First Semester Read online

  FIRST SEMESTER

  Cecil R. Cross II

  I dedicate this novel to my grandmother Velma Vinson who

  watched me scoot before I could stand. She ran her course.

  Now it’s my turn. I know she’s watching from heaven.

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENT

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  EPILOGUE

  Acknowledgment

  First of all, I would like to thank God for blessing me with the ability and creativity to write this novel, and the opportunity to share it with the world. Without Him, I am an inkless pen. With Him, nothing is impossible. I would like to thank my parents, Cecil and Vera, for guiding me, encouraging me and always believing in my dreams. Thanks for coming up with the title, Mom! To my sister, Ebony, I thank you for being my number one fan. I’m yours, too! When the movie drops, you’re starring in it! My brother, Dre, thanks for introducing me to the “A” and teaching me how to stick to the script! Grandma Mabel, you are truly heaven-sent. Thanks for being my angel in the physical form. Keunna, Kahlana and Katrice, thanks for your sense of humor, style and strength. “D Baby,” thanks for equipping me with the heart of an entrepreneur. Nana, thanks for putting a pen and pad in my hand on “the trip.” It’s still paying off! To my agent, Regina Brooks, thanks for recognizing my talent, always keeping it real and consistently pushing for perfection.

  Mark, my brotha from anotha motha, thanks for staying down since day one. We on our way! Rodo, thanks for being my college roommate, a loyal friend, and for helping me launch LOOK Magazine, an idea bigger than us. Doc, thanks for your mentorship, and for convincing me that I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me. To the rest of my cousins, aunts, uncles and extended fam, thanks for your love and continued support.

  To my favorite professor, Ms. Shawn Evans-Mitchell, thanks for being the first to read and edit this project, and for giving me the confidence to shop it. Special shout-outs to Ish, for schooling me about the Bay, the Chill Factor click, for putting me up on G in the Chi, Bobby V, for showing me how fast dreams can become reality, Jon and Kev, for keeping my pen moving with RedZone Magazine, my CIA boys, for your prayers, and my Plush Blue fam, for grinding with me and keeping my pockets laced while I was waiting for this book to drop. To my frat brothers in Kappa Alpha Psi, thanks for your support. Keep on achieving! To Oprah, thanks for having your questions ready. I’m coming for that couch! Big ups to all the bookstores, radio stations and newspaper and magazine editors for helping put First Semester on the map!

  Last but not least, I would like to thank all of the Ramen-noodle-eating, long-registration-line-standing, dorm-room-living college students who spent their refund-check money to buy this book. You were my inspiration.

  PROLOGUE

  LOOKING BACK

  They say hindsight is twenty-twenty. But sometimes, by the time you look back, it’s too late.

  If somebody would’ve told me that one test score would determine whether or not I was allowed to stay in college in Atlanta or be sent back to the streets of Oakland, I probably would’ve done things a little differently. Especially since I knew I only had one chance.

  After all, “You never get a second first semester.”

  CHAPTER 1

  THE CRIB

  No matter how hard I tried to enjoy myself on graduation night, I couldn’t party the way I wanted to. I walked across the stage, heard my name called on the loudspeaker, shook the principal’s hand, got my diploma, turned my tassels and threw my cap in the air. I even took pictures with my family afterward. Yet a small part of me still felt like a failure.

  Maybe sitting at the kitchen table guzzling shots of Hennessey with my boy T-Spoon had something to do with my moment of introspection. But for some reason, I just wasn’t in the partying mood. For mostly everybody else at the party, this was the end of the line. Just getting a high school diploma was the biggest accomplishment they would ever know. T-Spoon was a fifth-year senior who bounced around four different high schools before finally giving up and getting his GED a couple of months ago. He was probably more excited than anybody just to have his GED, especially since he had a baby on the way. I’ve known T-Spoon since elementary school, and I must admit, I never even thought he would go for his GED. He was one of my boys who I’d grown up with, but knew to keep at a distance, because he was a live wire. With T-Spoon you never knew what to expect. Although we hadn’t talked much over the last couple months, I knew that for T-Spoon, getting his GED was equivalent to anybody else getting their Ph.D. But the more we drank, the more his sentences were filled with a hopeless hood mentality all too common where I’m from.

  “You know you my nigga, right?” he asked in a drunken slur as he tore the plastic off a Swisher Sweet cigar wrapper. “I bet you never thought your boy would’ve graduated, huh?”

  By “graduated” I took it he meant got his GED. Instead of asking for clarification, I just flowed with it.

  “You’re doing your thing, blood,” I said, taking another swallow of Hen.

  “Doing my thing, huh?” he asked. “Man, what’s up with you tonight? You seem like you’re somewhere else, blood.”

  “I’m just tripping on how fast time is flying, bro,” I said. “I’m looking around at cats we done played Little League with, football with—they’re grown men now. Breezies we used to play hide-and-get-it with at recess are walking around pregnant.”

  “Somebody finally got it,” he said, laughing.

  “I guess so,” I said.

