College Boy : A Novel (9781416586500)

by Omar Tyree

  “Cindy was a crazy, caramel-skinned girl with curly hair and green eyes. Guys were just dying to get her pregnant,” Charlotte said, stopping to chuckle to herself.

  Troy began to think about Lisa. He had rolled in the hay with her several times already.

  “She had this real fine Indian-looking dude with thick black hair,” his mother continued. “He was real well-dressed, too. I think his family had some money. But anyway, that man ended up losing his mind, beating her up and all.

  “She had four daughters by him. Fourbeautiful daughters. Two are around your age. They’re all drugged up and pregnant now, just like their mother. So, I don’t know how them girls are up there, but you watch out. And make sure you wear protection, ’cause you know all these diseases and whatnot are floating around.” Charlotte smiled and patted her son on his left shoulder. “OK, that’s all I wanted to talk to you about. And I love you.”

  Troy left the house to join his neighborhood partners after answering about twenty questions from his relatives. He was so excited that he stumbled up the steps and accidentally knocked the already-broken screen door off the hinges.

  “Yo, Scooter!” he hollered, walking right in.

  “Yo, Cool, I’m downstairs, man!”Scooter yelled from the basement. Troy went down the stairs to see Scooter, Raheem, and Blue, all smoking marijuana on the couch. They were watching a brand-new television set. It was a twenty-seven-inch console. Juice, the youngest, was knocked out and sitting by himself in an old, brown La-Z-Boy chair.

  Scooter shook Troy’s hand, happy to see him. “So what’s up, Cool? You gettin’ a bunch of drawers in college?” he asked.

  Raheem and Blue continued to smoke, waiting for an answer themselves.

  “Where that TV come from?” Troy asked, disregarding Scooter’s question.

  “That’s Raheem’s TV. He don’t want his mom gettin’ hyped about him sellin’ drugs, so he got it and brought it over here,” Scooter said. He was slightly shorter than Troy. He could almost pass for Peter’s brother. However, only their appearances were similar. Scooter was no Peter, and Peter was no Scooter.

  Troy looked at Raheem and smiled.

  “So what’s up, man? You get some sex, or what?” Raheem demanded as he smiled back. He was tan-skinned and slightly taller than Troy, with a clean-shaven face.

  “Now, why you gon’ ask me a stupid question like that? Y’all know damn well that wherever I go, I’m gon’ get me some drawers,” Troy snapped.

  “You should have brought some pictures back, nigga,” Raheem suggested. He took another puff of a joint and squinted his eyes.

  “You trippin’ now, ’cause you the only guy I know that’s into pictures and shit. I ain’t thinkin’ ’bout no damn pictures.”

  “Did you stick any White girls up there? That’s what I wanna know,” Blue said. Blue was an extremely dark, handsome brown. He had deep-set eyes and a strong-boned nose. Blue sat next to Raheem, who commented before Troy could answer.

  “Blue, you always worried about some White girls. What, you wanna marry one, man?” he quizzed. “You the blackest nigga in this basement and worried about White girls all the time. I know what you want, you tryin’ to get some lightness out your black ass.”

  They all burst into rib-hurting laughter as Troy settled down to answer. “Naw, man. I ain’t pop no White girls,” he said.

  “What, cuz, you can’t get no White whores?” Scooter queried.

  “Man, them White girls don’t know what black beauty is. They think we all ugly, I guess,” Troy told him. “The fat and gruesome White girls be the ones trying to get with Black guys, not the pretty ones. I’m tellin’ y’all now, it’s hard as hell to get a good-looking White babe if you’re Black. I think a lot of White girls would masturbate before sleeping with one of us.”

  “Naw, man, I think you just ain’t tryin’ enough,” Blue insisted.

  “I’m telling you, man, some Black dudes can get White girls, but it’s usually them Black dudes that can act White and speak their fake-ass language. Man, we hard-core niggas from back here. What do we know about actin’ White?” Troy paused to view their facial expressions. They all looked on as if they were learning something that would save their lives. Juice was still asleep.

  “They fake as hell anyway, man. You know what dem White people are?” Troy asked rhetorically. “They’re emotional liars and shit; smilin’ and actin’ all happy all the time. I got a cool roommate, though. But really, he’s a funny, stupid-actin’ Jewish dude.”

