Next Semester by Cecil R. Cross

wrap around my shoulder.
    “What’s crackin’ blood? ” Dub-B asked, mocking my West Coast slang.
    I couldn’t help but laugh. Sometimes Dub-B sounded blacker than us when he spoke.
    “What’s demo, joe? ” Dub-B continued, mocking Fresh’s Chi-Town slang, as he nudged him. “Where y’all headed?”
    “I guess back out to the strip to try to kill some time,” I said. “That line in the bookstore is way too long for me.”
    “Not a problem,” Dub-B said. “Just let me know whatbooks you need and I got you. You know my girlfriend works in the bookstore, so I can skip the line.”
    “That’s what’s up,” I said.
    “Just write down what books you need, give me the dough for ’em and I will hook it up.”
    “That works,” Fresh said. “But since your girl can get you to the front of the line and all, you think she could hook a brotha up with a lil’ discount? I’m a little short on ends right now.”
    “If I had the hookup on a discount, I would have hooked myself up by now, yo,” Dub-B said.
    I was looking through my backpack for a scrap piece of paper to write on when Fats walked up.
    “Did I hear somebody say something about a hookup?” Fats asked. “How much you got to spend and what you need?”
    “Not a lot,” Fresh said. “And textbooks.”
    With Fats being from L.A., he took it upon himself to show me the ropes when I first got to U of A. He was the resident super senior on the yard. Short and stocky in stature, Fats was the man when it came to getting the hookup on anything and everything on campus.
    “Well ‘not a lot’ doesn’t sound like enough, but we may be able to work something out,” Fats said, struggling to hold two extralarge plastic shopping bags full of textbooks.
    “There you go,” I said. “What you doing with all those books you got in those bags? I know you ain’t taking all them classes.”
    “C’mon now,” he said. “You know I keep more hustles than janitors keep keys. I can get you whatever books you need for twenty-five percent off. They will be photocopied. But it’s still the same thing.”
    “Twenty-five?” I asked. “That’s the best you can do?”
    “Well, between me and you, since y’all my little homies, I’ll look out and give y’all an additional ten percent off my usual prices, but don’t tell anybody.”
    “Can’t beat that with a baseball bat,” Dub-B said. “Now, I wish I woulda holla’d at you before I bought mine.”
    “You really be making bread off of photocopying books and slangin’ ’em for the low?” I inquired.
    “Do I?” Fats asked, with a laugh. “I’ma make a killing, cuz. My roommate put me up on the hustle. That fool made so much cake doing this last semester, he bought some chrome rims for his ride and furnished our whole apartment. Fly shit. A living room set you would see on MTV Cribs. Flat screen and all, cuz.”
    “That’s crazy,” I said. “All that just off selling some books for class? Wow!”
    “What classes you taking anyway?” Fats asked.
    “You know I’m a business major, but I’m still taking a whole lot of my prereq classes right now,” I said, looking over the sheet of paper I was about to hand Dub-B. “So I’m taking Biology, English, African-American history, Algebra II, and one more class. Either public policy or intro to technology.”
    “Oh, that’s a no-brainer,” Fats said. “You gotta go with the public policy class, without question. Dr. J teaches that Intro to Tech class. And you know him. He will actually have you up in there doing some work, so you definitely don’t wanna take that. But that public policy is an easy A. I know who teaches that class. Wussername? Ummm…Uh…man, it’s right on the tip of my tongue. Miss…Professor Mitchell,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Yep, that’s her name. Professor Tessa Mitchell. That’s whose class you want to take.”
    “Why Miss Mitchell?” I asked.
    “Because I took her class last semester, and she wasabout