IntroductionHi, my name is Kendra Foster. I was born “some” time ago. I grew up

during times before cell phones, the internet, computers, video games, etc.Times were different, yet, at the same time, I’m sure I experienced some

of the same things the youth experiences today. In my world, there was school, family, friends, boys, and everything else

in between. I had good days—could have been better days—and experienced the ups and downs of growing up.

I’m inviting you to come along and see for yourself. I promise you will laugh, maybe cry, and most importantly, relate. Times do change but experiences are timeless.

Coming? Great! Let’s Go!Once upon a time, a long time ago…

Chapter 1Facing My Fear

T he sounds of birds chirping caused me to leave my last moments of sleep and forced my mind into consciousness. I closed my eyes and laid on the bed. This was my favorite part of the day. Those first few precious moments when my mind was blank: no problems, no worries, just moments of peace. I needed to lie there. I needed to mentally prepare for the day—it was an important one. The peace and quiet continued for a little while longer, but just when I thought maybe I had gotten lucky—maybe the impossible had happened—I heard them. Ring, ring, sound the bell, Take a ring side seat, the morning fight is on.

It started low at first, but that wouldn’t last. The voices got louder and louder. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I knew the script by heart. I had seen this film far too many times.

“It’s the middle of another month and we haven’t paid the bills,” my mom said.

“Valerie, there you go again, always about money. Is that all you think about?” my daddy shot back.

“No, Robert, all I think about is how we never have enough money.” “And I’m sure it’s my fault. It is always my fault.”“Well, who is the one who can’t keep a job? I have been working at the same

job for the past five years. What is the longest time you’ve ever stayed at a job?”

“There you go, always putting me down. Talking about what I don’t do.”“‘Cause you don’t do nothing.”“Nothing! Huh? What about the fact that every dime I make goes into this

house.”My mom laughed as if mocking my daddy. “Won’t you stop bringing me

dimes and bring some dollars? Then you might be doing something.”“How much I make is not the problem. You don’t know how to manage the

money. That’s the problem!”My mom laughed again. “Manage? There is not enough money to

‘mismanage.’ These kids have to go to school, they have to eat, they need clothes, a home, transportation, they need activities, they need—”

“You know what I need? I need some peace and quiet. I don’t need to be nagged all the time. All I get is your whining and complaining and asking for more, more, more, more. I am so sick and tired of all of this. Not happy? Then I’ll leave. Then we can all be happy. I am sure your parents would love that.”

“Leave my parents out of this. They have nothing to do with this.”“There you go, sticking up for them.”

The next thing I knew, someone, it had to have been my daddy, pounded his fist on the wall. In the quiet of the morning, the sound was so forceful that it felt like the whole house shook.

I laid and waited for the knock I knew was coming. After a few seconds, there it was, a knock on the door. “Come in,” I responded.

My only sibling, my younger sister, Patrice, peeked through the crack she made when she opened the door and asked, “Can I lie with you?”

I moved over to make room for her on the bed. She hopped onto the bed and laid next to me. I took one of my pillows and gave it to her. In unison, and showing our years of practice, we put the pillows over our heads and tried to drown out the screaming voices. They were so loud that I could no longer hear the birds chirping right outside my window.

Then, I heard my sister, speaking to me through the pillow. I lifted it to hear what she was saying.

“Why do mommy and daddy fight so much?” she asked, for what seemed like the millionth time.

I didn’t have a clue, myself. But, since I was the big sister, I guessed it was my job to come up with something. “Adults have a lot of things to deal with, and they don’t always agree on things, so, sometimes they argue. It’s no big deal,” I said, trying to sound mature and confident, trying to reassure her.

“Do you think mommy and daddy love each other?”That was a new question, and it kinda took me off guard. I hesitated for a

second and gave the only response I could think of, “Of course.”That seemed to satisfy her. She put the pillow back over her head. Patrice

had been subjected to the fights between my parents for most of her life. Things weren’t always that way, though. There were better times—times without all this fussing and fighting—but those times seemed far, far away.

After a while, my sister’s breathing became softer and softer, letting me know she had fallen asleep. I lifted the pillow off of her head and looked around my room, since there was nothing much else to do while waiting for the argument to stop.

I had a full-size bed with a matching, Chester drawer set. When I looked down at my sister, asleep on the full bed, I thought, Thank God I was finally able to get out of the twin bed I’d had since I got out of my baby bed. My bedroom set was a hand-me-down from one of my mother’s friends, whose daughter left for college this past summer. But since I was 13 and still in a twin, I was grateful for anything.

