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TONIGHT I GIVE IN
by Mia A. Moore
ISBN-10:
0-9792500-7-2
ISBN-13: 978-0-9792500-7-1
Retail Price: TBD
Trade Paperback
Publication:
June 2007
Trim Size: 5.5 x 8
Qty/Case:
Chapter One
Charcoal
smoke lofted above the community streets and the meat market shelves had
been harvested clean. Music jaunted out from almost every open window and
door. These sights, sounds, and smells were getting Myella McBride pumped.
She grew up in Aurora, a far west suburb of Chicago, but some how always
gravitated toward the city and its nearby chocolate burbs. Myella didn’t
mind driving; the trek back and forth was worth it. It wasn’t easy finding a
good hairdresser that could lay your hair the way you wanted it, and
when you found one you stayed loyal.
Every beauty salon, nail salon,
barbershop, and carwash was filled past capacity. Young brothers and sisters
were coming out in mass tonight to floss and perpetrate; club engagements
and picnics filled most of their weekend itineraries, and the preparations
had begun. The steps took to prep for an evening out was almost as
ritualistic as those probably taken by ancestors going out to the hunt or to
battle. Looking good and being clean and polished was a must. The money
expended by only a few could probably feed a small African village for a
month, but you had to keep it fresh and fly for this occasion. Although the
summer solstice may try to dictate that summer begins in June, Memorial Day
weekend started summer around Chi-Town—especially in the black
community. Weather permitting, it was the official start of barbecue season
and the first official, collective opportunity to shed the cold weather gear
to don something more crazy, sexy, and cool.
Today Myella was making a preliminary
visit to Maywood to get her nails and hair done before she hit the large
club on Michigan Avenue tonight. Even if she did not live in the community,
she liked to support it as much as she could. How were black communities
going to thrive economically, if black consumers did not a least try to make
a consorted effort to frequent black-owned businesses? She believed it was a
pathetic status quo that most businesses in black neighborhoods, unlike
other ethnic communities, were owned by people of other races and from other
ethnic backgrounds, whom often didn’t live or spend the money they made in
the neighborhoods in which they made it. The owners capitalized on these
business locations because the rents were often cheaper. So, their reasoning
was not to provide a service to the community, in the first place, but to
reap the financial benefits for themselves. These owners often chose not to
employ people from the neighborhood, so it is obvious, other than the
businesses being conveniently located, they weren’t giving much back to the
community. Myella didn’t have extreme views; she just believed economic
prosperity, like charity, starts at home in the community.
Of course, there was no parking
anywhere near the salon. She knew what was up. She wanted to be able to keep
an eye on her ride. Myella wasn’t naïve; crime was often a problem in
economically strapped neighborhoods. So she circled the block several times
waiting for a parking spot to open up. Several brothers could be seen waxing
down their cars or SUVs while some hip-hop tune from Tupac, Nelly, Ludacris,
or T.I. boomed out their eighteen-inch woofers, but it was her own stereo
that got her going. She turned up the Bose in her canary yellow Mustang and
started to bop her head and snap her fingers to the smooth sounds of the
summer anthem—Summertime by Will Smith.
As she grooved to the music, a spot
opened up two doors down from the salon in front of the currency exchange.
Myella was always amazed at the number of currency exchanges in the
neighborhood, as opposed to the number of banks. As she exited the car and
walked towards the salon, she wondered was this a comment on how unlikely it
was the people in the community cashing checks were able to afford to save
any of them, and she wondered who was responsible for that comment and the
conditions that make it a reality for many. She could not lie. Between her
car note, car insurance, gas, clothes, and a very few essential luxuries
(like hair and nail upkeep), she was barely able to save herself. Until she
finished school, any catastrophe above a minor car repair might land her on
skid row, or at least asking her daddy for backup, which she has never had
to do.
Her father, Myron McBride, was not a
man of means, but he loved his baby and would help her any way he could. He
was a hard working blue-collar man who worked his way up as high as he could
go in his company and still be in the union, but unfortunately, a
machinist’s salary was not enough to finance her college career completely.
It was hard enough making sure Myella went to some of the best public
schools in the state, so she could get in college. Myella footed most of the
bill for college herself. In her bright future, there loomed an ever-present
cloud that overshadowed most college graduates’ outlook—student loans.
Myella was twenty-three years old and
had just finished her first year of graduate school, but still lived with
her father on the far-east side of Aurora near Fox Valley Mall. She moved
back to the townhome after only one year of living on campus during her
undergraduate studies. It just made more sense financially, because campus
was close enough for her to commute downtown and save room and board fees.
