Up at the College

by Michele Andrea Bowen

Genres: African American; Classics; Short Stories

Synopsis

In Michele Andrea Bowen’s Up at the College, Yvonne Copeland—dumped by her husband and now homeless—returns to her hometown of Durham, North Carolina. Landing a job as an adjunct professor, she begins rebuilding her life and her relationship with God. And then she meets the university’s basketball coach, who’s everything she wants in a man—except for a defect only God can change.

“… a feel-good story full of humor and hope.”—Library Journal

Release date: March 31, 2009

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 304

Sample

Wow!!! I can’t believe that I have been so blessed as to reach the point where I am writing the acknowledgments to Up at the College. Readers, you all have been so sweet and supportive, and patient. I am so thankful for you, your love, and your prayers.


With any book, there are a lot of people to thank. And while I can’t put everybody in this acknowledgment, know that I appreciate
and love you all.


First, thank you Grand Central Publishing. Karen Thomas, my editor, Latoya Smith, and Linda Duggins—thank you for your help
and support. To the gentleman who so graciously creates my beautiful book jacket artwork—thank you one more time. I love this
cover!


Thank you, S. B. Kleinman. Your copyediting was “on the money” and enhanced the quality of this book. Plus, shout-outs to
the publicity team—Tanisha Christie and Nick Small. I appreciate all of your help.


Pamela Harty, my agent. Girl … we’ve been through what some folks would refer to as “trills and trybulayshons.” Thank
you, from my heart.


I want to give a shout out to my “big brother,” Coach Joe Taylor, head coach of Florida A&M University’s (FAMU) football team,
and play cousin, FAMU’s former head basketball coach, Mickey Clayton. Your input helped with the construction and development
of the characters Head Coach Curtis Parker and his assistant coach, Maurice Fountain. Plus, Beverly Taylor, my good friend
of over fifteen years, really schooled me on life as a coach’s wife. Whew—never knew that it was so akin to being the first lady of a church. My hat goes off to both you and Mrs. Clayton.


Thank you, Elaine Cardin, owner of Lakewood Hairquarters in Durham. It was so much fun writing you in as the character who
gave Yvonne her fabulous makeover.


To my girls—Jacquelin Thomas and Victoria Christopher Murray—almost a decade that we have been in this business together.
And God ain’t thru’ with us yet.


My church, St. Joseph’s African Methodist Episcopal Church in Durham, North Carolina, along with my choir, The Inspirational
Singers. Love you much.


My pastor, Reverend Philip R. Cousin Jr., and First Lady Angela M. Cousin. You two are mighty people of God and a blessing
to the AME Church.


Ken and Ava Brownlee—y’all know I cannot write an acknowledgment and not put you all in it.

And my family. My mommy, Minnie Bowen, is always there for me and my babies, Laura and Janina. What would we do without MaMa?
My grandmother, DaDa, my Uncle James (Bishop Nelson) and my Aunt Bessie (Mother Nelson), along with my aunts, uncles, and
cousins. Love to all of you.


But most importantly, I thank and praise the Lord in the name of Jesus. None of this would have been possible without the
Lord, who is my everything.


I will bless the Lord at all times; His praise shall continually be in my mouth. My soul shall make its boast in the Lord;
The humble shall hear of it and be glad. Oh, magnify the Lord with me, and let us exalt His name together.

Psalm 34:1–3 (NKJV)

Michele Andrea Bowen

June 4, 2008

Yvonne sat on the floor, surrounded by the boxes crowding up the living room, wishing she had said “Yes” instead of “No” when
her parents asked if she wanted them to come up to Richmond and help with the packing. The movers were coming in three days
and Yvonne felt like she could use six.


She didn’t want to move out of her home. But she had to because Darrell, her soon-to-be ex-husband, had threatened to fight
her for custody of their two daughters if she didn’t take the girls and get out of their home by a certain date. Nobody who
heard this story could believe that a man would put his wife and children out of their own home based on the bogus assumption
that this house was his simply because Yvonne was an at-home mom when they bought it.


The doorbell rang.