My bed was not decked out with a comforter set, the kind with all the fancy trimmings—no decorative pillows, no bed skirt. Instead, it was modestly covered with a spread. At least it’s my favorite color, dark green, I thought. And my curtains are a nice, lighter shade of green, close to the color of green grapes. They match my bedspread nicely.

My room was not horrible, but it was far from the beautiful rooms I had seen in magazines with the sparkling Princess bedroom furniture and everything decorated in pink. The highlight of my room, by far, was my brand new

television—which I got for my birthday. My grandparents bought it for me. The downside was that my sister didn’t have her own TV, so she often watched mine with me. At least she knows the rules. She can watch television with me, but we only watch what I want to watch. A girl has to have something of her own, right?

I stopped surveying my room, sat up, and listened to my sister’s breathing. She was okay. She felt safe. Then I wondered, who is supposed to make me feel safe? At church they said, “God is always there with you. He is there to help you.” However, I had to wonder if that was true. If he is indeed here, then where is he? And when, exactly, does he plan on doing something? He could start by answering any one of the countless prayers I have been praying to him.

They also said, “You have to wait on Him.” How long does it take for him to show up? They said, “He is always on time.” But, according to my watch, He is very, very late.

The door slammed, jolting me from my thoughts. Round one was over. So who left the house, and who is left to get us to school? I wondered. I crossed my fingers, praying it was my daddy—the lesser of the two evils, at least in this situation. My bedroom door opened and my mom walked through. God, do you even listen when I pray? And can’t she at least knock before she comes barging in. No respect for my privacy. She doesn’t even say “good morning” before starting with all her yakking.

“Kendra, you know you have to go to school. Why do I have to come in here and get you? You are the oldest. You should get up and get your sister up.”

Was she kidding? Who wants to get out of bed with all that whooping and hollering?

“Get up.” She started shaking Patrice. I took my chance to get the heck out of there, while her attention was not on me.

“Kendra, are you listening to me?”Yeah, I hear you, I thought to myself. But, I always waited while all that noise

was going on. “Kendra, are you listening to me?” She asked me again when I didn’t answer. I was near the door at this point. I knew if I kept walking there was a good

chance she would come up behind me and really let me have it. So, instead, I just mumbled, “Yeah, I hear you,” and walked to the bathroom.

If there was any good thing about my mom getting us to school, it was that she would make sure my sister got ready. My daddy would have made me do it.

Now I can have some moments to myself. I studied myself in the mirror as I performed the normal routine of getting ready for school, praying not to find any new flaws that might have popped up during the night. At my age, pimples were a constant enemy that kept showing up for battle. From the looks of things, none came to fight that morning. I looked more closely at myself. I wouldn’t have won the Miss Teen USA pageant, but I liked what I saw.

My complexion fell under the category of “light skinned.” In America, whites made up the majority, and then there were various other ethnic groups that were considered minorities, us blacks included. However, in New Orleans things were a bit different. There were whites and blacks, mostly, but blacks were

divided into groups: “light-skinned,” “dark-skinned,” and everything else was “in between.”

I had dark brown, wavy hair that went to about my shoulders. People had always called me cute, pretty, or something like that. From the neck up, I had few complaints. But, from the neck down my confidence level swung up and down. I skipped the training bra and went straight to a “32 C.” Overnight, they just appeared. Further down my body, genetics came into play, big time, and not to my benefit. “Short genes” ran in my family. I know that if I reached five foot, it would be a miracle.

I was not fat, but nowhere close to slim, either. At that time, I was considered “fine,” but I was keenly aware that I was on the edge—another ten pounds or so and that “fine” would have been changed to “fat.” It was not easy living under that type of pressure. At least if you are born big, you learn to live with it. But, living under the thought that ten pounds could change my whole status—that was a lot for a girl my age to handle.

As I stood in front of the mirror, my mind went back to my first cheerleading tryout two years ago. I was in sixth grade then—that was the youngest a girl could be to try out for cheerleading. I barely slept the night before. All day, I couldn’t concentrate in class. I kept rehearsing and practicing—in my head—every single cheer, over and over again.

When it was time for tryouts, all of the girls waited in the locker room. Everyone tried to appear calm, but I knew everyone was just as nervous as I was. For some, it was their last year at the school, the last year to try and make it. For others, like me, it was not our last chance, but we still wanted to make it as much as they did.

There was not much conversation. There were some nervous glances, some girls looking around, trying to size up their competition. Some people were in the corner getting in one final practice session. We could hear the cheerleaders in the gym, with music, gearing up the crowd and getting them ready. All of us could feel the excitement, the adrenaline, all the way in the locker room.

