Chapter 1
ROBERT
One more set. The “optional” repeat 300 meters workout left my heart pounding. My chest contracted as I heaved in and out. There was no one to witness my legs shaking from lactic acid. No one to witness the sweat dripping from my eyelashes, leaving streaks on the corners of my mouth. No one to distract me, or save me, from the New York City heat that turned this God-forsaken red rubber track into a layer of sizzling coals in the mid-May heat. If I pushed a little harder, maybe I could run myself to a level of exhaustion where I’d forget that Donovan never texted me back. If I pushed a little harder… if I gave one more set, one more rep, one more 300-meter run, maybe, just maybe, Coach Robert would see me for the athlete that I could be.
On the track, I was Superwoman. In my running tights and sports bra, #BlackGirlMagic beat through my body. The only things that mattered were the 400 meters in front of me, the 400 meters behind me, and the rapid beating of my heart before stepping to the starting line. By the final set of the workout, I all but crawled across the finish line, seconds off from my expected pace. My head hung over my knees before my body eventually collapsed. Coach Robert, the sprints and distance coach, walked out to the bench by the starting line of the 100-meter dash, right beside the golden statue of a famous Hurston University coach. He hardly noticed my defeated body sprawled across the lane. Red rubber pieces dented my brown skin and tangled in my braids. Okay. You can do this. I filled my chest with as much air and confidence as my nose could suck in. This Hurston University tuition is too much for Mom. You may have started as a walk-on, running without money while the rest of your team had full scholarships, but you’re just as good as them now. You just have to show Coach.
After pulling my heavy body to its feet, I approached Coach with caution. In my head, I reviewed all of the arguments as to why I deserved a scholarship. I’m a hard worker. As one of the youngest sophomores on the team, I still have one of the highest GPAs. I dropped my time in the 400-meter dash by seconds. I qualified for North Regionals. I earned this. “Hi, Coach.” The octaves in my voice rose levels higher than normal. As I was taught at an early age, good girls used unassuming, nonthreatening voices, lest they appear too assertive or demanding. If I showed my coach that I was not only a good athlete but a good and grateful student, maybe he’d take my request seriously. Or so I believed.
“Ms. Delane.” He nodded. He spoke with an English accent and immense formality. His face nearly matched the statue with his gold complexion and emotionless facial expression.
“I just finished the workout since I have a final this afternoon.” Stop procrastinating and ask.
“Okay, good. Just text me your times. How are finals going?”
“Good.”
“Good.” He started to walk towards the fieldhouse entrance.
“And, uhm. What time does the bus leave for Regionals this coming Tuesday?” Okay. You’re getting there.
“Twelve.” Coach slowly continued walking to the fieldhouse.
“And what do I need to run to get scholarship money?” Not smooth, but I had to get it out somehow.
Coach sighed as he stroked his full beard that ended just above his Adam’s apple. I could tell by the look in his amber eyes that he was searching for the most professional way to reject my request…again.
“Look,” Coach started. “You’ve ran well this season, but it’s just not there.”
“Excuse me? What’s not there? You said if I run a certain time, I’d be able to get money. And I hit that time at conference championships.” The high, sweet tone in my voice quivered.
“Well, by conference, we had already budgeted our scholarship money for the incoming freshmen.”
“So, you had the money. You just didn’t have it for me.” My voice dropped to its usual deep tone as my mouth twisted to the side with aggravation.
“Watch the tone, Ma-kee-dah.” Coach glared at me.
“It’s Ma-keh-da,” I snapped. “Two years later, and you still get my name wrong.” The tension between us lingered and blended with the sound of New York City traffic in the background. After two years of watching my tone, watching my attitude, watching my grades, watching my times, watching my teammates gloat in their full-ride privileges and watching coaches to see if they were watching me, I was done with watching. “Every time I ask, there’s a new standard, and every time I make the standard, I get a new standard. I qualify for conference, but it’s not enough. I could have been on one of the relays for conference, but you gave the spot to someone else.”
“Look,” Coach shook his head. “Your times have improved, but they’re just not national standards.”
The cold honesty in his words shot through my spine. He might have been right about my stance in the hierarchy of track and field standards but that didn’t matter to me. His stance wouldn’t stop the Bursar office from sending me yet another reminder of my tuition fees. I heaved a sigh before glaring into his still stoic face. “You know what, Coach? I got a final to get to, or should I risk being late to that?”
Coach paused to contemplate continuing the argument. “Fine.” His jaw tightened. “Get to your final on time. I’ll talk with the head coach about what we can do for you.” Coach barely finished his sentence before I stormed ahead of him to return to the fieldhouse.
