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I pulled back my sleeve to check my TAG for the time. It had been close to twenty minutes since my last student left. I was grateful when the full hour had ended so I didn’t have to worry about one of his gazillion acne bumps bursting on me or my things. Shit. That dude needed a potent triple dose of benzoyl peroxide, salicylic acid…antibacterial soap, or some shit to melt the rocks and volcano craters on his face.
The thought to check my email came to mind, so I pulled my laptop closer. Chewing on my thumbnail, I tapped in my login credentials on the BSU site and scrolled down my inbox.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
I made mental checks as I recognized the names of a few of this semester’s professors with yet another syllabus update. Their lack of preparation annoyed the fuck out of me. I scrolled until I came across an email from Aivery. It was sent early this morning. The link inside sent me to a greeting card site, where the page opened to a digital card writing out, “I miss you. Have a splendid day!
On another huff, I closed out of my school account and logged into my personal Hotmail one. The first unread email I saw had me rolling my eyes mentally.
Porter, James

Ashton,

I’m just checking in to see if you’ve looked at the second quarter earnings report I sent back in July. The third quarter’s will be available before you know it next month. You really must be in the habit of reading them and asking the right question
I clicked out of the email right away, not finishing it.
Blah, blah, blah, blah
“Eat a dick, Jimmy,” I whispered to myself. “I’m sure you still know how to.” I found that hilarious and chuckled.
I didn’t fuck with him, and he knew it. If I had questions about money, my well-compensated attorney could have the answers to me in less than an hour. The door of the private study room opened, snatching my attention. In walked stiff shoulders, a baseball cap, and a silky plastic ponytail hanging behind her head. Her sneakers squeaked as she turned to close the door.
Annoyed as fuck, I grabbed my clipboard to check the name again.
What the fuck is the Tori broad doing here?
As she pulled out the chair across from me, I choked out, “I got a girlfriend.”
She scoffed, eyes rolled as she dumped herself into the wooden chair across from me at the small table. Then she sat back, swinging one arm over the back of the chair. “And I don’t. So?”
My eyes narrowed and one cheeked raised in a leer. “You sure about that, tomboy?”
“Sure am, toddler feet.” Then she straightened in her chair, sighing. “Can we get this over with?”
“Get what over with? I told you, I have a girl.”
What does she want?
“This!” Her hand swept over my desk setup: writing pad, laptop, clipboard, textbooks, and writing implements.
“I don’t take random students. The Office of Admissions assigns them, tomboy,” I emphasized.
“Funny, because it’s their stupid fault that I’m getting tutoring in the first place.”
I issued her an empty gape. “You needing help academically is the Office of Admissions’ fault?”
“You heard what I said.” Growling lowly, she rolled her eyes again.
She’s serious...
I went to my laptop to cross-check the list I was sent via email against the printout I created for the sign-in sheet. When I was ready to spin my machine her way to show her how serious I was, something hit me.
I reared my head, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “What’s your name?”
“You know my name, man!” She was irritated.
But what in the hell for? It was my time she was wasting, asking for help.
I leaned over my laptop, over this bullshit already. “I only know of Tomboy Tori.”
“Then you ain’t communicating with the Office of Admissions because the first ain’t my name at all, and you won’t find the second one on there either.”
“What’s your name?” I exhaled, prepared to end this childish ass game.
Her nose went north, mouth balled. “For the first and last damn time. KaToria McNabb,” she gritted out.
My mouth dropped. That was too feminine a name for the beast before me. I wanted to ask for her ID, but doubted the girl could pull a scheme of this proportion out of her ass.
Tomboy’s real name is KaToria?
She sat back, huffing loudly. “I ain’t got all night. Some of us make the most of training—or practice, in your case.”
My pissed-the-fuck-off-odometer was well past the restraint phase. I didn’t want to tutor tomboy here. I couldn’t spend any more time with her than I’d already been told I had to.
I sat up again in my seat. “First of all, I have a zero tolerance for tardiness. My time, as a senior and leader of the Panthers amongst other things, is valuable to more people than just me. It won’t be wasted by ignorant asses like you.”
