Indigo Summer

“It’s a new day, Carter,” Mr. Forbes, the new blond-haired, pale-faced coach, had gripped his clipboard, said and frowned. “The days of you getting what you want because your daddy owns half of this town is over.”

“But Coach, I played quarterback for the community center for five years straight.”

“Well this is not the community center, and I’ve got a quarterback.” He smiled. “His name is Todd Richmond.”

“Todd ain’t half as good as me.”

“Ain’t?” He repeated my bad English. “Ain’t is not the proper word to use in that sentence. I swear to God I don’t know why I took this teaching job over here. Should’ve stayed in the suburbs where the students are both smart and talented. Over here, you people think that just because you can run a football down the field, that you don’t have to know anything else. You go through school with blinders on, thinking that sports will save you from your ignorance.”

I stood there eyeballing him, my blood boiling as he pretty much called me and my entire race stupid to my face. I knew I had to prove him wrong. Knew that I had to prove that not every black kid who was good in sports was dumb in the classroom.

“My grades are good,” I said in my defense.

“You’re in the low Cs, kid. I’m struggling just to keep you on the team.”

“But I’m bringing them up,” I said. “They dropped when my parents got divorced, because I was stressing over that.”

“It’s always an excuse with you youngsters,” he said.

“It’s true,” I told him. “I’m going to bring them back up. And when I graduate, I’m graduating with honors.”

“You see Todd over there?” He pointed toward the redhead who’d stolen my position on the team. “When he leaves high school, he’ll not only have had four good years of football, but with his grade point average, he’s sure to get a scholarship to Yale or Princeton. And that’s a fact.”

“I could get a scholarship to Yale or Princeton if I wanted to.”

“Not likely,” he said, as if it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “But there’s no doubt you could get into either Morehouse or Clark-Atlanta University, one of the historically black colleges here in Atlanta. That is, if you bring that grade point average up, and keep it steady during your high school years. But you have to really be a special kid to get into an Ivy League school like Yale or Princeton, Marcus.”

His words stuck with me, tore me up inside, and even stopped me from sleeping a few nights. I knew what I had to do. I had to come up with a Master Plan. I wanted to go to Yale or Princeton, simply to set a standard; to prove a point. Not that Morehouse or Clark-Atlanta weren’t good schools, because they were. In fact, Morehouse was known for its strong math and science programs. And I was a math scholar, could work problems out with my eyes closed. But I wanted to not only get accepted to a school where statistically blacks weren’t accepted, but I wanted to get a scholarship to one, too.

Football was over for me that day, and I was determined to make straight As, graduate with honors, get a scholarship to Yale or Princeton and look for that Mr. Forbes one day and show him that he was wrong about Marcus Carter. I dreamed of that day.

Coach Robinson had the team running a play over and over again, and when he was sure it was burned into their memory, he ran it again. I pulled my worksheet out of my American History book, looked over the questions. They were simple, so I completed it, the sun beaming down on my fresh haircut as I sat in the bleachers. I scribbled my name across the top, then folded the worksheet back up, stuck it into my book and placed my book into my backpack. Threw my backpack across my shoulder and decided to head over to the gym where the girls were trying out for the dance team. Nothing like watching a bunch of girls shaking it up.

I pulled the heavy door open, peeked inside, Usher’s “Confession,” ringing in my ears as I stepped inside. Took a seat on the bleachers next to some other guys who’d stayed after school just to watch the girls move their hips to hip-hop music. They were picking out which ones they would ask out, and saying how cute Indigo Summer was as she bounced to the music that echoed throughout the gymnasium. Just by looking at her, I couldn’t tell that she could move like that. But she could. She was good, and I was glad that I had caught the end of her performance.

After the last group of three girls started dancing to some song by Ludacris, I decided to make my way outside the gym, and stand near the glass doors. I didn’t want to miss Indigo when she came out. I wanted to speak to her; maybe offer her a ride home. Tell her how good her performance was. My backpack thrown across my shoulder, as girls passed by whispering, smiling and waving, I waited patiently.

“Hey,” one of them said. “You Marcus Carter?”

“Yep,” I said.

“You’re in my fourth period.” The light brown girl smiled a cute little smile, and my eyes found her cleavage that she was showing too much of.

“Oh,” is all I could say as I thought back to all the girls in my fourth period. I didn’t remember her face.

“I sit two seats behind you in class,” she said. “I’m Alicia.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“And I’m Shauna,” her friend said. “You going to the homecoming dance?”

“I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

I wondered if Indigo was going, and if so, if she already had a date. Maybe I’d ask her.

“Well, if you decide to go, who you taking?” Alicia asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I don’t have a date,” she smiled.

My eyes found the door of the gym as they swung open and the girls trying out for the dance team rushed out. I searched for Indigo in the crowd, and spotted her walking and talking with another girl. She wore pink shorts and a white top that hugged her small breasts. Her wild hair fell softly onto her shoulders, and her skin was flawless.

“Indigo,” I called her, walking away from Alicia and Shauna, leaving their questions and comments to dissolve into the air.

Indigo’s eyes found mine.

“What’s up?” She asked.

“I been waiting on you. Wanted to tell you how good you were in there.”

“Thanks. Hope I make the team,” she said dryly, as if she doubted her own skills.

“You will,” I said.

“What you doing hanging around in the girls’ gym anyway?” she asked.

“Watching the tryouts.”

“You stayed after school just to watch us dance? Don’t you have anything better to do?” she asked, frowning. “Why aren’t you on the football team or something?”

“Because I don’t play football…anymore,” I said. “But I watched the team practice for a while. Then I decided to come over here and see what was up with the dance team tryouts.”

“Well, good for you,” she said and walked away from me, through the glass doors and to the outside courtyard.

I followed.

“You got a ride home?”

“My father’s picking me up,” she said, searching the lineup of cars that sat at the curb; parents waiting for their children to come out.

“…’cause I was gonna say, I could give you a ride, since you live right next door.”

“That’s alright. He’s already here,” she said, and took off toward her father’s truck.

Didn’t say goodbye. Just left me standing there, unaware that I thought she was the finest girl in the entire school.