Breathe deep. Breathe deep. The smell of chlorine from the nearby recreation center pool released some of the tension that lingered from Coach’s words. Along the narrow hallway leading to the locker room were the coveted triangular, wood-framed plaques from the Feldon Invitational Meet. For the last two years, the Hurston University Men and Women Track and Field teams attended that historical meet in Arkansas. For the last two years, they returned with another one of these plaques. For the last two years, my teammates were able to go to this meet that I so desperately wanted to go. My fingers traced the gold images on each plaque. I read the engraved names of the relay participants who won each plaque knowing my name would never appear in this hallway if my place on this team didn’t change.
Relieved to find the locker room empty, I changed out of my Hurston University training gear and into a pair of jeans and a Harry Potter crop top. Grabbing my school-issued backpack, I ran out of the locker room and immediately blended into the mix of college students rushing from one end of campus to another for classes. The university, named after the notable author, Zora Neale Hurston, prided itself on making sure the brick walls of every lecture hall and dorm displayed the pain of Black American history, the beauty of the African diaspora and the joy and hope for the future of people of color. Quotes from the Harlem Renaissance author were all throughout the New York City campus. Students of all color moved through old stone buildings. Accents from across the globe blended into one constant campus chatter. On my walk to Interpersonal Communications, my best friend Alisha-Anne texted me.
Hey Makeda. What’s up? Studying for final exams next week? Sent by Lis 12:49PM
I have one today. Sent by Makeda 12:49PM
Isn’t finals week next week? Sent by Lis 12:50PM
I have regionals next week, so this week is finals week for me. Sent by Makeda 12:50PM
Right. I forgot. I’ll probably pick something up from the dining hall for dinner before I come back to the room. Want something? Consider it a roommate sympathy gift for your early finals week. Have a good Thursday buddy. Sent by Lis 12:59PM
Before I could respond, the Interpersonal Communications professor stopped me at the door of the small classroom.
“Makeda, you’re late. The exam started at one. It’s 1:01.” She stood stern in a tailored blazer and A-line skirt, reminding me of a black Professor Umbridge. Her large curls were pulled back with a headband.
“Sorry…I had practice and—”
“Doesn’t matter.” She held up her hand as if halting the words from reaching her ears. “I’ve already gone out my way for you athletes.” She nearly spat the word. “Hurston University prides itself on its academics and professionalism. We are one of the top schools in the country because you can run fast. But apparently not fast enough to make it to your exam on time.”
“I’m sorry. I haven’t been late all semester. This is a one-time thing. I would hate to have to reschedule this exam…again.”
The professor rolled her eyes. “The only reason I’m letting you in is because I don’t want to hear from the Athletics department.” She glared as I slid past her and settled into the old metal desk closest to the window. She handed me the exam without a word.
I answered most of the questions with ease until one made my hand freeze. “What were the shapes used to explain the development of relationships?”
I remembered what the professor said about this during lecture. She’d drawn circles on the board as she talked. “This idea of soulmates is a way to romanticize marriages in Western culture. Marriage was, and in some cases still is, a business proposition. Think of your partners as circles. That circle is your type, usually someone of similar ethnic, educational, or financial background. Now, imagine a large pie as the total number of circles in this world. In reality, you’re only going to meet a small percentage of those circles based off of location. Then, of that small percentage, your schedule and your network are going to make that percentage even smaller. So, really, you can say it is fate that leads you to your partner, but it’s mainly convenience.”
As I hovered my pen over the exam sheet, my phone vibrated in my backpack. That better be Donovan. Memories of the last fraternity party pushed out the memory of my professor’s lecture. How could he just ghost me like that? I thought he liked me. Or maybe I was the convenient circle that crossed his path on Saturday. Like the thrower. Or the girls on my relay team. Or those two dancers. I should’ve just hooked up with him. Where would we have done it? Would I have liked his…?
“You have about ten minutes left,” the professor called, pulling me out of my daydream. I rushed through the remaining open-ended questions, handed in the exam, then rushed out of the classroom to check my phone. The only notification was an email from the Bursar office reminding me of my overdue fees. Disappointed, I threw my phone in my bag before heading to my second exam.