“Who is it?” Yvonne spat out, and then kicked a half-filled moving box, hurting her toe.

The doorbell rang again, this time followed by loud and insistent knocking. Didn’t this person hear her say “Who is it?” Yvonne
thought as she snatched the door open, ready to flip off on whoever was on the other side. Her angry glare met the bewildered
expression of the young lady cradling a crystal vase filled with three dozen velvety pink roses.


“Mrs. Copeland?” the young woman asked in a kind and soothing voice.

“Yes?” Yvonne said, her voice a whole lot softer.

“These are for you.”

“Me?” Yvonne raised an eyebrow, wondering who thought she needed a vase full of expensive pink roses when her budget was so
tight.


“Yes, they are for you,” the young woman answered and put the vase in Yvonne’s hands.

“Come on in,” Yvonne said over her shoulder, as she put the vase on top of the white baby grand piano and turned to sign for
the flowers.


“You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Copeland.”

All Yvonne could do was nod. The house was very beautiful. But it was not her home anymore. She said, “Do you have a pen?”

The young woman reached into the bag on her shoulder and put a pale pink envelope into Yvonne’s outstretched hand.

They are not paying me enough for this, she thought, watching Yvonne trying to figure out what in the world was going on.


“These flowers are not from the florist. My boss, your husband’s lawyer, was instructed by Dr. Copeland to deliver your separation
agreement and these flowers to you.”


Yvonne couldn’t believe Darrell. Today was Valentine’s Day and he knew how much she loved Valentine’s Day. It was like he
was doing everything in his power to hurt her as badly as he could. She felt the weight of the envelope and tried not to admire
the exquisite, fine linen stationery in her favorite color. Valentine’s Day, Yvonne kept thinking as she whispered, “Why me?”


“Mrs. Copeland, are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Yvonne answered, as she struggled to blink back hot tears. She had been prepared for hurt, surmising that
she couldn’t get through a divorce without some casualty of the heart. But she didn’t know it would be this bad.


The young woman had never met Yvonne but she knew that in her worst moment, Mrs. Copeland had never done anything to be treated
like this by her husband and the father of her children.


Tears streamed down Yvonne’s cheeks as she stared into the kind blue eyes of this unlikely bearer of bad news.

“Mrs. Copeland, I could get fired for saying this to you. But you have to know that any man who treats you with such disregard
is not worth your tears. I pray that the day you leave this house, you will step out on faith, trust God, and never look back.”


Yvonne sat down on one of the moving boxes. She put her face in her hands and sobbed. The young lady sat down and put her
arm around Yvonne’s shoulders.


“I know you might not feel this right now, but God is on your side, and He will see you through this storm.”

Yvonne nodded. See her through. How many times had she heard those words in the past few months? As far as she was concerned, God seeing her through this
disaster was a pretty tall order. Here she was, a well-educated, forty-three-year-old black woman with two daughters, unemployed,
forced to leave a home she didn’t think she’d ever be able to buy again, and crying on the shoulders of a blond, blue-eyed
white woman who looked like the worst problem she’d ever had was being a day late paying her rent simply because she had forgotten
to post a reminder on her calendar.


The young lady reached into her bag and pulled out a baby blue suede Bible. She turned to the first chapter of Luke and found
verse thirty-seven.


“You know,” she said, “it says right here that ‘nothing is impossible with God.’ Not only is He going to see you through all of this, He is going to create for you cause to give a wonderful testimony about
the glory of the Lord. And whenever it feels like it can’t get any worse, you just remember that nothing, absolutely nothing
is impossible with our God.”


“Thank you,” Yvonne whispered, thinking that she was experiencing one of those “it can’t get any worse” moments right now.

“I’ll let myself out,” the young lady said as she got up and walked to the door.

By the time Yvonne’s three days were up and February seventeenth, moving day, rolled up on her, Yvonne was ready to transform
this season in her life into a “gone are the things of the past” event. She walked through the house, making sure that all
of her boxes were in place, and came upon the last unsealed box, pulled back the flaps, and peered inside at the worn white
satin wedding album. It was obvious that Darrell had tossed the album into the box, apparently hoping to convey that he did
not want any reminders of her in this house.