Dorm life had not particularly impressed her, anyway. She soon learned it
was very difficult to live with strangers, especially when they were female.
Back at home, she had more privacy and much more space.
Her father had given her the master
suite with the private bath when they moved in the townhome. He figured a
teenage girl needed her space and her privacy. All he needed was a bed and a
large TV with enough cable sports channels for him to sleep on when he came
in from work. It was the same situation she had when she lived with her
mother; he was not going to be outdone. Only difference was her mother gave
her the larger bedroom in their apartment because she did not want Myella to
have to leave her room for bathroom breaks, when the mother’s boyfriend was
over. Myella knew the other rooms in the apartment were off limits when her
mother had company, however, even in this living situation their
relationship was strained.
Her mother was tired of having her
life on hold raising kids, and often vehemently said so. With Myella being
the youngest of three children and almost ten years her closest sibling’s
junior, she heard the “My Life Would Have Been So Much Different Without You
Kids” speech one too many times. If her mother wanted early parole from her
sentence of raising kids, why should Myella stand in her way? She was tired
of someone raising her who was tired of raising kids, so their split was
more than mutual.
Everyone involved decided she would
live with her father while she was in high school. She had visited him every
other weekend and summers for the last five years since her parent’s
separation, so it was not as if her mother was sending her to a stranger.
Her father bought the townhome and moved back to DuPage County when she was
a freshman in high school. The place was more space than her father needed,
and Myella felt a little guilty leaving, in the first place, after he gave
up his apartment in suburban Cook County only a few blocks from his job,
just so she could finish school in the same area. It was a sacrifice he was
willing to make for the better school system and education.
Even now that she was an adult, they
had a great living arrangement; they gave each other space. Myron worked the
second shift, so Myella would leave before he got up in the morning and he’d
be gone before she got home. He didn’t get off work until midnight after she
had gone to bed, so it was pretty much like they each lived alone. Myella
and her father were close and would make it a point to watch at least one
game a week to catch up on any significant happenings, but they wouldn’t be
able to today because she was prepping to get her party on tonight.
As she entered the salon, the bitter
scent of relaxers and the sweet aroma of oil sheens and hair sprays mingled
in the air of the slightly warm shop. Bobbie Williams was the proprietor and
manager of Diva’s Touch, a small neighborhood salon with three other
stylists and one nail technician. It was a clean quaint shop decorated in
black and white with red accents. After surveying the salon, Myella was
thankful she picked up her clothes from the cleaners the day before. She
knew how crowded the salon was on Saturdays, and it being Memorial Day
weekend didn’t help matters. If Bobbie double booked on normal Saturdays,
she was probably triple booked today. Myella could not blame her. Sometimes
people failed to show up, so Bobbie had to ensure she was going to make some
money. A woman’s got to do what a woman’s got to do.
Myella just hoped she would get out of
there with enough time to drive back to Aurora and relax before having to
turn back around to the city. She was happy she lived right on the border of
Naperville. If she ended up in traffic due to the construction, it made a
whole lot of difference. Everyone knows in Chicago there are two seasons
where the roads are concerned—winter and construction—and you just had to
accept both and learn to deal with them.
“Good morning.” Myella greeted
everyone, naturally enunciating each word as she entered the shop, causing
some of the salon patrons to look up to see who was speaking, before asking
her hair stylist, “Hey girl, how are you?”
Her diction and lexicon made her stand
out when she would visit the hood sometimes. She didn’t judge people by the
way they talked, and absolutely hated it when some brothers and sisters
complained she talked white. Her speech was filled with terminology and
linguistic cues that connoted the urban influence in her background. Weekend
visits to her cousin’s and to church on the Westside of Chicago had left
their mark. As a result, she talked neither quite black enough for some
black people, nor white enough for some white people—which was fine because
she lived to please neither—just herself.
Myella had grown weary of explaining
there is no such thing as talking black or white, only dialects of the
English language that empower different people in different situations, and
explaining there is not a Standard English or proper English. To get people
who disagreed to understand this she would ask, “if there is, who sets the
standards, or since people in one region of the United States often speak
differently from people in the next, which dialect is proper?” Although, all
thus far could not answer these questions, the reality is most members of
mainstream society think they set the standard no matter where they live,
while they use linguistic cues to forward some elitist agenda. Just because
someone talks differently from the way you do, doesn’t mean the person
doesn’t have something valuable or enlightening to say.