As the minutes passed, the knots in my stomach felt tighter and tighter. When it was time, we all ran out onto the gym floor and were greeted by the screaming crowd. My heart was beating so hard and fast that it felt like it was going to come out of my chest. I took my place on the gym floor and looked around. I made it; after six years—I made it. I was there. I looked up into the bleachers and saw my best friend, Katrina, right where she said she would be. She gave me the thumbs up sign and I smiled broadly at her. Lord knows, my insides were a mess, but I was ready, prepared, and confident.

My confidence served me well. The first few cheers were great. As each minute passed, my insides calmed down and I went into a “zone.” I could see and hear the crowd, but I was transported to another place. I was at home in my backyard. No one else was there but me. We finished our last cheer together and the gym exploded in applause. I looked up at Katrina and she was smiling, jumping up and clapping, letting me know I had done well.

We went back into the locker room to wait. Then came the hard part—the part that separated the average from the good, and the good from the great. It

was time to do our cheers individually. If I thought the knots were bad before, they were nothing compared to what I felt as I waited in the locker room for my turn.

There was silence in the locker room—no conversation and little movement. Some girls had their head down, some were pacing the floor. I elected to sit with my hands folded, praying to God. I prayed so hard I didn’t hear my name called at first. Then across the intercom I heard the second call for Kendra Foster. I popped up and hurried out.

There I was in the middle of the floor with hundreds of pairs of eyes on me. I took a quick look at Katrina again. She smiled at me, but I could see she was just as nervous as I was. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and began. The first cheer went off without a hitch. It could have been better, but it was still pretty good. One of the requirements was that everyone had to do a spread eagle, which meant I had to jump up, do a split in the air and land on my feet. No problem for me, I have been practicing this for months, right? I thought. I chose to do the spread eagle in the middle of my second cheer.

I am not exactly sure how it happened, if I tripped on my shoe laces or maybe there was a wet spot on the floor. Maybe I was just clumsy. All I know is when I came down from the spread eagle, instead of landing on my feet, I landed flat on my face with a loud thud. As my face slapped onto the hard gym floor, I heard hundreds of gasps. The pain in my head was instantaneous and severe. Even though I didn’t want to, I had to lift my head to make sure I could move it. There they were all those pairs of eyes on me, some in horror, some in fear, some with pity and, of course, some laughing, but all bearing down on me.

My face was hot with shame, and tears blinded my vision. I jumped to my feet to get out of there, but my body would not cooperate. My legs came out from beneath me and I went down. The next thing I knew, there were people everywhere, feeling my head, asking me my name, asking me how many fingers I could see. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me. I had to sit in the middle of the gym floor with all this commotion. I managed to meet Katrina’s eyes. She looked so worried. I smiled to try and reassure her.

They finally felt comfortable enough to move me and asked if I could make it to the office. They wanted to call my mom to come and get me. I quickly nodded my head “yes.” I was ready to get outta there. When I got up, the crowd cheered and that made me feel a little better.

My mom almost passed out when she got there and saw the gigantic knot on my forehead. A few hours and several x-rays later, the doctor gave me the “all clear” sign. He told my mom, “Keep a close eye on her for the next few days, but I expect her to be fine.”

Fine? I will never be fine again.On the way home I closed my eyes and leaned against the seat. It wasn’t

long before my mom tried to make me feel better. “Kendra what you have just experienced is terrible and I won’t even try to

make like it isn’t. At your age this must seem like the end of the world, but it’s not. Now, when you go back to school tomorrow—”

Tomorrow? She is making me go back to school tomorrow? I was thinking more along the lines of dropping out.

“—hold your head up. You can always try out again next year.”Next year? How can I even think about that? All I could think about was going

back to school and having all those eyes on me again. “Don’t be a quitter. Life will bring about many difficult situations and the last

thing you want to do is start quitting when things get hard. This is a painful but important choice you’ll have to make. The most important lesson for you to learn from this is that life is about choices and we have to live with the consequences of the choices we make.”

I never told anyone, not even Katrina, but all through the next summer I practiced every day. But when the first day of tryout practice came, I chickened out at the last minute. My mom was right. I’ve had to live with that choice.

By not trying out, I thought I took the easy way out, but it turned out to be the hard way. It was hard to look at the cheerleaders, longing to be one of them: wanting to do it, preparing to do it, saying I would do it. But fear stepped in. The fear spoke to me. It told me, you can’t do it. You will fail. The fear haunted me and stopped me. Yes, the fear was always, always there.

I looked at my reflection again in the mirror, this time talking back to myself. “Kendra, you have to forget all that. That was two years ago. You have to

focus on today. This is it; this is your last chance.” I refused to live in regret. Trying out was not just about being a cheerleader—

it was also about me. It was about truly facing myself and, most importantly, facing my fear.