  “You got a Jewish roommate?” Scooter asked excitedly. “Shit, cuz, I’d rob his ass if I was you.”

  “Dig, cuz. Jews got money up the ass,” Raheem agreed.

  “Aw man, here we go. That’s exactly why White people are scared of us now,” Troy said.

  “Man, look, fuck dat! Them White motherfuckers took everything from us. So why the hell shouldn’t we rob them?” Raheem rebutted.

  “ ’Cause they gon’ throw your ass in jail, that’s why,” Scooter interjected. “I mean, I was just jokin’ when I said that shit.”

  Raheem snickered at him. “Yeah, ’cause you’s a coward anyway.”

  “Look, fellas, I got some good news,” Troy interrupted. He went silent for a few minutes to make sure he had their full attention.

  “Aw’ight, what, nigga?” Raheem asked, tired of waiting.

  “Yo, I’m on the hoop team. I told y’all I would make it!” Troy said, expecting a burst of excitement. Yet they all just sat there, not budging.

  “So you got a scholarship?” Blue asked.

  “Not yet, but the coach said if I play well in the games, he’ll hook it up.”

  Raheem frowned, disappointed. “You ain’t gon’ get no time without a hookup. You gon’ be ridin’ the pine,” he predicted with a grin.

  “We all gon’ be watchin’ the game down here and shit, and gon’ see Troy, like, ‘Yo, there go Troy on the bench, three seats from the coach. Yup, it’s him, right there on the bench.’”

  Troy felt stupid for opening his mouth. He wanted to punch his friend in the mouth, but he wasn’t sure if he could beat Raheem. “Yeah, aw’ight, cuz, but I made the team. You didn’t think I’d do that either,” he responded to him.

  “Yo, Troy, come get somethin’ to drink, man,” Scooter said. He walked up the stairs as Troy followed him to the kitchen.

  “We got the crib all night. My peoples went to my aunt’s house to fix it up for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving Day dinner,” Scooter said, fetching Troy a glass to drink from. “Yeah, cuz, don’t worry about dem niggas, man, dey nuts anyway. They ain’t goin’ nowhere. But you on the team, hunh? I knew you would make it. You the strongest-minded nigga here.

  “I remember we told you to jump off that damn roof as a dare. You remember?” Troy nodded as Scooter continued. “Yeah, you damn near broke your fuckin’ legs. You did it, though.”

  They laughed before calming down.

  “Yup, Crazy-Ass Troy we used to call you. ‘Don’t ask Troy to do shit, ’cause he’ll do it,’ “ Scooter added, giggling. “ ‘You can’t keep that crazy nigga down.’

  “I mean, you always did your own thing. That’s why you made it out. You didn’t get trapped into that group shit, like I did.”

  “Naw, Scoot, I ain’t out yet. But when I do get out, I’m gon’ get y’all, too, even if y’all do laugh at me now,” Troy told him. “But what’s been goin’ on back here, man? What’s the news?” he asked, looking positive again. He drank the juice Scooter had given him with one big swallow.

  “Man, ain’t shit going on back here. You the news, I guess,” Scooter told him. “You wanna hear the news? Well, here’s the news. Tommy got shot tryin’ to steal a car up Nicetown. Malika, that freak babe, was on drugs and tried to sell her baby. That nice old lady that used to live around the street from us got mugged and had a heart attack.

  “That ain’t no fuckin’ kind of news, man! You the news, Cool. You the only thing we got to talk about.


  And don’t worry about Raheem and them, man, they just jealous. ’Cause as soon as the first games come on, the whole damn neighborhood gon’ be watchin’ you, man, and you know dat.”

  Scooter took a second to calm himself as he set Troy’s glass in the sink. “Yeah, Troy, man, you keep workin’ hard up there in college and make it out for all us. I want you to show dem White people that we can make it, man, even from the fuckin’ ghetto.”

  CHANGING VIEWS

  TROY COULD VISUALIZE THE EDGE OF A STEEP CLIFF, PROMPTINGhim to form a new outlook. The university had become his safeguard against the poverty and despair of home. His only concerns inside the university walls were studying, hanging out, romancing. and playing basketball. He started to think about never returning home, to the g-h-e-t-t-o.