The whole concept there is a way to
talk black or white just had gotten so old to her. She knew it would be a
lot easier to get urban or under privileged youth to embrace the Dialect of
Wider Communication in formal settings—like job interviews—if they did not
feel as if they were being shackled by someone else’s language. Many of her
students got it, but they were already in college and understood a little
about how the game is played in America. It was some of those not in college
for whatever reason, be it age, circumstance, or desire, which needed to
know this.
Apparently, a young lady or two in the
salon needed to understand this, too. It was obvious by the way they looked
at her with unwarranted contempt; people around the way would say they were
mean-muggin’ her, but Myella paid them little mind as she confidently
strutted in to give Bobbie a big hug.
“Hey Mya,” Bobbie said full of
enthusiasm. “Girl, I’m tired as hell, but need the money.”
“I hear that!”
“How you doin’?”
“I’m fine. How many clients do you
have in front of me? I want Gwen to do something to my nails.”
“You must have plans?”
“Mm huh, you know I do. The weather is
just too beautiful to sit in the house tonight.”
“Girl, I know! I’ma find me somethin’
to get into after I finish up here. Let me see just how many heads I got,”
Bobbie said as she scratched her own scalp. Her long red acrylics disturbed
the imperceptible seam at the transition where her real hair blended with
the longer weft piece of human hair that completed the bob style. The hairdo
accented Bobbie’s cute round chocolate face. She was a plus-size beauty who
knew it; her hair and nails always looked nice. The woman had mad style. She
wore the most flattering clothes that accentuated all of her positives and
minimized all the mainstream perceived negatives. Myella loved Bobbie’s
confidence and felt other BBWs (big beautiful women) needed to follow her
example. She knew just whom she would run to for fashion tips, if her apple
bottom became the nemesis genetics foreshadowed it was capable of becoming a
couple of kids and decades later. Myella did not obsess over this because a
diamond is a diamond no matter what size.
Bobbie continued to scan the chairs,
dryers, and wash stations to see just how much she was backed up. She had to
figure where to fit Myella in because she did not want her to have to wait
too long. Myella was one of Bobbie’s first regulars, outside of her own
family, when Bobbie was just starting out in her early twenties and Myella
was barely a teenager.
“I see you just got your micros done,
what you want me to do, bump them with the flat iron or somethin’?”
“Yes, I just had it braided two days
ago. I want them pinned up and curled, with some strategically hanging down
in back and maybe a few in the front. Some type of roll, I guess.” Myella
noticed Bobbie’s frustration. “There’s no rush, take your time, I can get
caught up on the gossip with Gwen.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks, girl,” Bobbie
expressed, her relief audible in her voice. “I know what you talkin’ `bout
with your hair. That’s cute. It won’t take me no time to do it. Gwen got a
client in her chair and three waiting. Once she done with you, you can get
in my chair.”
Whoever said patience is a virtue must
have gotten their hair done at a black salon. It was 10:00 and all she could
hope for was to be out of there before 5:00. After Myella walked back to the
nail station, to let Gwen know she was there, she found a couple of black
hair magazines and a chair, then cracking open a large bottled water, she
relaxed. This was going to take a minute. If she did not have time to get
her car washed, she thought, Oh well, why fight what you cannot
control, the universe only hits back anyway?
Thumbing through the magazine, she
started looking at the short styles, as if she would ever go back to wearing
one. Lately, Myella kept braids; she would get silky straight rich brown
micros down to the middle of her shoulders, and have them left loose on the
ends. She loved the freedom they gave her. Mornings went so much smoother
for her now that she did not have to worry about bad hair days, and she
could workout without being conscientious about what her hair was going to
look like during and after. She also liked their versatility; they could be
styled in so many ways when she wanted something a little extra special.
Braids emancipated her from locks that would go flat at the first sign of
humidity, or stiff updos that damaged her hair.
She could not fathom how some sisters
did it. How they managed to hold on to a style, and it still looked nice up
to two weeks later, was beyond her. When she asked some of them, many said
they were even able to get a good night’s sleep and wake up with their hair
still looking nice. To get the same results, she would have to sleep in a
chair or give up sleep altogether, which was not going to happen. She would
end up going beyond postal on someone if she didn’t get the five or six
hours of sleep she managed to steal a night. Beauty sometimes hurts, but
some stuff was just ridiculous to her.