“Kendra, come on, your breakfast is on the table,” my mom’s voice boomed from the kitchen.

I quickly finished getting ready and put on my uniform. I was glad my school had moved on from that dull navy blue skirt to a full pleated skirt. Finally, we were wearing the plaid skirt with the box pleats that all the other Catholic School girls were wearing. I looked at my saddle oxfords and wondered if I would get by my mom or any of the teachers without hearing how dirty they were. Probably not, but I was not going to worry about such trivial matters today. I’ll polish them before the week is out.

As soon as I walked out of the bathroom, the smell of bacon beckoned me to the kitchen. I sat down to a nice plate of golden brown pancakes—the steam was still wafting from them into the air—with a side of bacon fried extra crispy, just like I liked it, and orange juice on the rocks. Okay, there was a second plus to my mom taking us to school. If it were my daddy, breakfast would have been a bowl of cereal and toast, courtesy of Chef Kendra.

“Kendra, have you decided which high schools you are going to apply to?” my mom asked, as I took my first bite of breakfast. Oh, and she warmed the syrup! I thought, as the pancakes melted in my mouth. Mom, you made my favorite breakfast; please let me eat it in peace.

That morning, above all others, I didn’t want to engage in any conversation. I wanted to keep my mind clear and focused on the most important matter of the day: cheerleader tryout practice.

“Yes, mom, I have been thinking about it.” I was hoping that would be enough and she would drop the subject.

She continued, “I know you have your heart set on The Academy, but your daddy and I want to make sure you apply to other schools, just in case you can’t go to The Academy.”

I nodded. I glanced at Patrice, who was enjoying her breakfast. Wasn’t there something going on in her life that my mom wanted to discuss with her?

“What does the counselor at school have to say? Have you met with her yet?” It was obvious I was going to have this conversation whether I wanted to or not.

“Yes, I met with Ms. Marina. Yes, she also advised me to keep my options open. We agreed I will apply to other schools, plus The Academy. Yes, I will mail off all the applications soon. I am waiting for my teachers and Ms. Marina to write their letters of recommendation. Ms. Marina told me that with my good grades, I will definitely get accepted to all of them, and there is a good possibility I will get more than one scholarship offer. Now, can I please just eat?”

“Don’t get smart with me, little girl. We have sacrificed, and with the help of the good Lord, we have been able to pay for you and your sister to attend St. Peter, Paul & Mary. But high school is much more expensive, and without a scholarship we can’t afford it. But we want you and your sister to have the best education possible. You need to be prepared, in case you have to go somewhere other than The Academy. Like Ms. Marina said, you have to keep all of your options open.”

It amazed me that my mom never tired of saying the same thing over and over again. Lord knows, I got tired of hearing it. I didn’t live with my head in the sand. Our money problems were no secret. They argued about it all the time. I know they can’t afford to send me to any of the schools I am applying to, let alone The Academy. I just get tired of being reminded all the time.

Mom, I would love to tell you how hypocritical this sounds. I’d love to point out how you always say how good God is, and how He answers prayers—how you have to have faith, no matter what, no doubt. “No matter how impossible things seem, you had to keep your faith,” you always say.

What I really want is to ask her, “So, where is all that talk now? Can’t I believe God will answer my prayers? Can’t I have some faith and believe that I could go to The Academy? I have been studying and making very good grades for years. Is it so farfetched, too much to ask for, to believe that I will get the scholarship to The Academy? Is that too much to ask for?

“Do you hear me, God? Are you listening?”As soon as I stepped onto the school yard about 30 minutes later, Katrina

came rushing up to me. She stopped in front of me and was trying to catch her breath.

“Guess what?” she exclaimed, and before I could ask, “Melanie Meyers is also trying out for cheerleading. I just found out.”

What? “Good for her.” I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I was fighting to think positive thoughts and that was the last thing I wanted to hear.

“At least we found out, so you won’t freak out when you see her at practice.” “Yeah, I’m already close to freaking out, and it won’t take much to push me

over the edge.”“Don’t worry about her, focus on you.”Don’t worry about her? All the eighth grade girls have been worrying since

she got here. The problem was she hadn’t done anything to any of us—unless you counted being born, being born beautiful, coming to school at St. Peter, Paul and Mary, and capturing every boy’s attention. Now she was trying out for cheerleaders.

Melanie Meyers captured all of our attention the first day of school. I noticed her instantly—tall, graceful, beautiful; long, straight hair; flawless skin—and instantly I disliked her. I knew from looking at her she had to be in at least seventh grade. She stood there on the first day of school, all by herself. She stood confidently, as if she was oblivious to all the stares she was getting from both boys and girls. The boys were more gawking at her than staring. Everyone wanted to know who she was, where she came from, and whose class she was going to be in. My eighth grade class was the lucky one.