  “But that’s called life,” he said, as he split the cigar in half and dumped its tobacco in the garbage can. “And I don’t know about you, but I’m enjoying mine. A nigga just came up on a quarter pound of some of that purp we robbed from the white boys out in Vallejo last weekend.”

  “Y'all hit ’em up for a quarter pound?”

  “And got out of there like a thief in the night, pimpin’. But like I was sayin’, I’m figna make a couple dumps, get this money and smoke like Bob Marley. If I get all this weed off in the next week, I’ll have enough to go up on a half pound by myself, and still have enough to throw some dubs on the Caprice.”

  “Then what?”

  “What you mean, then what?”

  “Say you get off all that fire in a week, you get your half a powwow and you hook up your car. Then what?”

  “Then I do it all over again,” he said as he whipped a fat dime sack out of his pocket and began to break down the weed on the kitchen table. “You know a nigga got a seed on the way, so I gotta grind.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about, blood,” I said. “I didn’t sit through all these classes for four years just to grind. And neither did you. A nigga’s tired of trying to make ends meet slangin’ these dope sacks. There’s gotta be more to life than this.”

  “For some people there is,” he mumbled as he licked the blunt and rolled it to give it an airtight seal. “That’s why I got my GED, so I’ll have something to fall back on. But last time I checked, Microsoft ain’t hiring people with GEDs. So until they start, I’m hustling, blood. But you got your diploma. You should be straight. That
’s your ticket.”

  “You would think so, right?”

  “You ain’t got into college yet?” he asked as he cuffed his hand around the lighter and sparked his blunt.

  “I ain’t got accepted to no real schools,” I said, downing another shot. “It’s to the point where you would think a high school diploma ain’t good enough to get in college no more.”

  “What you mean real school?” he asked.

  “Schools outside of Cali.”

  “What!” he asked excitedly, exhaling a large cloud of smoke. “Don’t tell me my nigga is trying to leave the Town! You ain’t never even been no further than L.A., and you’re trying to leave Cali?”

  “Who’s trying to leave Cali?” a familiar voice asked.

  When I turned around to see who it was, my boy Todd had already extended his hand to give me our hood handshake. After gripping me up, then T-Spoon, he asked again, “So, who’s bouncing?”

  “Go ahead and tell him, blood,” T-Spoon said, taking a long pull of the blunt before passing it to me. “Tell him about your plan to go to a real college.”

  “Oh!” Todd yelled. “My nigga got into a college!”

  “Nah, blood,” I said, taking a slow drag. “You know how T-Spoon be jumping to conclusions.”

  “So, what happened?” Todd asked.

  “Nothing,” I said as I damn near coughed up a lung. “We were just talking about life, and how niggas gotta make some grown-man decisions right about now.”

  “It’s one thing to make a grown-man decision,” T-Spoon said, gulping down another shot of Hen. “But leave Oakland? I don’t know about that one, blood.”

  “I mean, why not?” I asked. “Don’t get me wrong. You know I’ve got love for the Town. But I ain’t never left California in my life, blood.”

  “Me neither,” T-Spoon said. “You say that to say what?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, if you’re content with being stuck in the Town your whole life, then I guess that’s cool for you. But I just feel like there’s got to be something else out here for me. It’s time for me to see some new shit.”

  “I can dig it,” Todd said, reaching for the blunt. “I don’t know about y’all, but I’m gone.”

  “You too?” T-Spoon asked.

  “Your boy got accepted to Crampton last week,” Todd said. “I’m outta here.”

  “I applied there too,” I said.

  “How come you didn’t get in?” T-Spoon asked.

  “Probably because he waited until the very last second to send in his application,” Todd said. “You know J.D. is good for waiting to do everything.”

  “Hey, you know I do my best work with my back against the wall,” I said.

  “I don’t know about all that,” T-Spoon said between laughs. “I still remember the first time me and my mom came by your crib to pick you up for our first football game.”

  “Ahh, shit, here you go,” I said.

  “We were already running hella late,” T-Spoon continued. “And when we got there, he was just waking up, trying to figure out how to put his pads in his pants. He tried to grab all of his stuff and rush out of the house. But he forgot to bring…”

  “One cleat and one thigh pad,” I said, cutting him off.

  “Hold on,” Todd said, laughing even harder. “I remember that game. You forgot your helmet too, nigga.”

  “You sure did,” T-Spoon said. “Man, we had some fun growing up. I can’t believe y’all are talking about bouncing. Where is Crampton anyway?”

  “It’s an historically black college in Virginia,” Todd said.

  “Now, that’s what’s crackin’!” I said.

  “I don’t know nothin’ about no historically black college,” T-Spoon said, picking up the fifth of Hen, leaning his head back and downing the last couple of swigs. “But there’s some historically fat asses in that party downstairs. I don’t know about y’all, but I’m tryin’ to get behind one of ’em.”

  “I’m feeling that,” Todd said as he held the dwindling remains of the blunt in between his fingers, trying to get one last pull. “Ah, I almost burnt my finger trying to smoke with y’all. C’mon, blood.” He grabbed me by my shoulder. “Don’t even trip on that school shit. You’ll be straight.”