Her eyes popped wide. “What makes me ignorant?”
“The fact that you have no idea of the opportunity being handed to you.”
“Being tutored?”
“Yes.”
“Newsflash, club foot. Tutoring happens all the time.”
I laughed at her dumb ass. “You’re one of them.”
“One of who?”
“One of them welfare recipients. The new student who didn’t earn their way to BSU, but got here by way of the pity train.” I shook my head.
“Why do people talk about this place like it’s so damn special? It’s a school full of rich, bratty ass kids, acting like them Beverly Hills 90210 people, only Black.”
I laughed again. Harder. “You’re fucking clueless, too.” I couldn’t stop cracking the hell up. I wiped my wet eyes when I could. “Well,” I sighed, trying to calm myself, leaning into the table. “you’re right about the wealth of some of the students here. This campus is steeped in Black culture, tradition, wealth, excellence and, most of all, superiority. Nothing expressed here, represented here, or cultivated here is subpar to any PWI.”
“PWI?” Her face was tight.
“Predominantly white institution.”
“Okay. It’s a Black college. Whooptie woo!” She tossed her arms in the air, dropping back into her chair. “It’s a state school.”
I leaned closer to her uneducated ass. “Do you not realize Blakewood State University is unparalleled to any academic institution in the country? We’re not the oldest or the largest historically Black college or university, but we are by far the most superior. Founded in 1842, BSUthe original Panthers—was the first institution to be funded and established by a Black coalition consisting of, not just a Christian church, but Black business entrepreneurs, doctors, and educators.
“It was created on the premise of, not equality, but Black superiority, culture-foundation, maintenance, and pride of African Diaspora ancestry. Yes. Originally, it functioned as a state school, receiving funds from the government. But what was boss about BSU was the founders fought for the agreement of total control of the curriculum and admissions. Eventually, when it was able to function independent of governmental aid, back in 1875, the S in BSU became silent, as those ‘negroes’ were able to establish an academic endowment program. Even today, the likes of Oprah Winfrey, Eli Richardson, Michael Jordan, Tariq Evans, and many more unrecognizable names of Black wealthy people around the globe sharing a passion for the economic advancement of Black people, endow the education before you.” I winked. “We’re revolutionists, revolters.”
“So, you’re a Black Panther here?” she hissed cleverly.
My brows rose.
Ahhhh…so, she does have a brain
I lifted my BSU Panther letter jacket, exposing the logo.
Tori rolled her eyes, likely defeated. “It’s not like this is an Ivy League school or something.”
“Do you even know what constitutes Division I, let alone Ivy League institutions?”
“Can we just get on with this?”
I extended my arm, halting her haste. “No. You made me wait. So, you can spare a few minutes understanding the privilege you sit in right now. Maybe it’ll help you be on time moving forward.” She dropped back into her chair again. “Blakewood, having Division I intercollegiate varsity sports teams for women and men, is unlike the Ivy Leagues you speak of because it does offer scholarships. We reach back, understanding the wealth disparities of our people. Thirty-one of BSU Panthers teams participate in Division I intercollegiate varsity sports teams for women and men. That’s the largest of its HBCU’s kind. Your assignment is understanding how, while boxing isn’t of that number, your success in that program can expand the BSU athletic brand.”
Her mouth balled even tighter. Ignoring it, I continued, “As far as Ivy League: we couldn’t give a shit about being locked outside of the traditional eight’s circle. It could be because of our high caliber of academics; we have a 98.2% graduation rate, and our library system is a beast, encompassing eighteen individual libraries holding over eleven million items with 40% of it dedicated to Black relevance.” I was on a roll at this point, but I had her attention.
“Like those Ivy League institutions you like to throw around, BSU is a predominantly research institution confluence of Black economics. There’s a heavy emphasis on cycling the production, distribution, and services through Black families and communities. And let’s not talk about BSU’’s intricate admission standards. At 24%, it is higher than most of ‘your’ Ivy Leaguers, however, with reason. Again, we award scholarships to talented students around the country because we understand the wealth gap.
