Up at the College by Michele Andrea Bowen Page B

ask me. Plus, he has too much hair all over
     him, except on his head—that hair be foaming all over his shirt like an afro. And then, when he grins, he looks just like
     the Grinch in Dr. Seuss. Maybe it’s me, but Kordell is 180 degrees from being cute.”
    Curtis was hollering with laughter. He’d heard women say a whole lot of stuff about Kordell Bivens. But he’d never heard one
     call him ugly, or say that he reminded her of the Grinch. Yvonne was right. Old boy did look just like the Grinch when he
     grinned. Curtis had always thought he was the only person in Durham who saw the striking resemblance. It was good to know
     that somebody else saw it, too.
    The kitchen was quiet. It was a shame that there were people out there doing so much dirt, and into so much lying and deception
     at the expense of other people. Curtis felt a powerful revelation tug on his heart. He knew in that moment that the team would
     not progress and be blessed with victory as long as Kordell and Castilleo worked for him. He realized that what he knew about
     these two men was merely the tip of the iceberg, and God couldn’t honor anything harboring this kind of sin, greed, and debauchery.
    “You know something,” Maurice said solemnly, “if those men don’t stop what they are doing and repent, they are going to have
     to answer for all that they have done in the worst way. God will not be mocked. And as much as I know y’all don’t want to
     hear this, we need to pray for those men and their families.”
    Trina sucked on a side tooth, rolled her eyes, and said, “Before or after I stick my pistol up Kordell, Castilleo, and Rico
     Sneed’s nose?”
    “Girl, you don’t even own a pistol,” Curtis told her.
    Trina snapped her head back, raised a finger in the air, got up out of her chair, and then did a 180-degree twist before she
     went to the study and came back with a red lacquered box with TRINA written on it in bold, gold cursive letters. She put the
     box on the counter, snatched her purse off the chair it always sat on, took out her keys, and proceeded to open the box. She
     then whipped out the thirty-eight and held it at the gangster angle—tilted to the side rather than pointed straight toward
     an intended target.
    “Whoa,” Curtis said and made to move out of his seat.
    “Now,” Trina said with a whole lot of attitude, “what were you saying about me and my pistol?”
    “Baby,
put
that away,” Maurice admonished. He didn’t know what possessed him to let that girl buy that pistol the last time they were
     at the gun show. He knew he shouldn’t have let Trina, Yvonne, and Rochelle go with him. They were running around the gun show
     like some little kids, scaring a few of those hard-core gun enthusiasts in American flag fitted caps. One of those men had
     eased over to Maurice and said in the most polite Eastern North Carolina–laced accent, “Man, you got somethin’ on yo’ hands
     with those three. I’d hate to think what them there lil’ ladies would be like running around all excited with some steel in
     their hands.”
    Trina waved the gun around with her hand on her hip and said, “You need to recognize, Curtis Lee Parker. I’m tired of people
     doing raunchy stuff to decent folks and then getting away with it.”
    “Baby, we are sick of it, too,” Maurice said calmly. “But this is something only God can handle. This is His battle, not ours.
     So please put the gun away ’cause not a one of those negroes are here to do any target practice on.”
    Trina sighed heavily and said, “Oh, all right,” and put the pistol back in the red box.
    Yvonne was now laughing so hard tears were rolling down her cheeks. She said, “Y’all are killing me. If I knew there was this
     much drama going on over here in Garrett Farms, I woulda been camped out on the front porch a long time ago.”
    “Well,” Trina said, “I kept telling you that you needed to get out more and come and chill with us. But you