  Simon entered the room, throwing his luggage on the floor. “Hey, Troy, how are ya’? How was your holiday?”

  Troy was stretched out on his bed, daydreaming. “It was aw’ight. Nothin’ special. How was yours?”

  Simon opened his suitcase across his bed to un-pack. “Man, it was great! I didn’t want to come back to college. I seriously felt like dropping out. You just don’t know how close I was, Troy,” he answered. “My friend back home, he’s gonna travel to, like, Europe, Mexico, Jamaica, and Brazil.

  “You should hear this guy. He’s got it all mapped out already. I was really ready to go with him, but I had already paid to come here. So I said, ‘Naw, ta hell with that.’”

  “Yeah, well, I wish me and you could trade places, ’cause I would say, ‘Ta hell with college,’ and go.”

  “Oh yeah, Troy, you wanna?” Simon asked with a smile.

  “Are you crazy, man? I don’t have the money to do that.”

  “Yeah, well that’s too bad, ’cause I wasn’t going to go either. My dad paid too much money for me to go to college, to just throw it away.”

  “Look, man, since your mom and pops own their own shit, you could just work for them and you won’t have to go to college,” Troy suggested.

  Simon continued to put his things away. “I don’t wanna do that. Plus, I don’t really like computers and I would die in law school. I’m thinking about owning my own consulting business, you know?”

  “Naw, man, I don’t know,” Troy told him.

  “Aw, quit pouting. You got better grades than me,and you’re on the basketball team. You’re in a much better position than I am,” Simon said.

  “You really are crazy,” Troy commented. “I could never be in a better position than you. You’re rich and fruitful compared to me. If I fail in college, I return to nothin’. But if you fail, you got your folks. And you’re a White Jew anyway.”

  Simon hunched his shoulders and frowned. “What does that have to do with anything? If you work hard, you succeed. It’s just as simple as that.”

  “Yeah, well, we gon’ see, Simon. I’ll always remember that you said that. It doesn’t matter that I’m Black. If I work hard, I will succeed.”

  Next day, Troy had a group meeting with all C.M.P. students to discuss college integrity. Ninety percent of the C.M.P. students were Black. The event was monitored by the five C.M.P. counselors. Four of them were Black and one counselor was Latino. Three counselors were men and two were women, including Troy’s counselor, Ms. Whatley.

  “Today we want to have a group session to talk about your thoughts on college life so far. But before we start, I would like someone to answer something for me. Why did you come to college?” the short and stocky counselor named Paul asked.

  A large, talkative girl was the first to answer. “I came to college to get a better job, which would put me in a higher economic position than what I am in now. I live in a nice home and all, but I want more.”

  The rest of the freshman class agreed as Troy looked around, spotting Doc, Bruce, Clay, James, Peter, Reggie, Tanya, Lisa, and Matthew, along with several other freshmen he had met through C.M.P.

  A smaller sister picked up where the first left off. “Well, specifically, I wanted to come to a White college because I wanted to learn how to deal with White people, for when you go out into the real world. I grew up in an all-Black neighborhood, and I could have gone to a lot of Black schools, but I don’t feel that that’s a realistic situation. ’Cause when they step out of college, it’s Whites who are hiring.”

  Her statement triggered Max, one of the other counselors, to comment. “Hey, wait a minute here,” Max interjected, with a rumbling beer belly. I graduated from an all-Black university. I still know how to deal with people. None of the people I know speak as if they’re from another planet or dress funny. So why would that affect you in getting a job?”

  The students roared with rebuttals to defend their young thoughts.

  “It’s a White world, so you have to learn how to deal with White people. It doesn’t even make sense to go to a Black school,” one student commented.

  “Yup, ’cause I have a cousin in an all-Black school, and all she talks about is Black Power. I keep tellin’ her she gon’ have to deal with White people as soon as she gets out,” another sister added.

  “Well, I came to this White college ’cause I wanted to play football. The Black schools don’t get no respect,” Bruce added.