Melanie had barely made a friend. We were all green with envy. We knew it, and Melanie knew it, too. She knew we wouldn’t accept her, and she kept her distance. Girls were like that—catty, competitive, and jealous.

“Are you listening to me?” Katrina asked.“Yeah, I’m sorry, my mind wandered off for a second. Katrina, are you

applying to any school other than The Academy?” I asked her, changing the conversation. My conversation with my mom that morning still lingered on my mind. She looked confused by my question, which seemed to appear out of the blue.

“No,” she replied slowly trying to figure out where this was coming from. “Have you changed your mind?” I could hear alarm in her voice.Katrina and I never discussed the fact that her family had money and mine

did not. There was no need for her to apply to anywhere else. She definitely had the grades to get in. Her grades were better than mine, but they didn’t need to be. She didn’t need a scholarship. Her parents could afford it. She was going to The Academy, and that was that.

“No, it’s that my mom was giving me the ‘if I don’t get a scholarship I won’t be able to go’ speech this morning. My mom and Ms. Marina are both singing the same song: ‘I have to keep my options open.’”

Her face changed from alarm to genuine concern. “You will get it.” She squeezed my arm.I smiled at her. I still remember the first day we met here in first grade. I was

already seated in my seat. Katrina was walking around the class, looking for her

name on a desk. A few minutes later, she found her name on the desk next to mine. She smiled at me. I smiled back at her, and we had been inseparable since.

In the fifth grade we went on a field trip to see a live production of “Annie.” The play was performed at The Academy. When the bus stopped in front of the school, my eyes grew wide. I had never seen a school like this. It was so big. As we walked from the bus to the school grounds, I took it all in. The buildings were all white, with gold trim. The grass was a deep rich green. It looked like something out of a movie.

We were given a tour of the school before the play. The inside was even better. The floors were sparkling, the walls freshly painted, and the classrooms were modern and new. They had a gym, an auditorium, a soccer field, and a cafeteria that looked like a restaurant. The name fit perfectly, it was: The Academy. That day, Katrina and I fell in love with the school. We made a pact that day: We were going to The Academy for high school.

I smiled up at my best friend. Our family’s finances were not our only differences. I am short. She is tall. I am curvy. She is slender. I am fair skinned. She is dark skinned. My hair is long and wavy. Hers is short, with a perm. Standing next to each other, we looked like “the odd couple.” But inside, we were kindred spirits.

“You are right. I will get the scholarship,” I replied, linking my arm through hers as the school bell rang.

“Of course I am. We are going to The Academy and you will make cheerleading,” Katrina said, and we headed to class.

Chapter 2 Somebody Has a Secret

Katrina’s words of encouragement stayed with me the entire day. I was still thinking of them when I got home from school. “Kendra is that you?” I heard my mom ask, as I walked through the door.

“Yes, it’s me.”“Good. Dinner is almost ready.” No need to tell me that; dinner hit me at the

door. I’ll tell you one thing: Having a mom born and raised in New Orleans had its privileges. My mom was a great cook. She could “burn,” as the old folks said.

As I walked through the living room on my way to the kitchen, I knew where my daddy was before I even saw him. He was sitting in his shabby, white and black plaid chair, wearing an undershirt, navy blue Dickie pants, and house slippers. The shabby chair matched our shabby, plaid sofa. It was nice when it was new, but we had had that living room furniture from the time we moved into the house. It was so old and worn out that the guts were threatening to bust at any second.

“Hi daddy, how was your day?” I asked as I passed him, following the smell of dinner.

“Same stuff, different day, baby,” he responded in his normal fashion, never taking his eyes off the TV.

My daddy was always a television buff, and with the invention of cable television, including ESPN, it was nearly impossible to get him away from the TV, other than for work, showering, and using the bathroom.

I entered the kitchen and saw another familiar scene. My mom was standing over the stove cooking, and my sister was standing on the stool next to her.

My mom was an attractive lady, although life had been hard for her at times, and it was beginning to show on her face. She was about 5’7” tall. She was in very good shape for a woman “her age,” as she put it. She was slender. I didn’t get those genes. Her only physical flaw was the small pooch in her stomach—from having two kids—that refused to go away, no matter how much she exercised. She had dark-brown, wavy hair, like mine. It was long, like mine, when she was younger, but as she got older she kept it shorter and shorter.

Time had not been as kind to my daddy. He was a few inches taller than my mom. He was balding in the middle of his head. All the years my mom spent working out, he spent in front of the television with a beer in one hand and food in the other. The result was a stomach similar to that of an eight-month-pregnant woman.

