeak. Why couldn’t a love jones endow him with some cool for a change?
Seemingly unaware of his sudden difficulty with words, Monica twirled a lock of her hair around her right index finger. “I think the things you all do here are great. I plan to sign up and teach one of the business classes next year. Figure I may as well share the marketing knowledge HU’s taught me.”
“That’s admirable,” Brandon said, noticing his voice had regained its bass but was sounding too deep now. His mind pushed him forward. Come on, now, say something charming . . .
“I’d better go,” Monica said, shifting her weight slightly and tucking her notebook under her arm. “Bye now.”
Returning her smile and wondering if her wave was as coy as he hoped, Brandon watched Monica walk off and felt his mind fill with thoughts no Christian boy should entertain. He had it bad. As the gallop in his chest slowed to an exhausted limp, he realized he had missed yet another golden opportunity. Monica was gone. On the scoreboard of his heart, paralyzing fear had scored yet another touchdown, and Brandon hadn’t even scored a field goal since high school. Since Brandy.
He ran a hand over his forehead, ran back to the center of the courtyard to slap hands with Pooh and the other boys, and bolted through the front hallway until he came to the main entrance. His cousin Bobby Wayne, a fellow Highland senior and also premed, was leaning against the inside wall. His arms were crossed impatiently, but his eyes, the same wide, piercing ones that Brandon and most every member of the Weaver side of the family had, were dancing with mischief.
“Okay, first of all,” Bobby said, straightening the legs of his Levi’s, “you’re late. I have to get downstairs and teach my class at four sharp, man. Now I’m late. You got the dang clippers?”
Brandon sighed and reached into his backpack, producing his best pair of Wahl hair clippers and slapping them into Bobby’s palm. “There. You just make sure you clean ’em good before bringing ’em back. I ain’t got time to be picking your dandruff out of my stuff.”
“Oh, ha, very funny.” Bobby rolled his eyes. “I got another beef with you, cuz. I just saw Monica walk out of here, without my love Tara of course.” Bobby had been in hot pursuit of Monica’s best friend, Tara Lee, since sophomore year, to no avail. Brandon had never told Bobby, but he was pretty sure his cousin had had a good shot until he’d opened his mouth; Bobby had beat him out in the girls’ “Looks” polls in high school back in Chicago, but he’d also been consistently voted Class Clown. His goofy ways never failed to sabotage his game.
“The question is,” Bobby continued, stepping toward Brandon and blocking the door, “did you rap to Monica? You know we’ve only got so many months left in the year.”
Brandon shook his head and removed a pack of Snackwell’s vanilla cremes from his backpack, preparing for the trek back to campus. “Look, Bobby, Monica’s not exactly known for being the most spiritual woman on campus. You know I need a woman who’s strong in that area.”
Bobby snatched a cookie. “She’s a churchgoer, ain’t she?”
Chomping on a cookie as he spoke, Brandon waved a finger at his cousin. “Bobby, there’s some of everything up in the church. Look, I can tell when a woman is at my spiritual level and when she’s not. What are you laughing at?”
Bobby was shaking his head, which was neatly framed in with a professional box fade. A smirk was plastered on his coffee-bean complexion. “Boy, life as the Choirboy must be great! If I had your powers of perception, life sure would be simple. Imagine, to know through osmosis whether a girl is right for you or not, just by lookin’ at her! No need to call her or talk to her. Why risk rejection anyway?”
Brandon gave his cousin a playful shove. “Forget you, man. I couldn’t understand half of what you said anyway.” He and Bobby liked to razz each other about the newfound ethnicity they’d adopted at Highland. Granted, no one would be mistaking them for Tupac or Snoop Dogg, but they’d come a long way. Back in the suburbs of Chicago, their private schools and white middle-class subdivisions had left them with mannerisms and styles of dress the city kids dubbed “white.” Even some at Highland had initially questioned their authenticity freshman year. Not two weeks into that first year, Bobby had rushed into Brandon’s dorm room one afternoon with a look of pain across his face.
“Brandon, do I stand white?”
“I don’t know,” Bobby had mused. “Tara told me I carry myself like a white guy. Now, I’ve heard that I ‘talk white,’ even ‘dress white,’ but ‘stand white’? She said the way I lock my knees and hold my back erect looks like ‘white guy’ posture. Are real brothers supposed to stand with their knees bent and their hands on their nuts? I don’t get it.”