  “Oh yeah, blood, I almost forgot,” T-Spoon said, stumbling back into the kitchen. “When you get into that real college…and you will be getting in…do something I never did.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Don’t bullshit, man. Take it serious. Finish.”

  “If I get in, I got you,” I said.

  “You mean, when you get in, right?” Todd asked.

  “Yeah, blood,” I said, still sounding unsure. “When I get in.”

  The floor was sticky and the walls were dripping with perspiration. The small red lightbulb hanging from the ceiling vibrated with every thud of the bass. Smoke clouded the room, and damn near everybody at the party was holding a drink. Girls were bent over with hands on their knees, backing it up on guys who stood their ground behind them, bouncing to the beat while holding their hands high in the air, as if they were being robbed. The shoulder-to-shoulder crowd had to have exceeded fire code regulations hours ago, but no one cared. What was supposed to be an invitation-only, postgraduation get-together in my homeboy Jerrell’s basement had turned into the most crackin’ party of the year. It was almost too good to be true. Parties in Oakland never lasted long. I was just waiting for a fight to break out, or the rollers to swing through and shut the joint down.

  It didn’t take long for my intuition to materialize.

  Just when I spotted my girlfriend, Keisha, in the mix, and was on my way to dance with her, some stocky, dark-skinned dude with dreads, trying to smoke a blunt and get low at the same time, accidentally bumped into me while he was dancing, charring the sleeve of my fresh white T with the ashes. Obviously he was too drunk to know that he’d almost burned a hole through my shirt, so I let it slide. But when he stumbled on T-Spoon’s brand-new white-on-white Air Force Ones, I knew he’d gone too far. Within seconds, T-Spoon, who’d probably had one too many himself, pushed the guy so hard he tripped over someone else and fell flat on his back. If the fall wasn’t embarrassing enough, everyone in the party laughed so loud they drowned out Tupac’s “Ambitionz of a Ridah” blaring through the speakers. T-Spoon, wearing a drunken grin from ear to ear, bent down, picked the guy’s blunt up off the floor, took a puff and waved it high in the air.

  “Anybody wanna hit this?” he asked obnoxiously.

  “This fool is crazy, blood,” Todd said, laughing.

  “I could’ve told you that,” I said as I downed the last of my Hennessey.

  Suddenly, a shot rang out, shattering the lightbulb dangling overhead. Complete darkness sent a chill through the room. It resumed with three more shots, aimed in my direction. I felt the second shot drill a hole through the wall just beside me, and grabbed my ear in agony as the third bullet whistled by. After the last shot, I heard a groan, then felt a hand try to grasp my shoulder, only to slide away limply.

  “Help me, J.,” T-Spoon said as his lifeless body crumbled to the floor, landing at my feet. In the midst of the stampede for the stairs, I could hear loud cries and shrieks echoing from the stairwell. But I just crouched down, holding my boy T-Spoon, in silence.

  Two weeks had gone by since I’d decided I’d had enough of the city that I could never have imagined leaving before. Growing up in East Oakland, I was no stranger to violence. In the last four years, I’d seen a dude get beat into a coma, witnessed a pregnant girl get her front teeth kicked out and lost countless homeboys to senseless drive-bys. But until T-Spoon got killed at Jerrell’s party, I’d become immune to all of it. Until then, it was just a way of life. But now I was sick of it.

  Over the last couple of weeks, whenever I wasn’t with Keisha, I spent most of my time at Todd’s crib, playing video games. Sometimes, Keisha would come with me. At that point, I was doing any and eve
rything to keep my mind off the fact that one of my boys had recently died in my arms. I’d had so many nightmares about it that sometimes just going to sleep seemed like torture.

  Though I had trouble sleeping, just being around Todd made things a whole lot easier for me. That’s why he was my best friend. He was the only one who stayed in the basement with me until the paramedics arrived. Todd always found a way to keep his cool, even though he was going through the same strife. He grew up in the hood like everyone else, but Todd was the one everybody expected to make it out. When he wasn’t catching touchdown passes for our high school football team, he was making speeches as class president. He was even voted homecoming king. He kicked it with the rest of us on weekends, but somehow always managed to get his homework done. I was tight with a lot of guys in the hood, but none were closer to me than Todd. Although I never said it, at times I looked up to him.

  In Oakland, we were inseparable. Wherever I went, Todd wasn’t far behind, and vice versa. We did everything together—hit up parties, played basketball, went to the movies. Hell, our senior year, we even opened our mail together. And everybody knows that there’s no better feeling than opening your own mail as a high school senior. But sometimes, opening my mail over at Todd’s crib was a catch-22. Although I loved to see him get accepted to virtually every school he applied to, most of the time the letters I received from colleges were rejection letters. Of the six schools I’d applied to, I’d received letters from five of them. All of them started off the same way: “Mr. Dawson, we have reviewed your application. This year, we had an overwhelming number of qualified applicants. Unfortunately, we were unable to accept you into our institution.”