“People like you, who are deemed talented in a specific area, BSU sees a value in and believe deserves the higher education experience. So the university relaxes its admissions filter just slightly to be sure we’re providing an opportunity to our own, who may not have had the financial means of pursuing academic excellence, but have the ability to change the world as a Black man or woman.” I cocked my head to the side. “So…anything else you wanna say my school ain’t, tomboy?”
Unable to look at me, Tori rubbed her lips together, arms crossed protectively. Seconds later, her deservingly broken spirit uttered, “I didn’t mean to trash the school. I was just telling you to relax.”
“No.” I shook my head. “My Black ass can’t afford to relax when I’m against the odds in this country.”
“Says the big man on campus.”
“The campus of BSU is safe, the world it’s planted on isn’t. That’s why you need to pursue the wealth of opportunities here like time is fleeting, because it is.” I flipped through the papers on my clipboard for her information. “You clearly have no respect for time. Please let me be the catalyst of that enlightenment.”
Tori didn’t speak, which was wise. She was wasting my time. As I studied her writeup, I finally discovered what she was here for.
“Writing.”
“What?” she finally spoke again.
“You scored low on the writing portion of the admissions exam.”
She shrugged, eyes cast into the distance. “That’s what they said.”
“They? Who are they?”
“The athletic director,” she muttered.
“Byron Jones?”
She shook her head. “Trisha Gaskin.”
Oh
“Trisha is an AAD.”
Tori finally gave me eye contact again.
“What’s that?”
“AAD? She’s an Assistant Athletic Director. There are dozens of them here. One for most of the athletic programs.” She didn’t know that?
What did this…KaToria McNabb know? Just how to throw a fucking jab?
“Who do you have for writing?”
“What?”
I closed my eyes tight, jaw flexing. “Your Basic Writing course. Who’s the professor? Johnson or Brown?”
“Oh. The fat lady that makes those weird noises with her nose and throat.”
An unexpected bubble of laughter pushed through my throat. I shook my head.
“What?” Tori eyed me untrustingly while looking to hold back on her own laughter.
“Nothing.” I shook my head again. “It’s just that…never mind.” I took a deep breath. “Okay. Shanice Brown—who, by the way, suffers from allergies and asthma—typically kicks the semester off with having you write about yourself. Next, she’ll have you write about a little known Black figure. What do you have in mind for those?”
“What do you mean?”
My head reared. “What do I mean?” I repeated. “What do you plan on sharing about yourself in the first paper? It should be due next week. Do you have an outline? And for the Black figure: do you have someone in mind for it?”
Her eyes glazed over. “Outline?”
“Yeah. Bullet points of your ideas that’ll structure your paper. It’s an arrangement of points you’ll cover.”
Tori bit her bottom lip, eyes falling in shame.
“This is it,” I muttered, exhaling.
“This is what?” she hissed.
“It’s what those who feel BSU shouldn’t recruit athletes without strong academic backgrounds are arguing.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, you don’t know what a damn outline is, clearly couldn’t pass the general admissions test, yet you come in here late with a damn attitude!”
She banged her fists into the table as she shot to her feet. “I didn’t ask to be here! Still don’t want to be here. Yeah, Blakewood may be rich in culture and tradition, but that doesn’t appeal to regular people who want basic respect!” Her eyes were hard, lips tight as she spewed her little anger. “Maybe I came late because I decided earlier I wouldn’t come at all. I knew you were my student-tutor and don’t feel like taking any more shit from stuck up, mean people like you and your princess girlfriend and hyena-looking and acting friends. Classes started only two weeks ago, and I’m sick of the cool kids’ club already!” She snatched her book bag and headed for the door.
It was the incident in the cafeteria two days ago when she quit her job. I was only fucking with her. Didn’t mean for her to go bat shit crazy and lose her little job.
“And another thing.” She glanced back at me. “I may not be rich, and needed a scholarship to live on the same campus as you pompous fucks, but I didn’t come checking for this school. Y’all came for me. And if you and your friends keep fucking with me, I’ll show you why I’m here!”
The door slammed hard, and I blinked several times with a growing smirk.

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*Release date subject to change without notice

**Publisher’s Note: My Muted Love will not be available in the Kindle Unlimited library. It will, however, be available exclusively on Kindle for purchase via Amazon.

For more information, click here.

* All photography with models representing Ashton and Tori taken by Brooklyn Hughes

Makeup artist: Kaydene Hughes