Authors: S. Walden
Hoodie
HOODIE
A LOVE STORY. IN BLACK AND WHITE.
S. Walden
Penny Press
Hoodie
Copyright 2012, S. Walden
Publisher: Penny Press
This work and all rights of the author S. Walden to this work are protected under U.S. copyright law, Title 17 of the United States Code. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, photocopied, recorded or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. This ebook may not be circulated in any format, resold, or given away. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
Cover art by Alfred Porter
To Marsha—who openly wept for my characters in public, the only validation I really wanted. Your support and love for my book is the reason for its publication.
Important note from the author:
Hoodie
was completed in May 2011. The novel does not speak to any specific current social, political, or economic event, and any similarities between said events and the novel are purely coincidental. The characters and places in
Hoodie
are fictional.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 15
Emma observed her partner from the opposite end of the classroom. He slouched in his seat, long legs spread on either side of the desk in front of him, arms folded over his chest defensively. He looked like he had an attitude, and she wondered if she should speak to him at all.
She was annoyed watching him. Apparently he cared very little about the project, and while she felt her irritation growing exponentially, she decided against voicing it. After all, she didn’t want to be responsible for an uncomfortable, rocky start to their working relationship. So she forced a smile, walked over to him, and took a seat in the empty desk in front of his only after he moved his leg aside for her. She tried her best to appear friendly, but her body language betrayed her. He noticed her rigid posture, how she sat stiff and straight with her legs crossed tightly. She was uncomfortable near him, he realized, and it pissed him off.
“I’m Emma,” she said working hard to maintain the smile painfully plastered on her face.
“I know who you are,” Anton replied. He studied her. There seemed to be an air of haughtiness about her—an attitude of superiority—though perhaps he was imagining it.
Emma didn’t know how to respond. Anton said nothing as he reached in his book bag for his cell phone.
“What’s yo’ number?” he asked indifferently.
“Here,” she said, handing him a small piece of paper with her full name, address, home and cell phone numbers, and the best times to reach her written in a neat, slanted cursive.
Anton laughed. “You that student,” he observed, shaking his head as he glanced over her information. “But I knew that already. Got it all together. Always on point. Axin’ all kinda questions in class all the time. Makin’ comments. Tryin’ to impress us with yo’ literary insights.”
“Excuse me?” she replied. The smile vanished.
“Literary insights,” he repeated. “Oh, I see. You thought I wouldn’t know words like ‘literary’ and ‘insights’ ‘cause I’m black.”
Emma stared at him mouth slightly agape only closing it when he indelicately informed her that it was hanging open.
He moved his eyes over her then, taking in the long auburn curls that framed her face, her light blue eyes with just the right amount of eye liner and mascara, soft peachy cheeks and glossy lips, her shirt that hugged her breasts perfectly. She was meticulously manicured, he thought, like an airbrushed picture on the front of a magazine. No, more like a porcelain statue than a real person, he decided. He was afraid if he touched her she would shatter.
He opened the notebook on his desk and scrawled his information. He ripped out the sheet and held it out to her watching her face. She looked put out, and he liked it. She snatched the paper from his hand, and he watched as she read to herself:
Anton Jamal Robinson. The Projects. Cell: 919-555-4621. Call for availability
. She looked up at him and saw a slight grin on his face. She stuffed the paper in her binder and left the room before the bell rang.
***
She couldn’t concentrate in Sociology. She couldn’t concentrate on anything since English class. She could think of nothing all day but the assignment and her partner who she already disliked—a partner who appeared to dislike her. She was confused and angry. What had she done to deserve such a reception from him? He was rude without cause, and she bristled at the idea of spending six weeks working with him. She wondered at her teacher’s thought process in choosing the pairs. She could hear his voice booming in the tiny classroom, and scowled.
“Sit down and shut up!” Dr. Thompson bellowed from behind his desk, pushing his crooked glasses farther up his nose.
A low grumble throughout the room replaced the rowdiness as students reluctantly shuffled to their seats. Dr. Thompson waited for absolute silence before continuing.
“Okay. So you’ve gotten your acceptance letters,” he said. “Well, probably most of you. And good for you. We’re all very impressed that you’ll be taking the next step in your academic careers by going to college.” His tone dripped with sarcasm.
“You’re comfortable and happy and could care less about the next six weeks of your lives here at school,” he continued. “So where does that leave me as your educator?”
He scanned the room of half-interested to completely indifferent faces and rolled his eyes.
“That leaves me in the unfortunate position of having to teach a bunch of self-absorbed students who don’t give a shit when I’d rather be playing golf.”
Some students perked up at that.
“Dr. Thompson, are you allowed to talk to us like that?” came a girl’s voice from the middle of the room. She often asked this question because Dr. Thompson often talked to them like that, but he never answered her once the entire school year. He did, however, have to answer to the principal on a few occasions when her parents complained about his lack of professionalism.
“So after extensive arguing with the other English teachers and most of the administration at this school, I finally succeeded in getting approval for my end-of-year project for this class.”
There was an audible groan throughout the room, and Dr. Thompson patiently awaited silence once more.
“You won’t have a final,” he said, and the groans immediately turned to cheers. “What you will have is a term paper due to me on the day the final is scheduled,” and the cheers died away.
“The term paper will count for sixty percent of your grade. So if you do a lousy job, chances are you’ll receive a failing grade on the paper and flunk the class. If you don’t pass my class, you won’t graduate. So bye-bye carefree summer and hello summer school.
“You will work with a partner to explore each of your cultural backgrounds using what you’ve learned to analyze our most recent book. Think about it like this: How would you interpret the plot, characters, and themes in our novel based on your culture?” he asked.
Most students stared blankly. A few scribbled notes furiously, Emma being one of them.
“Dr. Thompson, man, this sound like some college-level crap,” offered a student from the back of the classroom.
“Well, lucky for you, Mr. Robinson, and take that hood off your head, I have my Ph.D., so I’m more than qualified to teach you on the college level.”
A few students laughed.
“People,” Dr. Thompson continued, “you act like this is the first time you’ve ever studied a novel. You’ve been doing it all year.”
“Yeah, but not like this. What does our culture have to do with this book?” whined a student from the front of the room.