To tell the truth, in her opinion,
there is nothing like a bad, short and sassy, sophisticated cut. She missed
all her sharp little cuts. Bobbie knew how to hookup a style, too; she was a
wiz with some scissors and a curling iron. Just like with her braids, Myella
always received compliments on her short hair. She just could not stand the
upkeep and maintenance short styles required. She would look fierce for a
few days in her Berry, Bassett, or Long of yesteryear-influenced do, but
grew tired of styles that were one workout, deep sleep, or sexual encounter
from extinction. Myella would end up back under Bobbie’s dryer pondering the
meaning of life and wondering why, in the bigger scheme of things, she was
there again blowing the majority of another fine Saturday. Sometimes it just
wasn’t worth it.
At least she got something from a deep
sleep and a workout. All she ever got from Ivan, the only man she had ever
been with sexually, was a box full of pictures and lies, a few lousy
trinkets, and irritation from latex. When he came to town she would spend
hours primping, just to end up disappointed and maybe back at Bobbie’s, if
he got his way, which was less than rarely.
Myella never really loved Ivan,
so the day she decided he was not the one and she was far from fulfilled, he
was no longer allowed to be in her life. Many women ended up emotionally
screwed after their first loves ended, but not her. She could care less and
was more then ready for him to be gone. Myella didn’t expect much from Ivan
or the relationship, and while she is demanding, she chose not to demand
more from a man from which she wanted nothing. The break up loomed in the
air when he came back for her college graduation. It was a new beginning for
her and she was ready for so much more, although she has yet to find it.
After the last time they made love—which she now realizes was just sex, and
bad sex, from what her friends told her—she knew it was over. It never
really should have begun.
She met Ivan the winter of her
senior year of high school at a basketball game. They ended up going to her
prom together and it only seemed like the natural course of things was to
become a couple. He was handsome and made her laugh, but she later learned
that wasn’t enough because they had little in common. Their relationship was
only officially a few months old when they had to separate. Myella went off
to college and he went off to boot camp. Looking back she realized, they
really were little more then pen pals. He would write her letters engorged
with sophomoric lies and she would send him crafty words of encouragement
subtly acknowledging, but excusing the lies. Although, he probably never
figured out she knew he was on some B.S., because the lies continued. What
she told herself was he was trying to impress her, which is why he would be
caught up in so many little fibs; he was in the Marines out in the world for
the first time and wanted it to sound big. That is how she would excuse it.
After four years of lies, occasional phone calls, and a couple of visits to
try to have sex with her, she had had enough.
The final lie that did it was the
broken leg. Although she knew he was lying, Ronaldo one of his boys let her
know what the real deal was with the broken leg. His boys routinely caught
him in lies too, so he had no problem diming out his friend. Ronaldo
thought Myella was fine and too much woman for Ivan anyway.
Ivan broke his leg in some minor jeep
accident messing around with some girl, but insisted on telling her his jeep
hit a landmine and he ended up in a coma with a broken leg. He didn’t even
try to capture any hint of realism when he lied. The first thing that came
to his mind he used—no matter how unlikely, unrealistic, or unintelligible.
Ivan was stationed in South Carolina, which was free of minefields last
Myella checked. He must have thought she was a moron, as if she would
believe he could be in a coma one day and smiling, hanging in the street,
with his cast on in photos developed two days after the accident, and as if
she wouldn’t turn over the photos he sent her to look at the date stamped on
the back.
She gave him so many opportunities to
tell the truth. He could have just said he did it showing off on base; he
didn’t even have to say there was a female involved, or he could have not
told her about the leg at all. It was just another uncalled for lie. To
think at first she thought that stupid stuff was cute and that he lied to
impress her. He and the entire relationship was a joke. There were only a
few positive things Myella could say about him and the whole experience: he
was as handsome in pictures as in person; he gave her something to talk to
the girls about at school when they talked about their boyfriends; and he
was a mental cock block that deterred her from allowing some other man to
slip in and give her good sex.
She had only been with him a few
times—three times to be exact. Myella knew over the years he probably had
been with several others; she could not prove it, but she knew. After all,
isn’t a pathological liar one step from a chronic cheater? She was just glad
she had enough foresight to insist he always wore a condom, and one time
two, or irritation from latex probably would be the least of her concerns.
Even when she said she thought she might be ovulating and was afraid she
would get pregnant, he still didn’t want to wear one, as if she would ever
consider mixing her DNA with his by happenstance or jeopardizing her life.
So he begrudgingly agreed, but only after she refused to any other way.