Both of my daddy’s parents died when he was young. My grandma died of cancer when he was around five. My grandpa died less than a year later, of a broken heart. My daddy and his only sibling, his older sister, had to live with their aunt. My daddy was not that close to his sister. She and her family lived out West. I have never met her.

My mom has a strong personality. She was often involved in activities at work, church, and our school. If anything was going on, you could bet my mom had her hand somewhere in it. My daddy’s personality was the complete opposite. He kept more to himself. I wouldn’t call him quiet, more like reserved. But he did not have an aggressive personality like my mom, unless he was dealing with her. The biggest flaw in his personality was his temper. When he got angry he took on a different persona—like he did this morning when he pounded his fist into the wall.

“How was practice?” my sister asked.“Good,” I said, and opened the refrigerator to find something to munch on.My mom repeated, “Dinner is almost ready.”Almost is not good enough. I need food now. I was so nervous all day I ate

only a little of my lunch. I continued to survey the fridge. I could always tell when things were tight financially, by just looking in the fridge. There wasn’t much to choose from, so I closed the refrigerator door.

“‘Good’ is all we get?” was the response from my mom.“Yes. I still have a few weeks until tryouts. I don’t want to jinx myself.”“What does ‘jinx’ mean?” my sister asked.“It means I don’t want anything bad to happen, so I am not saying anything.”“Isn’t dinner ready yet?” my daddy growled from the front room.“If I am not moving fast enough for you, why don’t you come in here and

cook for yourself?” my mom hollered back.

My sister and I exchanged a quick glance—our own silent language—each of us holding our breath. After a few seconds, with no response from daddy, we started breathing again.

“Nothing bad will happen this time,” my sister said, resuming our conversation. I gave her a smile.

For the most part, my sister and I got along. Many of my friends at school complained about their younger brothers and sisters. They complained they got on their nerves, were pests, and were always in their stuff. So, I considered myself lucky, because Patrice didn’t bother me too much.

My stomach signaled that enough was enough. Let them finish dinner. I had to eat. I spooned beans and rice onto my plate and took a piece of meat that had just come out of the pan. My daddy’s patience must have run out also and he came and fixed his plate. When he was finished he went right back to the front room in front of the television.

I couldn’t remember the day my daddy stopped eating with us. It was more of a gradual procession. Usually I minded, but if there was any chance of them arguing like they did this morning, I preferred for him to eat in front of the television. I was in no mood to hear them screaming at each other at the dinner table, or to eat in tense silence.

“Daddy, would you please come and eat with us?” my sister asked him.From time to time, she would still ask my daddy to come and eat with us. My

heart went out to her. She was still so young, so innocent. I waited for my daddy’s usual response.

“Baby, you know Daddy likes to watch the television while he is eating. Daddy works hard all day. I like to come home, relax, and watch television, okay?”

“Can I come in there with you?”“Sure baby, bring a place mat and please don’t drop food on the floor so we

don’t have to hear your mom’s mouth.”I watched my sister bounce past me and toward the living room to eat with

Daddy. “How was your day?” I asked my mom when she sat down to eat. I was

determined to keep the discussion away from cheerleading and high school.“Good, very good,” she said smiling.That was a switch. She was a secretary at General Electric. She usually

complained that no one acknowledged her. She “works and works, with no recognition or appreciation.” I wondered if she complained about us the same way, to the people at work.

“Really?” I asked, lifting my eyebrow.My mom leaned in and began to talk in almost a whisper. Whatever she

wanted to tell me, she didn’t want anyone else to hear. “My boss told me today that he is considering me for a promotion. I would be

hired as a junior executive, and depending on how good I do there I could be

promoted to ‘Account Executive.’ They also have a program where they would pay for me to go to college.”

I could barely hear her at this point. She had dropped her voice even lower. “Wow,” was the only thing I could think to say.

“It would involve a raise, of course. More money is just what we need right now. That could help out with your graduation, high school expenses, pay off some bills—”

“Does that mean you would make enough to pay for The Academy?” I asked excitedly—too excitedly. My mom gave me a look to lower my voice. Oops.

“No, it wouldn’t be that much, but it would be a big help. I could take you and your sister shopping for some new clothes. Maybe we could even go on a real vacation.” Her eyes were dancing.

“When will you know something?” I made sure to keep my voice down.“He didn’t give me an exact date, but told me ‘soon,’ whatever that means.

Even if I don’t get the promotion, it was nice to at least have my boss acknowledge all my hard work over the years. But, I have already told Jesus he can go ahead and throw in that promotion for lagniappe.” Lagniappe was a Creole word for “something extra” or a “gift.”