After my second final of the day, I dragged my feet up the six stories of Ramsey Hall, the school’s largest dorm building on campus. The hallways were overcrowded with students discussing their schedules for next week’s finals. One of the perks (or struggles) of being an athlete was missing classes for track meets, but Regional Championships was a meet worth missing classes for. This could be my Hail Mary chance to qualify for the National Organization for Athletes in Tertiary Education (NOATE) National Track and Field Outdoor Championships in Colorado. If that happened, there was no way Coach could deny me a scholarship. As soon as the door to my room closed behind me, I dragged out my small, blue suitcase from the closet by its faded black handle and carelessly tossed it in front of me. There was no animosity towards the suitcase itself. It was just hard not to compare it to the new, sleek, black athletic suitcases that my teammates received from the school. My little suitcase was a constant reminder that I was different. I threw my competition spanks and compression top into the bag, but the rest of my travel gear was still in my locker in the fieldhouse. Feeling unaccomplished, I placed my partially filled suitcase in the narrow closet and sat at my desk to study for tomorrow’s statistics final.
Minutes turned to hours as I studied. I ran my fingers through my box braids and massaged my scalp. What if I just flunk out? I really should consider stripping. Probably not. I don’t think my ass is big enough for it. My head moved from being cradled in my hand to lying across the keyboard of my laptop.
Alisha walked into the room holding two grease-stained paper bags. They crinkled as she drew a small box out of one. She flipped the lid and I inhaled the smell of salt and cheese as she laid one personal pan pizza beside my head.
“Thank you,” I whispered, defeated.
“I had a feeling. You need water or something?” Effortlessly, she hopped onto her bed. Her long, thick legs almost touched the floor. Mine always dangled. Her shaved head accentuated her strong jawline.
“No. I got my fruit punch powder.”
“You and that fruit punch. It’s just red-dyed sugar.”
“But it’s out here saving lives.” I took my time savoring my dining hall pizza as I unleashed my fury over my talk with Coach. “I just want to be All-American. Is that too much to ask?”
“Better than your usual pining over Donovan. Has he texted you since Saturday?”
“No.” I snorted. “I don’t know what I did.” I licked a drip of pizza grease from my fingers.
“For someone smart enough to waltz around as a baby college sophomore, you sure let these dudes bother you.” Alisha pulled off a pepperoni from her pizza and popped it in her mouth.
“Excuse me. Even if I did skip first grade, I am not a baby. I am a grown eighteen-year-old.”
“She says with her Hedwig doll.” Alisha pointed at the large stuffed owl perched on the corner of my bed.
“Leave me and Hedwig alone.” I laughed.
Alisha rolled her eyes. “You leave next Tuesday, right?”
“Yeah. At twelve.”
“Oh, okay. The Upsilon Upsilon Omicron sorority is hosting a pre-finals week snack break tomorrow.”
“That’s cool. But, yeah, I’m ass deep in finals now.”
It wasn’t long until we found ourselves staring at our empty, grease-stained, cardboard boxes.
“Damn. Back to the books.” Alisha threw away her paper bag, grabbed one of her large neuroscience textbooks from her desk and returned to her bed.
“I’m going to go shower,” I announced.
“Is this an excuse to stop studying for the night?”
“You know me so well.” I grinned.
Alisha barely looked up from her textbook. “I’ve had over ten years to figure you out.”
“And I thank the Philly elementary school system for bringing us together.” I grabbed my towel, shower caddy and flip-flops and headed across the hall to the floor’s communal bathroom.
Because most students were in the midst of all-night studying, I was free to choose the cleanest shower in the bathroom. Unfortunately, the cleanest shower still consisted of curly dark brown hair plastered on the tile walls and broken pieces of moldy plaster in the corners of the stall. Get in, get out, don’t let none of this dirty shit touch you. I followed my plan with precision. Despite having small patches of soap on my back and shoulders, I rushed out of the shower and returned to my room. Once I changed into my bedtime boxers and Harry Potter T-shirt, I closed my notebooks and laptop and moved restlessly in bed. I counted the days until I leave for Regionals over and over. 1…2…3…4…5… Again. 1…2…3…
Soon, sleep overcame me. I found myself dreaming about the Colorado track. Nationally ranked collegiate athletes within the Cassius Doyle Field walked around me with a grace that I’d never witnessed in any other track meet. The Doyle Field baton-shaped tower stood over the track lanes, its metal covering gleaming in the sunlight.
In the dream, my long braids were pulled back into my usual competition ponytail. My competition tights and compression top clung to my muscular frame like a second layer of skin. Like the sponsored athletes that I admired, the announcer called my name as I stood behind my starting blocks. The red rubber of the track crunched beneath my shiny gold spikes. That moment was everything I ever wanted as an athlete, but like the 400-meter dash, moments come and go.
The dream seemed so real. It seemed so perfect until the crowd ceased cheering. It was not the usual silence before the start of the race. I felt fear from the crowd. It flowed from the stands to my feet like a slow invisible pool of water. Despite the fear, I kept my focus on my race strategy, until the silence was broken by the sound of wind blasting through the stadium as if God, Himself or Herself, was breathing furiously over us. My eyes moved from the finish line ahead to the tower that went up in flames like a candle.