  James had a rebuttal. “That’s only because all the good Black players go to White colleges. They got the money and publicity. But if all Blacks decided to go to Black schools, they would have to get respect. Black players run ball better than Whites.”

  “You know, we all talking that ‘I got to learn how to be with White people’ stuff, but I don’t see where we spend all this time being with them. I mean, although we’re up here together, they do their thing, and we do ours,” said a strong-spoken sister from the back row.

  “Yup, that’s true, ’cause I gotthree White room-mates, and none of them hang out with me. I’ve even tried to hang out with one of them. She gave me the cold shoulder, so I said, ‘Ta hell with you too, honey,’” another sister tacked on.

  “Unh-hunh, ’cause my roommate tried to tell me that she was about to have company, like I was supposed to leave or something. I stayed right in my room and met all of her little girlfriends. She had the nerve to be mad, too, ’cause she damn sure don’t speak to me no more.

  “Excuse my mouth, but that just really pissed me off, you know?”

  The Black women were taking over the discussion. The few White students didn’t say anything. The discussion was quickly being transformed into one on college racism.

  “Them White girls are a trip. They want you to help them with stuff, and then they don’t want to help you when you’re confused. This girl asks me all the time, ‘How do you do this?’ and, ‘How do you do that?’ And when I ask her something, she never knows anything, right. And I know she does, ’cause she gets straight A’s on all her tests,” the first talkative girl added.

  “Look, all White people are not like that, OK? I mean, that’s just that girl’s problem. You can’t say that every White person is like that,” a defensive White student said, finally.

  “Well excuuuse me, but ain’t nobody say that all White people do it.”

  “Can I say something, here?” a well-spoken Black student asked, dressed in a vest, tie, slacks, and penny loafers. “OK, I grew up in the suburbs around pre-dominantly White people, and I feel that a lot of times, Blacks have negative attitudes toward Whites.

  I’ve also noticed that I get more back talk from my own than I do from them.”

  His comments were snickered at because of his tone of voice.

  “Well, we can see why. I mean, to tell you the truth, I’m real tired of people trying to say that if you don’t speak like this guy here, that you’re illiterate. I don’t use slang, but I still sound like a Black person, and Ido speak with the properness that I need to be comprehended by anyone. So that’s bull. And I’ll make sure that my children will never speak like him. I mean, if he called me up on the phone to talk to me, I would think he had the wrong number
and hang up or something,” a sister dressed in a black silk suit snapped.

  The freshmen class scoffed in a frenzy.

  “See, this is exactly what I’m speaking about. It’s not my fault that I speak as I do, OK? I guess that my parents did not want me to grow up in some ghetto neighborhood.”

  “You know what, I ain’t grow up in no ghetto, and I damn sure don’t see where you came out any better than us. You can’t even get along with your own people.”

  “I know. Who he think he is?”

  “Word, right? How come this kid in C.M.P., then, if he’s so much better off than us?”

  After the discussion had ended, James drove Troy to one of his aunts on the west side of campus. State University was close to downtown, near the center-city shopping area.

  “Yo, Troy, that discussion got wild as shit today, didn’t it, homes?” James asked. They were going to watch the school’s last regular season football game on cable television.

  “Yeah, that one dude set it off,” Troy mentioned.

  James chuckled. “I know. Homes was stupid, though. I’m glad I wasn’t raised in no suburb.”

  Troy nodded. “Dig. It’s rough when you can’t get along with your own people. As far as I’m concerned, his parents fucked his life up. All he can be with is White people now. He’s like a sideshow for them. I mean, it’s cool to want better housing and all, but you gotta let your kids know who they are, or they’ll turn out like him every time.”

  James kept his eyes glued to the road. “Yup, homes.” He then reflected for a moment. “I grew up right here, Troy, in Marsh County. This city has the most bridges in the world,” he commented.

  “How do you know that?” Troy asked. He observed the pleasant surrounding of trees and grass as they continued to travel. It was relaxing compared to Philadelphia’s miles of urban row houses and concrete. Nevertheless, Marsh County was too quiet and kind of boring to him.

  “I read about it in the encyclopedia,” James said. “I used to be into stuff like that. This was rated the number-one city in the country.”