“I wonder if he plans on tossing the girls in a box, too,” Yvonne mused. She pulled the wedding album out of the box and stared
at Darrell’s thin, solemn face on what was supposed to have been one of the “happiest days of her life,” wondering why the
boy had ever formed his mouth to ask her to marry him. Even during their best times together, Darrell always found something
wrong with Yvonne. Throughout their marriage, he lectured her relentlessly on what he contended was her “tendency to act like
a simpleton, marred even more so by her country ways and mannerisms.”


She stared at herself a moment, wondering why the pretty twentysomething in the picture, with yards and yards of delicate
lace trailing behind her, didn’t have the sense to bunch up that dress and run. She couldn’t help but think about the day
Darrell came home and announced, “After much contemplation, relentless journaling to soothe my endless vexation with you,
tai chi, acupuncture, and colon cleansing to rid myself of the impurities brought on by my anxiety over this situation, I
have decided that I must find my way back to my original self through a wrenching detachment process some refer to as a divorce.


“And please, turn off that clamor,” he snapped, referring to the music on her CD player. “I can barely hear myself think above all of
that rump-shaking, bass-thumping garbage.”


“Darrell,” Yvonne said evenly, “this is a Jonathan Nelson CD, and he is a gospel singer.”

Darrell snorted in disgust. He disliked gospel music even more than he did hip-hop and rhythm and blues.

“You want to sit down?”

“No,” he answered. “I prefer to stand.”

“Okay. Suit yourself.”

“That’s the problem with you, Yvonne,” he snarled. “You are so simple. I mean, look at me. I’ve spent years earning a PhD
in Exotic Agricultural Studies, done postdoctoral studies all over the world, and I continue to expand my intellect in every
way possible. But you”—Darrell snorted in disgust—“you are content to walk around grinning over the smallest and most insignificant
matter. You are enamored with R&B and gospel music, but rarely do you want to listen to anything that expands your mind. I
have yet to walk into this office and hear something worthwhile like the Brahmin Folk Shamans.”


Yvonne was not going to dignify that comment with a response—even though she had plenty to say on the matter. The one time
she tried to listen to a song by that group just to please Darrell, the leader’s voice, which was weird, gave her a splitting
headache. He sounded just like Chewbacca from Star Wars. She stared at Darrell for a moment and thought about going off on him and putting him out of her office. But she heard a
soft voice in her spirit whispering, “Get still and be quiet.”


Neither said a word. The longer they were silent, the more peaceful Yvonne became, even though her husband’s agitation escalated
with each passing second. When Darrell finally spoke again, he was so mad for a moment he literally forgot how to unclench
his teeth. His words came hissing out.


“We’ve been together a total of sixteen years and it feels like an eternity spent betwixt and between Heaven and Hell. I want
you and the girls out of my house seven weeks from today. And here are the terms of our pending separation,” he said as he
tossed a heavy envelope at her feet.


Yvonne was stunned. She didn’t know that her husband, her babies’ daddy, felt this way about her. Oh, she knew that Darrell
was going through something—he was always going through some kind of dramatic episode. But this? This was something beyond the usual “Darrell is going through something
or another.” This was a carefully planned kill, steal, and destroy mission.


When Darrell stormed out of her office that day, it was the end of her marriage and life as she’d known it over the past decade.
Yvonne remembered sitting at her desk staring at the ocean screen saver on her computer until she got bored enough to initiate
the excruciating process of putting her shattered life back together.


Even now, Yvonne marveled at all the things she didn’t do or didn’t say. Whenever she relayed the story to family or a close
friend, they all said the same thing.


“Girl, you mean to tell me that he said all of that and you didn’t yell, get to cussin’, cry until snot ran down into your
mouth, put sugar in his gas tank, smear his car with creamed corn, send nasty e-mails to his boss, or open up a bunch of magazine
subscriptions in his name?”