Their first time was only because he
was going to boot camp and she was going to college. She rushed it; she
caved in to his constant begging, and she shouldn’t have. It was not the
right thing to do, just a thing to do. There they were in some mediocre
hotel suite—that was upscale to eighteen-year-olds—with him begging and
saying he needed something to hold on to with tears in his eyes. What else
could she do? She just went through the motions is what she did. Closing her
eyes tightly and gritting her teeth, she pushed against his shoulders with
the palms of her hands almost defensively, as he pumped quickly without
rhythm, panting and grunting for all two minutes of it through tears—as if
he loved her. He didn’t love her, and she definitely didn’t love him. That
time and the other two times she was left thinking, if this is what sex is
like, it is clearly overrated. How she cheated herself; her first time
should have been special with someone special.
Myella’s mind came back to the present
in a Gaussian smooth sort of effect as snippets of conversation propitiously
overtook images from the past. While she listened to the shop talk of some
of the women griping about their cheating or unemployed boyfriends, Myella
inwardly reaffirmed her vow she would not cheat herself again. One woman
complained her man was unemployed, cheating, and had a baby on the way by
another woman. You have got to be kidding me. She looked at the woman
sympathetically as she sat down across from Gwen—the nail technician. It was
finally her turn.
After she had her hands and toes
French tipped, she ran to the front of the salon in her pedicure slippers,
just in time to see Bobbie curl the second of about two hundred tiny curls
with an iron no bigger than a pencil on a client, whom obviously had just
sat down. Myella had more than enough time for her toes to dry before she
had to slip them back in her ankle socks and plain white leather Air Force
Ones. She would always forget to wear sandals when she was getting her toes
done. For some reason, she just felt more comfortable in gym shoes. She had
small cute feet, so that wasn’t the problem. In fact, they were prettier
than most people whom wore open-toe shoes all the time. Myella just felt
more comfortable driving and walking in shoes with traction, arch support,
and protection from the elements.
Myella inspected her active length
nails and laughed to herself. Gwen was just going to have to save one of her
creative expressions for someone else’s feet and hands; she had once again
failed to talk Myella into getting some funky ghetto fabulous design and
length, however Myella did concede to letting Gwen airbrush a tasteful white
rose or two on her fingers. Gwen knew not to even try to talk her into
getting tips put on her big toes like she tried last time. It just was not
Myella’s style, besides, she had to be able to walk in regular shoes for the
rest of the week, and she did not compensate for one-inch long big toe nails
when she bought all her shoes.
Myella climbed in her car around a
quarter to five, thinking it was probably best. If she had too much time on
her hands she would get too relaxed and talk herself out of going. She had
spent way too much money, time, and energy on the day to just end up staying
in watching cable. She hoped tonight was worth it.
She was not big on the club scene, but
at the persistence of Nachelle Carson, her free-spirited best friend, she
was going out. For Nachelle it was all about the hunt and catching a man,
but you never met any good, quality men at the club anyway. Tonight was not
about men for Myella, because unlike her friend, she did not believe the
panacea for everything is a man. She had an agenda and a man would probably
just be a distraction. Tonight was about letting loose some tension because
she had not been out in months. Between her class load at the university and
teaching there, who had time?
Myella taught undergraduate English
composition while she worked on her master’s. She had not planned on
continuing to study English, let alone teaching it, but somehow that is
where she found herself. In fact, she had planned on going to law school all
her life, but the university made her an offer she could not refuse—a job
and free tuition. An assistantship was right up her ally and free tuition
was right in her price range, and the offer opened her eyes to teaching.
Myella really enjoyed it and felt she could make a difference, but the sad
truth is she probably wouldn’t make it her career choice. It just did not
pay enough unless she got a Ph.D. and published. Now, after her first year
as a graduate student, she couldn’t imagine staying in school all those
years. She was intellectually exhausted, which is why she was only taking
one course over the summer while she was off from teaching, just to keep her
feet wet.
As Myella sat at the light at the ramp
coming off I-88 for Route 59, she called Nachelle. She wanted to see if they
were still going out and to let her know if she wanted the car washed, they
would have to get it done later on their way out to the club. She was not
going to risk her new do. If the infinitesimal amount of dirt that
accumulated since last weekend bothered her friend, Myella would stop at a
self-wash stall after she picked her up and Nachelle could wash it off
herself. She quickly placed the small earpiece in her ear, flipped the
phone’s earpiece up, and told it to call Nachelle before the light changed
and she made her turn.
