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Authors: Andrew Cotto
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said. “And I ain’t going back to Catholic School for nothing.”
“So you just take that from them?” he asked.
“I’ve had worse.”
He raised his head and eyeballed me. “Oh, so it sucks to be you, huh?” he asked.
“There you go,” I said with a wink.
I changed my pants, sat down behind my desk, and looked out the window. It seemed like the best place to be.
Chapter 4
T erence was a room jockey. He spent his free time in our second floor hideaway, riding his chair. I joined him (in my own chair, that is). While the other students did their thing in the warm September weather, Terence kept his head in a book, and I looked out over campus hoping to spot Brenda strolling down the path on some sort of mercenary mission to save me. I knew I was nuts, but still I kept watch.
One afternoon, a couple of buffoons exited Carlyle and made for Montgomery. A minute later, as expected, someone knocked on our door. I ignored it.
“Yo, yo, anybody in dere?” a voice crooned.
I cursed under my breath as I crossed the room to open the door.
“Rice!” I cried. “Where the hell you been?”
“What?” the long, pale figure in the doorway asked.
“A real, live black guy in our class, and you’re just coming by now?”
“Oh, that’s funny, that’s funny,” he nodded. “But we here now, ain’t we?”
“Yeah, too bad,” I said and motioned him in with my head, but he didn’t move. He just stood there with his hand perched out to the side. I didn’t go for the fancy handshake game. Can’t two guys just shake hands without making a show out of it? I let Rice hang there for a bit, with his hand held out all ridiculous like that. Then I eventually, offered him my hand, which he grabbed and groped and squeezed through a couple of poses.
Rice was really William Miller, a moron, wrapped in a riddle, wrapped in an Air Jordan sweat suit. He thought he was black, so people called him Rice as a reminder of what he was as white as. He lived in the other dorm, Carlyle, where I wished he still was, instead of poppin’& breakin’ into our room with his stoner sidekick in tow.
Rice waddled toward Terence like some sort of ghetto penguin. “Bill,” he said, and swung a handshake from the hip. “I’m your power forward, G,” he said.
Terence looked stunned.
“This here’s my boy, Santos,” Rice said, with a thumb dunked back over his shoulder. The pudgy heir to a Puerto Rican rum dynasty stood with his back to the closet and his hands clasped in front of his crotch. His eyes were glassy, and he reeked of weed. He nodded at Terence, and then at me. Santos and that goon McCoy could have had some conversation — nothing but nods and grunts.
Rice helped himself to a seat on my bed, crossing his long legs. “We heard about your all sitch-eation’ and shit with them man-huggers,” he said to Terence. “They talking about it all over school and shit, don’t cha know.”
“Who is?” I asked.
“Everybody, G,” he said. “And you know them wrestlers is feeling it, too, ’cause of them signs and shit they put up in the mail room.”
“What signs?” Terence asked. “Where?”
“Ah, don’t worry about it,” I said. “It’s nothing.”
“Oh, yeah,” Rice said to me with his chin up. “And I heard them fools put a big hit on you and shit out there in broad daylight and shit.”
Super.
“Stop saying that, and shit, every time you open your mouth, alright?” I said. “That was an accident out there. They don’t know me from Adam.”
“Sheet,” Rice tried to drawl. “You trippin,’ Home Slice. This shit’s on, for real and shit, like it or not, and shit. We got a player now, took one of their scholarships, too.” He turned to Terence and asked quietly, “You got a scholarship to come here, right?”
Terence nodded.
“Solid!” Rice cried, and smacked his hands together. “Who hooked you up? Carolina? Georgetown? Duke Blue Devils?”
“Ah, Brown,” Terence said, fingering
“So you just take that from them?” he asked.
“I’ve had worse.”
He raised his head and eyeballed me. “Oh, so it sucks to be you, huh?” he asked.
“There you go,” I said with a wink.
I changed my pants, sat down behind my desk, and looked out the window. It seemed like the best place to be.
Chapter 4
T erence was a room jockey. He spent his free time in our second floor hideaway, riding his chair. I joined him (in my own chair, that is). While the other students did their thing in the warm September weather, Terence kept his head in a book, and I looked out over campus hoping to spot Brenda strolling down the path on some sort of mercenary mission to save me. I knew I was nuts, but still I kept watch.
One afternoon, a couple of buffoons exited Carlyle and made for Montgomery. A minute later, as expected, someone knocked on our door. I ignored it.
“Yo, yo, anybody in dere?” a voice crooned.
I cursed under my breath as I crossed the room to open the door.
“Rice!” I cried. “Where the hell you been?”
“What?” the long, pale figure in the doorway asked.
“A real, live black guy in our class, and you’re just coming by now?”
“Oh, that’s funny, that’s funny,” he nodded. “But we here now, ain’t we?”
“Yeah, too bad,” I said and motioned him in with my head, but he didn’t move. He just stood there with his hand perched out to the side. I didn’t go for the fancy handshake game. Can’t two guys just shake hands without making a show out of it? I let Rice hang there for a bit, with his hand held out all ridiculous like that. Then I eventually, offered him my hand, which he grabbed and groped and squeezed through a couple of poses.
Rice was really William Miller, a moron, wrapped in a riddle, wrapped in an Air Jordan sweat suit. He thought he was black, so people called him Rice as a reminder of what he was as white as. He lived in the other dorm, Carlyle, where I wished he still was, instead of poppin’& breakin’ into our room with his stoner sidekick in tow.
Rice waddled toward Terence like some sort of ghetto penguin. “Bill,” he said, and swung a handshake from the hip. “I’m your power forward, G,” he said.
Terence looked stunned.
“This here’s my boy, Santos,” Rice said, with a thumb dunked back over his shoulder. The pudgy heir to a Puerto Rican rum dynasty stood with his back to the closet and his hands clasped in front of his crotch. His eyes were glassy, and he reeked of weed. He nodded at Terence, and then at me. Santos and that goon McCoy could have had some conversation — nothing but nods and grunts.
Rice helped himself to a seat on my bed, crossing his long legs. “We heard about your all sitch-eation’ and shit with them man-huggers,” he said to Terence. “They talking about it all over school and shit, don’t cha know.”
“Who is?” I asked.
“Everybody, G,” he said. “And you know them wrestlers is feeling it, too, ’cause of them signs and shit they put up in the mail room.”
“What signs?” Terence asked. “Where?”
“Ah, don’t worry about it,” I said. “It’s nothing.”
“Oh, yeah,” Rice said to me with his chin up. “And I heard them fools put a big hit on you and shit out there in broad daylight and shit.”
Super.
“Stop saying that, and shit, every time you open your mouth, alright?” I said. “That was an accident out there. They don’t know me from Adam.”
“Sheet,” Rice tried to drawl. “You trippin,’ Home Slice. This shit’s on, for real and shit, like it or not, and shit. We got a player now, took one of their scholarships, too.” He turned to Terence and asked quietly, “You got a scholarship to come here, right?”
Terence nodded.
“Solid!” Rice cried, and smacked his hands together. “Who hooked you up? Carolina? Georgetown? Duke Blue Devils?”
“Ah, Brown,” Terence said, fingering
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