“Nope,” was all Yvonne had said. As much as she had wanted to do all of the above and then some, she had not been able to
do anything but ask the Lord to provide her with protection in the midst of this raging storm—a Holy Ghost umbrella that wouldn’t
bend back and be ripped out of her hands by a particularly harsh and bitter wind.


Yvonne dropped the wedding album on the floor, stepped on it, and then kicked it across the room. She sealed the box and went
through the house one last time before the movers were scheduled to arrive. When she was sure that all was in order, Yvonne
went into the kitchen and made herself a big, fat, simple, country, and ghetto-licious sandwich with the bologna she bought specifically for this day. She washed out the empty mayonnaise jar
in the sink and filled it up with red Kool-Aid. She wrapped the sandwich in a piece of wax paper, grabbed the jar of Kool-Aid,
and went and sat on the kitchen chair she’d put on the front porch to sit in while she ate this sandwich. She swallowed the
last bite right before she saw the nose of the moving truck rolling up the street. It was the best meal she’d ever eaten at
this house.


Yvonne’s oldest daughter, D’Relle Copeland, sneaked and turned the car radio from her mother’s favorite station, the old school
Foxy 107, to her favorite, 102 Jamz in Greensboro, then turned the radio off right before Yvonne walked out of the house.


“You know she is going to turn it right back to her station. She always does.”

“Shut up, Danesha,” D’Relle snapped at her younger sister. Sometimes Danesha acted like her calling in life was to tell and
comment on everything.


Danesha rolled her eyes at her sister, mumbling, “You are such a butt-head.”

“God don’t like ugly.”

“Then He sho’ don’t like you. ’Cause whenever I look up the word ‘ugly’ in the dictionary, all I see is a picture of D’Relle
Lenaye Copeland.”


“Middle schooler.”

“Yo’ mama,” Danesha shot back, and then shut up when Yvonne opened the car door and it dawned on her that she was talking
about her own mama, too.


“Middle schooler,” D’Relle said as she licked her finger and wrote an invisible score in the air. Danesha, an eighth grader, hated that she
had to wait another year before she could go to Hillside High School with her older sister.


Yvonne slid into the driver’s seat, buckled her seat belt, and turned on the radio. One of her favorite older rap songs, “Just
Walk It Out,” was playing: “East side walk it out, west side walk it out …” She knew D’Relle had rigged the radio and
wished something her old school ears couldn’t stand to listen to was on so she could flip the switch on her smarty-pants fifteen-year-old.
But she opted for an even better comeuppance for Miss Thang.


“D’Relle, you go and sit in the backseat with your sister.”

“But, Mama, you drop me off first.”

“So what’s your point,” Yvonne replied, knowing that D’Relle was working hard to think of a reason to stay in the front.

D’Relle got out of the car and went and sat in the back with Danesha, who snickered and then said, “Mama, D is breathing on
me and rolling her eyes just ’cause she has to ride in the backseat like she is in middle school.”


“Stop breathing on your sister.”

“But, Mama, I look like a chump sitting back here like this, losing cool points.”

“Then get up and get moving and don’t miss your bus again,” Yvonne told her, not caring if she never earned a so-called cool point ever again. “And from now on,” she continued, “every time your lazy butt misses that bus, you will ride in the back for the
entire day. ’Cause I get tired of driving you to school when I don’t have to.”


“I ain’t never heard you complain about driving Trog to school, just me,” D’Relle snapped at her mother, and then rolled her eyes to add to the effect.


Yvonne drove back up into the driveway, put the car in park, and got out. She opened the back door and reached for her oldest
child.


D’Relle grabbed the passenger-side seat belt strap in a feeble effort to stay in the safety zone of the car. But when her
mother began to climb into that backseat, D’Relle started to cry and whimpered, “I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean it. Okay,
Mama? Okay, Mama?”


“D’Relle, if you ever take a mind to talk like that to me again, you are going to need the SWAT team to get me up off of you.
Do you understand me, little girl?”


“Yes, ma’am,” D’Relle said, sheer relief pouring all over her when Yvonne finally retreated from the backseat.