Neither had Brandon. That had been the first of many times he’d suggested Bobby release his fascination with Tara. Any sister who couldn’t love a brother the way he was, “standin’ white” or not, was not the Right One.
As Brandon opened the heavy front door and stepped out into the fading sunlight draping Ellis’s front steps, Bobby continued to pick at him. “You know and I know that you haven’t tried rapping to Monica ’cause you are scared! Be a man, just admit it.”
Brandon paused in the doorway and grimaced. “Well, I have such an encouraging example in you, Bobby. Tara’s never even given you one ounce of dap. Why would I wanna be like you—spend my life getting shot down?”
“Ah, so it’s like that, cousin? Well, I know one thing. When I’m kickin’ butt in med school next year, I won’t be losing one bit of sleep about what could’ve happened if I’d let Tara know how I feel. What you got to say to that?”
“How about this? Let’s just agree it’s nun y’on—none of your business. I gotta get over to the library, man.”
Bobby stepped forward. “All I got to say is, man, don’t let this year get away without makin’ some moves, even if you fail. Stop beatin’ yourself up over Brandy—”
“So you know,” Brandon said, shaking his head and looking away, “you’re officially over the line now.”
“Whatever, Holmes. I better go. My class is calling me.”
Brandon’s pursed lips matched his rueful tone of voice. “Yes, it is. I need to go myself, get some studying in before tonight’s Black Impact meeting.”
“Oh, really,” Bobby boomed, “well, you have fun now! I thought you had joined me in self-imposed exile from the Disciples! You know, it’s that group that has you scared to ask out a girl like Monica in the first place.”
Brandon stepped through the doorway and let Bobby catch the door. “Terence finally agreed to attend a Disciples meeting with me, man. I think it might be good for the brother.”
Bobby frowned. “What’s the real reason you’re going?”
Brandon shook his head again. “Well, I have been drafted to do some fund-raising for Ellis. You know the Disciples’ backers have deep pockets.”
“Yeah,” Bobby said, releasing the door handle, “the question is what will they want in return. Good luck!”
Turning on his heels, Brandon hopped the steps, tore across the busy thoroughfare, and stepped onto Highland’s hallowed ground.
Focusing his thoughts on his upcoming studies, he crossed the expansive concrete diamond separating Just Hall from the ivy-covered brick steps of the Highland Undergraduate Library. The sun was just beginning its descent, a faint orange glow hovering above and to his right. As Brandon approached the steps, he shot off several “What’s up?” nods to assorted friends and acquaintances milling about in the afternoon crowd, and he slowed to slap a few hands. Students of every hue, height, weight, and style filled the diamond, and in his eyes they were all beautiful. Dreadlocks, Afro puffs, extensions, S-curls, box cuts, fades, skin-tights, ponytails, naturals, bobs, weaves—they were all here. They were attired in Polo, Hilfiger, Versace, Claiborne, Karl Kani, Sears, J. C. Penney, and every regional bargain-basement chain. The varied visions of black folk merged into one enthusiastic, ambitious whole. Highland was a vibrant sea of Afrocentric-flavored diversity; Brandon couldn’t imagine attending college anywhere else.
He walked through the central sliding glass door leading into the library’s lobby. The main floor, jam-packed with book stacks, computers, and furtive groups of earnestly whispering students, was a buzzing cauldron of social activity. Some work was getting done, but it was in very gradual increments. Anyone who was anybody couldn’t count on getting five minutes of study in without someone walking up and starting a conversation.
Planning to seek a hideaway on the less popular basement level, Brandon was distracted by a table near the front door. Seated there were Larry Whitaker, Mark Jackson, and Ashley Blasingame, huddled in deep and animated conversation. Ashley, her black suede CiZi jacket and vinyl pants drawing immediate attention, sported long, flowing locks of feathery hair that were professionally primped and styled. Her unblemished oval face, outlined with high cheekbones and colored with a sunny beige complexion, completed the picture. Even on a campus boasting the entire spectrum of black beauty, Ashley never failed to catch Brandon’s eye. Seated next to her, his friend and housemate Larry looked like exactly the type to pull a woman of her beauty (which he had, shortly before the end of last school year). Tall and tan-complected, with a fine grade of “good” hair, Larry tired of being told he looked like Will Smith. “Fresh Prince ain’t even in my league” was always his brusque reply.
“What’s up, people?” Brandon rolled up on the group, even as he felt his study time slipping away.
