Chapter 2: First Trophy, Second Hunt

Chapter 2: First Trophy

Drake woke before his alarm, the gray pre-dawn light seeping through the blinds like dirty water. Karleville's bed was already made—hospital corners, pillow fluffed, the blanket pulled so tight you could bounce a quarter off it. The man himself sat at his desk, already dressed, already reading something dense with footnotes.

"You sleep?" Drake asked, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress.

"Four hours. Sufficient for cognitive function."

"Right."

The radiator clanked. Somewhere down the hall, a shower hissed on. Drake stood, stretched, let the sheet fall away from his body. He was fit—not gym-rat shredded, but lean, the kind of build that came from high school lacrosse and a metabolism that hadn't yet betrayed him. Brown hair mussed, blue eyes still bleary. He caught Karleville glance at him, then away.

Good, Drake thought. Let him see what a white man looks like. Let him compare.

The plan had crystallized overnight, somewhere between dreams of ebony thighs and the slow realization that Karleville was more useful than he'd initially thought. The kid was already halfway there—already rejected by his own people, already speaking the language of individualism and personal responsibility. All Drake needed to do was nudge him further. Introduce the literature. The Bell Curve. Race Differences in Intelligence. A Troublesome Inheritance. The HBD blogs. Let the ideas take root over months, let Karleville's own intellectual vanity do the work. The nerd would swallow it whole if it came wrapped in footnotes and p-values.

By the end of freshman year, Karleville Morer would be the Uncle Tom the other students only whispered about. He'd be Drake's native guide, his translator, his proof of concept.

"You ever read Charles Murray?" Drake asked, casual, pulling on jeans.

Karleville's head tilted. "I'm familiar with his work on welfare reform. Losing Ground was influential."

"I meant the other stuff."

The pause was small but significant. "I know what you meant."

"Just asking."

"I don't read pseudoscience."

Drake shrugged. "Pseudoscience is just science you don't agree with yet. That's what my dad always says."

"Your dad sounds like a contrarian."

"He's a successful one." Drake buttoned his shirt, tucked it in. "Anyway. Just making conversation. You want coffee?"

Karleville blinked. "I don't drink coffee."

"Of course you don't."

---

The campus unfurled under the morning sun like a dark, beautiful tapestry. Drake walked the central quad with his hands in his pockets, watching. The September air was warm and thick, carrying the scent of cut grass and something floral—hibiscus, maybe, or whatever black girls used in their hair. He'd need to learn the names of those products. Know your prey, his father had taught him, back when they'd hunted actual deer in the Wisconsin woods. Know what they eat, where they sleep, what scares them. Then you can take them.

He cataloged as he walked.

There: a girl with skin the color of wet mud, her hair braided into tight cornrows that traced the geography of her scalp. She was thick—not fat, but dense, the kind of body that had been built for labor and didn't apologize for it. Wide hips, heavy tits, an ass that strained against her denim shorts like it was trying to escape. She laughed at something her friend said, and Drake watched the way her whole body participated in the laugh—shoulders shaking, belly tensing, mouth opening wide enough to show the pink of her tongue.

There: another girl, lighter, honey-brown, with straightened hair that fell past her shoulders in a glossy sheet. Her features were finer, sharper—the nose narrower, the lips thinner. One drop rule, Drake thought. Somewhere in her ancestry, a white man did what I'm doing. She moved with a studied elegance, like she was always being watched, and maybe she was. The high-yella ones usually got the most attention.

And there: a third girl, seated alone on a bench, reading. Her skin was so dark it absorbed the sunlight, obsidian with undertones of purple and blue. Her hair was natural—a halo of tight, springy coils that caught the light like black wire. She was slender, almost delicate, with the long limbs and narrow hips that Drake's reading had told him were characteristic of certain African populations. Nilotic, maybe. Or Congolese. He'd need to study more.

Three specimens, he thought. Three entries for the safari journal.

He kept walking.

---

The dining hall was a cacophony of noise and movement. Drake grabbed a tray and moved through the line with the same watchful stillness he'd been cultivating all week. He was the only white face in the room, but he'd stopped feeling self-conscious about it. Invisibility was a kind of power. No one watched him because no one expected him to matter.

He found a seat near the window, alone, and ate his rubbery eggs while watching the room.