Danesha was still and quiet, hoping to fade into the seat upholstery. The last thing she wanted was for her mama to break
off a piece of what she was about to put on D’Relle and then give it to her. But her plan to remain unnoticed wasn’t foolproof.
Yvonne’s keen mama eyes bore into Danesha with greater precision than any laser.


“And you better watch your step, too, missy. I have plenty left over of what I was planning to give your sister. Do I make
myself clear?”


“Yes, ma’am,” Danesha whispered.

“Now let’s see if we can do what we’ve been trying to do all morning—leave this house and get you two to school,” Yvonne snapped,
and then turned the radio to the Light gospel station. She hiked up the volume on what she secretly knew D’Relle and Danesha
believed was the countriest gospel song ever written in modern history. She tried not to laugh when she saw the sisters try
to sneak and roll their eyes when the words “Jesus is my doctor, He brangs me all my medicines … in the room” blasted
out of the car windows for eerr-body to hear.


D’Relle started praying under her breath, “Lord, PLEASE end this song before we get to the turn light for Hillside.”

Yvonne waved at Danesha and pulled off from her last school stop, Durham School of the Arts Middle School entrance, and gave
a sigh of relief. If those two weren’t getting on her last nerve this morning, she didn’t know who was. Yet irrespective of
the “lil’ negro chirrens show” the girls had put on this morning, life was more pleasant and peaceful than it had been in
years. And to add to her joy, Yvonne couldn’t even describe the relief she’d felt when Darrell called to announce that he
was going on an academic sabbatical in Vietnam.


Six whole months without having to lay one eye on Darrell Edward Copeland and his wifey-to-be, Dr. Bettina Davidson, was the
best news she’d heard in a very long time. Darrell was pompous and difficult. But that Bettina? The heifer was sneaky, mean,
and always trying to take a shot at a sister from somewhere in the cut. Six whole months without those heathens in her life
was enough to make Yvonne want to get out of her car and do the Holy Dance right out here on Highway 751.


Yvonne turned the radio to Foxy 107. An old Keyshia Cole song was playing. She turned the radio up, so as not to miss one
note of one of her favorite songs. “I remember when my heart broke, I remember when I gave up loving you …” Yvonne could
practically feel those words, sung to such a lovely melody with the smoothest jazz piano solo tinkling in the background.


Yvonne remembered the day her heart broke—felt as if it would never be made whole again. She used to wish, in the most painful
moments, that there was some kind of Krazy Glue from Heaven she could apply to all of the fragments of her heart and put it
back together. And sometimes it seemed as if nobody understood what she was going through. It was in those moments of the
worst pain that she realized Jesus understood and He had everything she needed to put her heart back right. The day she gave
up loving Darrell to Jesus was the day Jesus took her heart in His hands and healed her.


She was glad to be at a stoplight—it gave her some time to enjoy the beautiful blue sky, made even lovelier by the fluffy
white clouds, and the warm sunshine bathing her face. It was a wonderful day and Yvonne was glad that her heart was free and
full of joy. Folks just didn’t know how heartache and too much struggling could dim even the sunniest day. But to be able
to pray those clouds back and bask in God’s love was something wonderful, and Yvonne didn’t take it for granted.


“Thank you, Lord, for all that You’ve done for me,” she said out loud, glad the DJ decided to really go old school and do
an “instant replay” of the song. Sometimes, you just needed to hear one of your favorite songs more than once. Yvonne knew
that God had been so good to her. She had a wonderful home in Cashmere Estates, and the perfect job as a designer and adjunct
professor in the Department of Interior and Exterior Design at Evangeline T. Marshall University, or Eva T., as the school
was called by most black folk in Durham County.


Yvonne turned left onto Okelly Chapel Road and then turned left again when she reached the entrance of the university, which
was located where the Durham and Chatham County lines intersected. She drove down the narrow street leading to the Daniel
Meeting Building, where she worked, eyes scanning the area for a parking space. There was a shortage of decent parking spaces
on campus, and if that wasn’t bad enough, just across the road stood the brand-new Athletic Department with more spaces than
they needed or ever used during working hours. She wished somebody could get through to the athletic director, Gilead Jackson,
and persuade him to let her department use some of those spaces.