I could hear my daddy getting up from his chair and my mom stopped talking. He walked past us and into the kitchen. “We don’t have any beans left?” he asked, lifting the top of the pot.

“Whatever you see is what we have. That is why it’s called ‘leftovers.’”“There you go with that smart mouth of yours! All I did was ask you a

question.”“And all I did was give you an answer.” My mom’s voice began to rise.My daddy slammed down the pot top and walked up to where my mom was

sitting. She jumped up and faced my daddy. My heart leaped and began to thud against my chest. Sure, they argued all the time, but I had never seen them act like that. I wanted to say something to divert their attention, but my brain shut down. I couldn’t think of anything. Even if I had thought of something, there was a lump in my throat and I didn’t know if I could have gotten any words out. All of a sudden, Patrice ran into the kitchen. Next thing I knew, she was standing between them.

“Please, Mommy and Daddy—don’t fight. Why do you always have to fight?” She kept on about something, but none of us could understand what she was saying because she was crying too much.

“Oh, baby, Daddy is sorry. Please, don’t be upset. Please stop crying.” He reached out to pick up my sister, but my mom got to her first. She scooped up Patrice, gave my daddy a look of death, and left.

My daddy didn’t look at me or say anything. He went right back to watching television in the front room.

I finished eating and began to clean off the table. I knew it was in my best interest to clean the kitchen, do my homework, take a bath, and keep out of sight. I would steer clear of “Hurricane Mom’s” path.

I was disturbed about the morning’s and evening’s episodes. For my parents to be acting like that, things must have been worse than I knew. I had a bad feeling things were not going to get any better. They were going to get worse, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Chapter 3Cheerleading Tryouts: Take Two

The next few weeks passed at full tilt. There was school, homework, and all the daily routines of life. But for me the only thing that mattered was cheerleading. In addition to practice after school, I practiced every second I could spare.

Katrina and I went to the park after school and on weekends. She watched, judged, and critiqued every move I made. She was such a big help. She was my own cheerleader and judge, all wrapped in one.

D-Day came. Cheerleader tryouts, take two. Two years ago, I couldn’t sleep the night before tryouts. This time I slept, but I had nightmares all night. I saw myself sprawled out with my face imprinted on the gym floor. Once I was awake, I tried to force those thoughts out of my head. I began to pray.

“God, please clear my mind of all these negative thoughts. God, you know how much I want to be a cheerleader. So please help me today. Help me to do well. Please, don’t let me fall like last time. Help me make cheerleader, please, God. Amen.”

“Kendra,” I heard my mom’s voice from outside the bedroom door. “I know you are up, let’s get going.”

I gave one last pleading look at the ceiling, hoping God was listening, and got up. As soon as my feet hit the floor, my stomach began doing summersaults. I felt sick. I felt like I was going to throw up.

“Kendra, last time: Come on. I overslept and didn’t have time to fix breakfast so you will need to eat cereal.” My mom was still at the door.

Eating was the last thing I wanted to do. I made it to the bathroom and began to get dressed. My mind was racing faster than a car at the Indy 500. Good thoughts, bad thoughts, terrible thoughts, racing through my mind.

I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked fine on the outside. No one could’ve known that I felt like I was going to pass out. I had to work on calming myself down. I began to take deep breaths, which I’d heard was good for relaxation. There was no way I could take deep breaths the whole day.

When I walked into the kitchen, my sister was eating breakfast, my mom was looking in the freezer, and my daddy was nowhere in sight.

“Where is daddy?” I asked Patrice.“He said he had to go.” She knew why I was asking. “He told me to tell you

good luck.”“He did?” I asked. Although I would have rather heard it from him, it was

better than not hearing it at all.

She nodded. “I said a prayer for you this morning.”She meant well. “Thanks. Now, can we talk about something, anything else?

My stomach is in knots.”“How is your stomach in knots?”I couldn’t take ‘twenty questions’ at this time. “It means I am nervous about

today.”“I hope not too nervous to eat,” my mom said, closing the freezer door. “You

need something in your stomach. At least eat some toast.”I could see from the look in her eyes that there was no way I was going to get

out of eating. I went and put two slices of bread into the toaster. “I might have my own piece of good news today,” my mom said. Her voice

dropped down, so Patrice couldn’t hear.“About your promotion?” I followed by dropping my voice, too, while leaning

on the kitchen counter.“Yes, I might know something today.”“Have you told daddy?” I usually didn’t ask my mom about things that went

on between her and my daddy. According to my mom, “Children should stay in a child’s place.” But, hey, she was the one who talked to me about it first, so I plunged ahead.

“No.” She looked quickly at my sister, making sure she was still engrossed in eating her cereal and not paying any attention to us.