“The future doc himself, what up, man?” said Mark, a five-foot-ten, solidly built wrestling champion with a high yellow complexion and a near-bald haircut. Larry and Ashley were feverishly consuming a copy of the Highland Sentinel, which was spread in front of them.
“Just tryin’ to squeeze in a few minutes of study before a meeting,” Brandon replied, noting the look of consternation on Larry’s face. Something was obviously up.
Seemingly realizing he had left his boy hanging, Larry leaned back from the paper and acknowledged Brandon’s presence. “Choirboy, what’s up, man?” They exchanged the secret housemate handshake, slapping hands, following with a quick grip, sliding their fingers against each other’s palm, and closing with a quick snap of the fingers. Nothing special, but it made for some good male bonding.
Now Ashley finally deemed Brandon worthy of recognition, issuing him a weak smile. “Hey, Brandon.”
Larry rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Man, we’re just sitting here trippin’ off the latest Sheila Evans work of art.”
Brandon hadn’t seen a copy of the Sentinel this week.
“Oh, Lord, what has she done now?”
His trademark cockiness oozing between the lines, Mark piped up with a quick summary. “Seems Ms. Sheila has fired her latest round of editorials designed to give the Sentinel endorsement to our opponent, the good ‘Rev. Jackson.’ She got some nerve, man, claimin’ that our boy here is a member of the Young Republicans chapter, that he was on the administration’s side of the big student protest last year. She’s got him misquoted, misplaced, you name it, it’s just ugly. But she’ll get hers.”
Brandon was intrigued but remembered his need to get a few minutes of study in before the Disciples meeting. He turned to Larry, adjusting his backpack. “I’ll have to pick up a copy of the paper. I’ll find out more about your response tonight. By the way, we need to rap about that Ellis Center meeting. You’ll be home tonight, right?”
Casually, Larry leaned over to his left, resting his weight against Ashley’s silk blouse. “Well, you know that depends on what Ms. B here has to say . . .”
Delivering a mock smack to the side of Larry’s head, Ashley interrupted. “Brandon, if he’s home tonight, I’m sure he’ll let you know.”
Brandon laughed good-heartedly and stepped toward the elevator. “Peace, people.” Turning to take a last glimpse of the picture-perfect couple, Brandon sighed, trying to repress a gnawing sense of regret. He had no concept of what life at Highland was like with a fine lady by his side. He was starting to think he’d never know that pleasure, at Highland or anywhere else. It had been four years since he’d been with a woman, and even then he and Brandy had stopped just short of the line, in the name of
preserving his virginity. In the end, where had standing by his principles gotten him?
When the elevator doors popped open, he stepped forward and tried to drown the thoughts cluttering his mind. Maybe the boys at Ellis and their mothers were right. Maybe all men were really dogs, and he, with no woman and no kids, was less than a man.
A punk.
CHAPTER 2
. . . . . . . . . . . .
SMOOTH OPERATOR
“You’d think the brother could have shown a little more interest,” Mark said indignantly once Brandon was out of earshot.
“Is he going to be helping you out with this campaign, bro?”
Leaning forward, Larry chuckled. “Brandon believes in the power of prayer over politics, Mark. I don’t view him as a political tool; he’s my friend. When I see him back at the house he’ll wanna hear all the gory details. Like it’s any of your business anyway? Who are you now, the thought police?”
A faked grimace crossing his face, Mark winked at Ashley. “Boy, don’t you know I am your campaign manager? My one and only job is to see to it that you are elected to the presidency of the Highland Student Association—nothing less, nothing else. That job includes sizing up those around you. That’s my only reason for prying. You sho’ ’nuff sensitive today. Ashley, take this boy home and give him something to relieve that dam of stress he’s built up.”
Clearly amused but too proud to admit it, Ashley leaned back in her chair and saluted Mark with her middle finger. Hints of a stifled smile seeped around the corners of her perfect mouth.
Larry was glad he’d chosen not to live with any of the brothers in his closest circle of friends. Mark was the best friend he had at Highland, and as close to a kindred spirit as he had ever known, but he’d always known his ability to tolerate Mark’s antics would not survive their sharing the same house. Besides which, Ashley had made it clear to him last summer that she wouldn’t stand for his sharing a house or apartment with Mark. She knew all too well of Mark’s reputation as a man-about-town, and she also knew how many girls he and Larry had in common.
Between Brothers Page 2