But Gilead was the kind of negro who loved having something other people wanted. And it made his day every time he stood in
his picture window and watched folks from other departments driving around and around the campus looking for a decent place
to park. When asked why he was so mean and stingy, Gilead said, “Those parking spaces are mine, and I can do whatever I want
to do with them. If I choose to let them sit there empty, then that’s just the way it is going to be.”


The departments in close proximity to the Athletic Department’s parking spaces, like Yvonne’s building, decided to go over
Gilead’s head when he issued that bold, ugly, and callous statement during a faculty senate meeting. But they soon found out
that those efforts were in vain because their president, Sam Redmond, was prone to looking the other way when Gilead Jackson
was the subject of his faculty’s concern. A few folks decided that they would just up and out-bold Gilead and parked in those
spaces anyway. That rebellion was quickly put to rest, after everybody’s car was towed to a barbed-wire-fenced lot in Chapel
Hill with pit bulls running all over the place.


The faculty was furious, especially when they heard about those mean guard dogs standing watch over some folks’ prized Mercedes
and Lexus cars. They threatened Gilead with a boycott of all Athletic Department activities at the next faculty senate meeting.
His response?


“This is a historically black institution of higher learning. Do you honestly think that I believe all of you black people
are going to give up football, basketball, track and field, tailgating parties, homecoming, butt-jiggling cheerleaders, and
the Battle of the Bands competition over some parking spaces? Y’all negroes best get up on out of my face before I honor my
well-earned reputation as a Class A, Division I Butt-Head.”


Yvonne had been at that meeting. She could not believe Gilead had gotten up at a university meeting and talked like he was
a thug on the corner, getting ready to throw down. But she had to remember that they were at an HBCU, and there were some
behind-the-scenes black people shenanigans occurring that boggled the mind and would run a white person crazy. Black people.
She loved her people and she loved and cherished black institutions. But sometimes … black folk were something else.


She spied a decent parking space and eased her brand-new, sea-blue metallic-colored Infiniti FX45 SUV into it. Yvonne and
the girls loved this car. The day they bought it, they rode all over Durham smiling and laughing, having the time of their
lives, and hollering out the windows at anybody they knew. But this car was just the icing on the cake of the many blessings
God had poured into their lives once Yvonne released her old life into His hands, and the divorce became final.


She had a year-to-year position in the Department of Interior and Exterior Design at a decent salary, along with a lovely
2,100-square-foot cottage, for the price of a modest two-bedroom apartment, in Cashmere Estates. It was nothing but the Lord
who led Lamont Green to lease the home out to her for 850 dollars a month, in exchange for her upgrading and designing it
for the virtual tour of cottage homes on the community’s website. Yvonne also served as the in-house consultant for upgrades
and changes to all homes in Cashmere Estates.


She got out of the car and went around to the back to get her bag filled with floor samples, paint samples, and swatches of
materials for the furnishings needed for the university’s newly rehabbed building for the alumni, boosters, and trustees.
Yvonne set the bag on the ground, closed the back of the SUV, and headed inside. She set the bag down one more time, and was
about to pull at the heavy door when her eyes lighted on Tangie Bonner, one of the university’s assistant managers for food
services, getting out of Rico Sneed’s car. Rico was married to her friend Marquita Robinson Sneed, and didn’t have a semblance
of a job at Eva T. If her memory served her correctly, Rico worked at UNC in Chapel Hill. It was almost nine o’clock in the
morning, and if what she knew about most state jobs was correct, old boy should have been on the clock about an hour ago.


She watched Tangie leaning down and sticking her head into Rico’s window, butt twitching back and forth, like whatever was
being said sho’ was sounding good to her. Yvonne felt a stab of pain in her heart. Marquita was a sweet person and didn’t deserve to be disrespected by either
of them. Even though Rico had never been one of Yvonne’s favorite people, she’d never pegged him to be a liar and a cheat.
She always believed that he was a trash-talking and opinionated braggart—but not a cheat, and especially not with a cheap
trick