Chapter 5
Nicolette
Basketball was a big deal at Georgetown. It seemed that until the season was over in March, the campus stood still. Nobody talked about anything else. I’ve never really been into sports that much probably because my father wasn’t the type to spend his weekends watching sports of any kind. He was too busy cutting the grass or visiting one of the so-called “sick” members of his church. No one in the house was allowed to watch television at all on Sundays. After church, we would sit around our small home with our thumbs up our asses, listening to our hair grow.
“Television is a tool that the devil uses to control your mind and get you away from the things of God,” my father said.
And if anybody was able to recognize the devil and his tools, it would definitely be you.
I have a list as long as the Nile River containing all of the cruel and terrible things that I had to endure as a child. I kept this list to remind myself of what not to do as a parent.
“C’mon, Nikki. This is the game of the season. We are playing North Carolina and you know what that means? You know who is coming to town and I can’t wait to watch that chocolate drop jump twenty feet into the air,” Sabrina said.
Sabrina Jackson was my soror and roommate this year. She was from Raleigh, North Carolina, which partly explained her fascination with their basketball team. But mainly, she was in love with the talented and beautiful star of the team. She constantly talked about him. Her side of the room was practically wallpapered with posters of him. She defied Georgetown’s school spirit and wore North Carolina paraphernalia all of the time. Sabrina even had the number 23 on the personalized license plate of her silver Hyundai.
“That’s exactly why I don’t want to go to this game with you, Sabrina. How are you going to sit at a Georgetown basketball game and root for the opposing team? The place will be packed solid and you’ll embarrass me with all of your loud screaming. Anyway, too many people in one place make me nervous. I’m just going to stay here and study,” I explained.
Sabrina was annoyed by the fact that I could sometimes be a hermit. I just didn’t like crowds. At the end of the day, I was still a sheltered shy girl from Alabama.
“That’s some ignorant bullshit, Nic. Did you hear yourself? You can’t fool me ‘cause I know how you like watching those fine and delicious looking brothers run around the basketball court in their short shorts, getting all sweaty and—”
“Okay! I’ll go. No more descriptions, please! You are a trip, Sabrina.”
“Miss Jackson, if you’re nasty.”
I was right. The Capital Centre was packed to the brim with a roaring crowd of fans. It was hard to tell if all of the groundswell was for Georgetown’s number 33 or North Carolina’s number 23. Whatever the reason, it was apparent that this game was serious.
Sabrina was loud, as usual. She yelled out her favorite player’s name every time he was air bound.
One player caught my attention. Although he was not as flamboyant of a player as the other two, he was indeed a powerful force on our team. He was a mad hustler, scrapping for every rebound and assist. I’d seen him somewhere before but I just couldn’t remember where. His long legs and tight ass made my heart skip a beat or two. When he went to the line to shoot free throws, the way he bent over and grabbed the leg of his shorts made my heart pound.
Look at him!
“Who are you starring at?”
I was busted. I was so busy eyeballing Mr. Free Throw that I forgot there was anyone else in the entire arena.
“Umm…”
“Yeah, umm is right.”
“The guy who just made the shot, what’s his name?” I asked, hoping to sound a little disinterested.
“Oh girl, that’s Ahmad Jacobs,” Sabrina answered as she loudly slurped her Dr. Pepper.
“And?”
“And what?”
“Sabrina, stop playing. You know the low down on everybody, especially the basketball players. What’s up with him?”
“J. Edgar Hoover was not my daddy and I ain’t the fuckin’ FBI,” she said, rolling her large dark eyes and popping her chewing gum. “I mind my own business.”
I stared at her for a minute until we both burst into an uncontrollable laughter. Sabrina knew everything about everybody on campus. I never understood how one person could have the 4-1-1 on so many people and maintain a stellar grade point average. The funny thing is that whatever Sabrina ever told me about other people’s business was never just a meaningless rumor. It was the gospel truth.
“Okay, Okay. Ahmad is from Bed-Stuy.”
“Where?”
“Oh damn, I forgot you’re from Alabama. Bedford-Stuyvesant is a neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York. A predominately
Black neighborhood.”
“So, why don’t they just call it Brooklyn and be done with it?”
“Look here, Nic. I ain’t got time to sit here and give you a goddamn history lesson on why they do what they do in New York City. Okay? I am trying to watch the fuckin’ game. Now, do you want the Cliff’s Notes scoop on Ahmad or not?”
“Well, you don’t have to get an attitude. Yes, tell me about Ahmad.”
“Like I said, he’s from Bed…Brooklyn. He went to some private high school and came here, on scholarship, of course. He’s not a frat and from what I hear, he’s a true playa from the Himalayas.”
Number 23 scored, again, and the Capital Centre went crazy and so did Sabrina. It was a good thing we were not in New Orleans because I truly believe she would have lifted her shirt and showed her titties to him every time he made a shot.
A player? He was so fine and so talented. What a waste.
“How do you know that he’s a player?”
“‘Cause he is! When he goes to bed alone, it ain’t because he has to. He’s probably screwed every girl between here and New York City.”
“What about you?” I asked, curiously.
“What? How you gonna sit there and ask me some bullshit like that, Nikki? I thought we were girls.”
“Well…”
“No, I haven’t slept with him.”
“Why not?”
“‘Cause he hasn’t asked me, bitch.”
We both laughed again, louder this time. Sabrina was funny and I could always trust her to tell me the truth about anything.
“So, have you ever met him?”
“Why are you being so damn nosey, Nikki?”
“I’m just curious.”
“Yeah, I met him a few times. Actually, he comes to the house to party every now and again.”
Sabrina stopped watching the game and began staring at me suspiciously. I knew what she was thinking and hoped she wouldn’t say anything out loud but deep down inside, I knew better. I couldn’t make eye contact with her.
“You want to meet him, don’t you?”
I couldn’t hold my smile, no matter how hard I tried. Yes, I wanted to meet Ahmad. The way he moved on the court made me warm in strange places.
“Girl, I don’t know if your goodie-two-shoes ass is ready for somebody like Ahmad Jacobs,” Sabrina warned. “You may need to start with somebody mild. Somebody like Kobe Ayo.” “Who?” I asked, confused.
Sabrina pointed to the short round South African student wearing horned-rimmed glasses and pocket protectors sitting across the aisle from us.