Buildings and shops crumbled beneath the wings of a dragon. Fiery and swift like fury, the dragon wreaked havoc over my perfect race. The crowd, the coaches, the athletes all disappeared, but they had no reason to run because they were not the target. Stunned, I stared as the dragon’s wide wings moved faster and faster in my direction just before my body pulled me out of my dream turned nightmare.
The recently renovated Hurston University Tech Building shined brighter than most of the older buildings on campus. The outside was a clean, glass, corporate exterior with slightly tinted windows that were cleaned regularly. Wide, large stairs led to the glass front doors of the building. Its coffee shop served some of the best food on campus, including my favorite breakfast sandwiches. Framed photos and portraits of notable technology pioneers like Katherine Johnson hung throughout the halls. As I rushed through the building the following morning, my thoughts bounced between my nightmare on the track and the various statistics equations I hoped to never see again after the exam. It was a miracle that I didn’t choke on my breakfast sandwich on the way to the classroom.
Eight students, including myself, stared blankly at our exams. Unanswered questions stared back at me. One student hunched over his exam with his head in his hands. Two girls tried to hide soft sobs and tears. Another student gave up altogether and handed in his exam half completed before rushing out of the class. I answered the remaining open-ended questions by writing everything I remembered about the God-forsaken course before reluctantly returning the exam to the professor.
“How do you think you did?” the professor asked.
“Okay,” I mumbled, shrugging my shoulders. My eyes glanced at the small pile of half-answered exams.
He frowned. “You’re one of my top students. Do you think that you needed more time?” he asked, sounding concerned.
“Yeah.” Time to pull the athlete card. “I think that would’ve helped all of us a lot. It definitely would’ve helped me since North Regionals are coming up.”
“I thought so. No worries. I’ll end up curving the grades anyway. I know you worked hard with such a long track season.” The professor lifted one of the incomplete exams to his face.
Thank God.
After my exam, I returned to Ramsey to determine my next move regarding my financial predicament. I scrolled through my phone contacts until I reached the picture of my high school track coach, Coach Michael Walters. In the picture, Coach M wore his usual khaki shorts, brightly colored T-shirt and sunhat that created a dark shadow over his brown head. His older face wrinkled as he smiled beside his youth athletes.
Hey, Coach. Coach Robert is still not able to give me a scholarship. I don’t know what else to do. I thought qualifying for regionals would be enough, but it isn’t. I’m just tired.Sent by Makeda 5:08PM
To my disappointment, Coach M did not respond.
“Hey, you good?” Alisha rushed into the room and patted my head.
“I’m probably off the team.” The words cut like a slur to hear out loud.
“Oh…want to talk?” Alisha asked.
I took a deep breath. “No. Not really.”
“Fine. The sorority thing is today. Down?” She shuffled through class notes and piles of folded clothes.
“Since when are you so cool with the Upsilon girls? What do they call themselves?”
“The Crons. I mean…one is in my class. And…I might have looked up the sorority a little.”
“Looked up like…research look up?”
Alisha paused. “Girl, are you trying to go or not?”
“Okay. Okay. Yeah.”
Alisha stayed in the dorm for all of five minutes before leaving the room early to meet with the Crons prior to their event. I spent the remaining time going back and forth between completing my final papers and packing my blue suitcase until it was time to go to the sorority snack break at Toni Morrison Library.
The library was like a depressing, overly crowded nightclub during pre-finals week. The stress from each student hung like an invisible fog. Avoiding eye contact with students drowning their frustrations in textbooks and coffee, I rushed to the back of the library’s main floor to a long row of tables decorated with lilac and silver covers and balloons. Some of the Crons laughed and flirted with college boys from a Latino fraternity. Others talked amongst themselves or kept count of the snacks.
“Hey, Mak. Where’s Lis?” Akoni asked. His long-sleeved, Hurston University Men’s Track and Field shirt covered his tatted arms. As he reached to give me a hug, his orange and jade Rho Phi Rho bracelet, given to him at the start of his senior year, caught the light from the library ceiling lights.
“Do you mean your girlfriend?” I joked.
“Chill,” he said, nudging my arm.
“I’m playing,” I laughed, “but it would explain that fresh fade.” I pointed at his haircut before grabbing a cookie. “Lis left before me. I thought she’d be here.” Donovan approached Akoni. His tall frame stood with pride in his orange and jade shirt, necklace with the fraternity emblem and recently shaved bald head. Without acknowledging me, Donovan scrolled through his phone and occasionally looked up to wink at a girl walking by. “So… Hey, Donovan.”