Nachelle answered her cell phone after
three rings, sounding very winded. “Hello. Hello?”
“My, don’t we sound all winded?”
“Huh?”
“You’re panting like someone is
hitting your spot.”
“Oh hell, it’s you! Don’t I wish!
Girl, I’m walking to my car at Fox Valley Mall. Wassup?”
“Nothing. I’m right up the street and
I just wanted to make sure we were still going.”
“Hell yeah! All this money I’ve spent
today. You better believe it.”
Myella started cracking up when she
noticed an elderly man in the car stopped next to her at the light staring
at her like she was nuts. The earpiece wasn’t visible from his side and he
must have thought she was talking to herself. She picked up the phone off
the passenger seat and pointed to it, however that did not seem to end his
curiosity so she smiled at him causing him to snap his head back forward.
She drove off toward the mall and her subdivision when the light changed.
“What did you get from the mall?”
“Well, when you told me what you were
wearing, I seen I had to come with it.”
“I thought you knew. You know how we
do it.”
“Okay, but this outfit is on point. We
gone be clownin’.”
“What did you get?”
“I got this sharp, white pants outfit
since your wearing white.”
“Actually it is a really light cream.”
“Whatever, you know what I mean. The
outfit I got is just about the same color. The pants fit really nice; they
show off my booty and they have holes going down the sides.”
“HOLES?”
“Yeah, sort of. You just have to see.
The top is really cute too.”
“Oh, okay. Well, brace yourself
because I didn’t get the car washed before I got my hair done. I was running
late this morning.”
“It figures. That’s okay, because I
rented a truck.”
“What did you get with your
perpetrating butt?”
“I got a silver Infinity from
Enterprise.”
“So…I guess you are going to be
picking me up then?”
“Yeah, and your butt better be ready.”
Myella was a little disappointed; when
they went out, she liked to do the driving. She didn’t think Nachelle was
the type of sister who would leave her somewhere or anything like that. It’s
just that she was more in control of when they got home, where they went,
what they did, and with whom they did it when she drove.
“I will.”
“You on your way home? You should
start getting dressed now!”
“Uh, huh. I’m just going to stop and
get something to eat. I’m not hungry now but I will be by 3:00 in the
morning, and I do not want to be all hugged up with some cutie on the dance
floor with my stomach growling. You remember last time,” Myella deepened her
voice and said, “Damn, baby you hungry?”
“Yup, I remember that. The brotha
was offering to buy you hot wings and take you out to breakfast all night,”
Nachelle chuckled loudly then her tone abruptly changed. “Mya, hurry up! You
do not have time for all of that. You know how long it takes you to get
dressed. Be ready at 10:30.”
“I will. I’m practically dressed right
now. I’m not trying to stand up all night. I want to get there early enough
to stakeout a seat. All I have to do is take a bath, lotion up, and put on
make up. My hair and nails are already done.”
“Yeah and that can take you all night
too with them candle light bubble baths you be talking about. Damn them slow
cut CDs, them candles, and them bubbles—just get dressed. I’m not playing.”
“Bye, Nachelle.”
“Be ready!”
Myella knew Nachelle didn’t think she
was going to be ready, but she was going to surprise her. Being on time was
one of her self-improvement goals. Instead of being fifteen minutes behind
C.P. time, she managed to function a few minutes ahead of it now, and
Nachelle had to admit that over the years she was getting better. They had
been friends since high school and learned to put up with each other’s minor
flaws.
Myella decided she would just have
something at the house and turned into her subdivision. Time did have a way
of running away from her. Myella opened the garage and pulled in. Her father
wasn’t home, so she went in looking for Chilly their French bulldog. He was
mostly black brindle with a white belly so she named him after Chilly a
cartoon penguin. He was gone also and that was a relief. She really didn’t
have any time to spend with him and was just going to have to leave him at
her bedroom door whining after she walked him. She initially grabbed a
strawberry yogurt and a banana to eat, but decided that was not a well
thought out choice. All that lactose and potassium, and hunger pains would
be the least of her worries on the dance floor. She ended up grabbing a
peach, a granola bar, and a glass of water.
The clock on the microwave read 6:35,
so she had a little time. Before she went upstairs, she placed the few
dishes in the sink into the dishwasher, wiped the counter tops, and checked
the mail. It was time for her to prepare for what would turn out to be a
night she would never forget—a night that would change her life forever.
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Mia
A. Moore
Mia
A. Moore
Excerpt