The girls moved in clusters, their conversations loud and overlapping. He caught fragments—"girl, he ain't shit," "I told her don't do it," "you see what she was wearing?"—and filed them away. The black men, by contrast, were louder, more performative. They swaggered. They laughed with their whole bodies. They called each other "bruh" and "my nigga" and slapped palms in elaborate rituals of greeting. Drake watched them with a mixture of contempt and fascination. So much energy, he thought. So much noise. And for what?

He was finishing his coffee when a shadow fell across his table.

"You're the white boy."

Drake looked up. A girl stood over him, her arms crossed. She was dark brown, caramel maybe, with a wide nose and full lips and eyebrows that had been shaped into perfect arches. Her hair was in box braids that hung past her shoulders, and she wore a crop top that showed off a flat stomach and the curve of her waist. Her eyes were hard.

"Guilty," Drake said.

"Why you here?"

He gestured at his tray. "Breakfast."

"Don't be cute. Why you here, at Mathhurst? This ain't your space."

Drake leaned back in his chair. He let his eyes travel over her—slowly, deliberately, the way he'd appraise a deer before deciding whether to shoot. "I'm a student. Same as you."

"You ain't the same as me."

"No. I'm not." He smiled. "I'm Drake."

"I didn't ask your name."

"And yet here we are. What's yours?"

She hesitated. The question had thrown her off balance. She'd expected him to be defensive, maybe apologetic. Instead he was... relaxed. Like he belonged here. Like he owned the place.

"Shanice," she said finally, and the admission cost her something.

"Shanice." Drake let the name hang in the air between them. "That's pretty. African?"

"My mama liked the sound of it."

"Your mama has good taste."

Shanice's eyes narrowed. She was trying to figure out if he was mocking her. "You think you smooth?"

"I think I'm just trying to eat my breakfast. You want to sit down? You're making me nervous, standing over me like that."

She didn't sit. But she didn't leave, either. "People are talking about you."

"What people?"

"Black people. My people. They wondering why a white boy would choose to come to an HBCU. They saying you got some kind of fetish."

Drake laughed. Actual laughter, genuine and warm. "A fetish? For what? Good grades? Because Mathhurst has a better economics program than my state school. That's why I'm here."

"Bullshit."

"Maybe." He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Or maybe I just wanted to see what it's like. Being the minority. Being the outsider. Walking into a room and knowing everyone's looking at you, wondering what you're doing here." He paused. "Kinda like you're doing right now."

Shanice's jaw tightened. She was smart enough to recognize the trap he'd laid, but not smart enough to avoid it entirely. "You don't know nothing about being an outsider."

"Don't I?"

"No. You don't. You can leave anytime you want. Go back to your white world. We can't."

"Can't you?" Drake tilted his head. "You're at college. You're getting an education. You're surrounded by your own people. Seems like you've got your own world right here. I'm the one who's outnumbered."

She had no answer for that. He could see her trying to formulate one, the gears turning behind her dark eyes.

"Tell you what," Drake said, standing. "I'm going to the library. You want to come with me, talk some more? I'd like to hear more about what your people are saying."

Shanice stepped back. "I got class."

"Another time, then." He picked up his tray. "Nice meeting you, Shanice."

He walked away before she could respond. He could feel her eyes on his back, and he let his hips sway just a little, just enough to give her something to look at.

---

That night, Drake lay in bed while Karleville typed at his desk, the clack of keys a steady rhythm.

"Met a girl today," Drake said.

"Congratulations."

"Her name was Shanice. Caramel skin. Box braids. Kind of angry."

Karleville's typing paused. "Shanice Williams?"

"Didn't get a last name."

"If it's the same one, she's a sophomore. Political science major. Very vocal about racial justice issues. She's been known to organize protests."

"Perfect." Drake grinned at the ceiling. "I love a challenge."

The typing resumed, faster now. "You're playing a dangerous game."

"All games worth playing are dangerous."

Karleville said nothing. But Drake could feel the weight of his attention, the way the nerd's mind was turning over the implications. Keep thinking, Drake thought. Keep analyzing. Eventually you'll realize you're on my side, not theirs.

Outside, the campus settled into night. Somewhere a girl laughed, high and musical. Drake closed his eyes and began to plan.