“Oh, hey,” he answered absentmindedly. “What’s up?”
“I wouldn’t know since you don’t text.”
Silence followed.
“Uh…” Akoni shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I think I’m going to…check on the Crons.” He left Donovan and me at a standoff.
“Yeah. My fault,” Donovan shrugged. “My phone was dead, and I forgot to respond.”
“Wow. It’s like that…especially after last Saturday. Okay, cool.” I rolled my eyes.
“Look, Makeda.” He gently rubbed my arm. “You’re cool and everything, but I’m just, you know, chillin’. I thought we were just teammates who had some fun. In fact…” When he licked his lips, my body melted. “We got one more end of the year party tomorrow, and it wouldn’t be a thing without you and Lis. Maybe we can have another…moment. We can even go a little further than just kissing and touching.”
Donovan was a heartthrob and he knew it, but I fought to keep my face serious. “You know I can’t resist a good party.” I bit my lip. “But there are no more moments between you and me.”
“That’s cool.” Donovan nodded.
“Okay. Just make sure Lis and I get in free.” I shrugged. Donovan’s nonchalant attitude towards my frustration was both irritating and sexy.
“Don’t worry. I got you. But you trying to do something for your boy?” He smirked.
“I said no more ‘moments’ or whatever you want to call what we did last time.” I took a step back from him.
“Okay. Okay.” Donovan held his hands up in surrender. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He walked over to two sorority girls sitting together at a study table.
Two cups of lemonade and three cookies later, Alisha shuffled through the library holding plastic bags of chips, pretzels and more lilac and silver plastic cups. She handed the bags to a short brunette senior wearing black jeans and a lilac sweater with YYO printed in large silver letters and surrounded by pearls. They chatted for a bit, then she smiled and skipped to me.
“Hey, love. Did I miss anything?” Alisha asked.
“Outside of the usual ‘How’s your track season?’ and ‘What are you doing this summer?’ small talk? No.”
“Good. You can handle those.”
“Wow, thanks.” I took a bite of another cookie. “There’s an end of the year party this weekend. Down?”
“Sure. Should you be eating all that sugar as an athlete?”
I shrugged. “Hell, my track career might be done if I don’t get this scholarship.”
“I don’t know why you’re being so extra.”
“Shit, I’m broke. And Coach doesn’t look like he’s trying to give a chick money. Plus, like, something is just telling me I should leave.”
“Is it the same ‘something’ that said you were going to marry Jamal in the third grade? Or Kevin?”
“Listen! Kevin shared his Cheetos with me in sixth grade. It was meant to be!” I laughed. “But, seriously, I had a dream last night.”
“A dream?” Skepticism rolled off Alisha’s tongue as she spoke.
“Yeah,” I started. “It must mean something.”
“Dreams are just that, Makeda. Dreams.”
“Look. My plan is simple. First, capture the world’s attention at Feldon Invitational. Then, I’ll shock the country as an All-American athlete at NOATE Outdoor Nationals in Colorado. And this dream…it felt so real. Well, most of it felt real. I just feel like my dream is telling me that if I’m focused, my plan will work.”
“And if it doesn’t, what will happen? Huh? Your world will just go up in flames?”
“Interesting that you say that.” Embarrassed, I moved my finger along the side of my plate. “I guess it would. Track is like my world. Getting to Nationals has been my dream since freshman year, and I’ll do what I have to do to get there, even transfer.”
“So, screw your friends and screw your acceptance into one of the top schools in the country. Just change your whole life path for a dream.”
“Well. . . yeah.”
Alisha shook her head. “You are either brave or stupid. Maybe a little both.”
Once another fraternity arrived and ate the majority of the snacks, it was time to return to Ramsey and finish an online exam. Alisha stayed to help the sorority clean up while I walked towards the doors to the library.
At an empty table, a lone book with colorful symbols on the cover caught my attention. The Interpretation of Dream Symbols? What type of hippie BS is this? Any other time, I would have left the book. Dreams were interesting but, in Alisha’s words, they were “just dreams”. However, the dream about Colorado felt real. If it meant I had even a small chance of making it to Nationals, I wanted to know. Too lazy to walk to the front desk to check out the book, I tucked the book under my arm and casually walked through the front doors. Once I was out of sight and closer to Ramsey Hall. I pretended that the thud of my shoes hitting the concrete were the sounds of spikes digging into the rubber track. My hand rubbed and squeezed the spine of the dream interpretation book.
“I don’t care what Coach says.” I whispered to myself. “I’m going to Nationals one way or another.”
