Indigo Summer - Monica McKayhan Mills & Boon Kimani

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Tameka whispered.

      “Thanks. So were you,” I whispered back.

      “Hope I was good enough to make the team,” she said.

      “Hope I was, too.”

      I used the sleeve of my shirt to wipe sweat from my face.

      Chapter 5

      Marcus

      Coach Robinson’s whistle sounded across the field.

      “Let’s run that play one more time,” he said, his voice loud for a man his size. Coach Robinson was about five-foot-seven, dark, a short dude with a receding hairline. He was buff though, obviously from pumping iron each day.

      I wasn’t much of a football player anymore, had played when I was little, but never really had a desire to play sports. I was too busy studying and volunteering my time to worthy causes, and tutoring people who sucked in math.

      But Coach Robinson, who was my American History teacher at this new school in College Park, had immediately taken a liking to me. He called on me more times on the first day of school than anyone else in the class; to answer questions and to help pass out worksheets. When the bell sounded for me to head to my next class, he called my name.

      “Mr. Carter.” He looked up from his desk, and motioned for me to come back.

      I walked slowly back to his desk. “Yes, sir?”

      “How come you’re not on my football team?”

      “I don’t really have time for sports, Coach. Got a lot on my plate with my schoolwork,” I explained. “Plus I’m working toward getting a scholarship, and I wanna get it based on my grades, not my ability to run a football down the field. I got a part-time job, too.”

      I was able to transfer to a different Wendy’s on the other side of town. I was grateful for that, because I definitely needed my own money.

      “You’re Rufus Carter’s boy, aren’t you?” he said.

      My pop was a pillar in the community; people from miles around knew him and respected him. For years, he and my grandfather had sponsored sports teams, donating money for equipment and uniforms. The name of his company, Carter’s Affordable Homes, was plastered on the back of T-shirts and on plaques all over town.

      “I remember when you played for the community center over there in Stone Mountain. You were pretty doggone good,” he said. “I used to coach at the community center here in College Park. I remember you.”

      “I played quarterback.”

      “And you were good, too,” he said. “You took that team to victory every single year. Why don’t you play anymore?”

      “Lost interest.”

      “You sure you don’t wanna give this team a try?” he asked. “Quincy Rawlins is my starting linebacker, but I’d like to try you as a wide receiver or cornerback.”

      “I don’t know. It’s been a while since I played.”

      “Well if you change your mind, you always got a spot on the team.”

      “Thanks, Coach.” I folded the worksheet which was my homework assignment and placed it inside my book. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

      Curiosity had brought me there, as I sat on the bleachers on the football field and watched them practice. My mind went back to the days when football was my first love; my everything and then some. Nothing was more important to me back then. But it had soon become a long forgotten dream, and I remember the person who had shattered it: Mr. Forbes.

      I worked my behind off that year to make the team, had pumped weights all summer just trying to build up my muscle mass, had gone to football camp and everything, but the coach at my middle school didn’t think I had what it took to play quarterback anymore.

      “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

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