“When do you plan on telling him?” Purposefully asking when, not if.“I will tell him if I get the promotion. Why tell him now, when I don’t even

know if I will get it?”I didn’t know if I believed her or not. Ever since my sister’s outburst a few

weeks ago at dinner, my parents had been making an effort not to argue as much. That only proved what I already knew. There was less arguing, but that only meant the tension was mounting and mounting, because there was no release. Sooner or later, it would erupt. And my mom keeping secrets from my daddy wasn’t going to help. I merely responded, “Okay.” My toast popped up and thankfully ended that conversation.

Katrina was waiting for me in our usual spot when I got to school later that morning. She ran up to me with a big smile and hug.

“That is for good luck. But, you won’t need it.” I tried to return her smile but I couldn’t quite get it to cover my whole face. “Nervous, huh? Me too. It is going to happen. I can feel it!” It was so great to have a friend like Katrina. I had only been at school for a few minutes and I felt better already.

“Oh yeah, I am nervous. My stomach has been acting up all morning. I had to force down two slices of toast and some orange juice under the hawk eyes of my mom, just to get out of the house. But I feel like I could throw it up at any second. I don’t know how I am going to make it until the end of the day. And what about when I am standing alone in the gym, in front of all those people this afternoon? I had nightmares all last night.”

My voice began to rise and the fear I was feeling must have been written all over my face because Katrina’s face turned sympathetic.

“Tell you what, let’s not talk about it. You have practiced, you know your cheers, and you know what you have to do. Don’t think about it, relax your mind.”

I looked at her doubtfully. It was unlikely I would relax, but I could try. There was no sense talking about it all day. Three o’clock will come soon enough, and then, what will be, will be.

“Have you sent in your application to The Academy yet?” If that was her idea of a relaxing conversation, she was far off base.

“No, I am still waiting for my letters of recommendation and for Ms. Marina to fill out her part of the scholarship application.”

“What other schools are they making you apply to?”“Ms. Marina decided for me. I guess she was tired of me dragging my feet, so

she gave me applications for St. Elizabeth’s, St. Francis Prep, and Redeemer.”“We know that only one matters, but if sending the other three keeps Ms.

Marina and your mom off your back, it is worth it, wouldn’t you say?”“Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” and I smiled for the first time that

morning.I tried my best to concentrate that morning in class. My teacher, Ms. Pat, was

at the chalkboard explaining a math problem. I liked having a lay-person for a teacher. Going to a Catholic School had given me my share of nuns as teachers. Nuns! I am sure God does not look kindly on talking about nuns, so I try not to do so, but do they have to be so mean? And what is up with wearing the same colors and not being able to wear pants? And is there some law that says they can’t smile?

It was a refreshing change to have Ms. Pat as a teacher. She wore stylish, brightly colored clothes. That morning, she had on a button-down, deep purple shirt with matching pants. Yes, she had on pants. Her outfit was complemented by a multicolor scarf around her neck. I don’t even know how she was able to walk in those heels, but she was working them! Her dark hair was swept back and up with a cute hair clip. It was hard to determine her exact age—I figured somewhere in her early thirties. She was married and had two kids. I wouldn’t call her pretty; she was average looking, but the way she dressed made her much more attractive.

Her attire wasn’t her only asset. She knew how to make the class lively and interesting. She almost makes school enjoyable. I say “almost” because I’m not sure if anyone could ever do that. She had a way of getting and keeping our attention when she was teaching. However, that day she had some stiff competition, and I was struggling to pay attention.

Ms. Pat continued, “Michael is two years older than three times Jennifer’s age. If Jennifer is x years old, how would you calculate Michael’s age?”

But my mind was hearing: Let’s get fired upGet rough, get tough, get mean

Let’s get fired upAnd roll right over that team!I glanced at the clock. It was only ten-fifteen. It felt like I had been at

school longer than that.“Okay, that is it today for math. Do pages eighty-eight and eighty-nine in

your textbook for homework. Get ready for English; but before we begin, I would like to talk to you about the annual school Christmas play.”

Katrina turned and looked at me. She sat two rows in front of me, and I knew she was thinking the same thing I was. We had been so absorbed in cheerleading and getting into The Academy that we forgot about the Christmas play.

“As you know, every year the eighth grade class is responsible for reenacting The Manger Scene, beginning with Mary and Joseph leaving Nazareth on their journey to Bethlehem to be taxed, and concluding with the visit from the ‘wise men’.”

There was a stir of excitement and everyone started talking. “All right class, let me finish. I know everyone is excited—quiet down and keep that excitement for the play.” No one was going to calm down. Just as I had been waiting for this day, the eighth grade class had waited for the Christmas play. The entire school participated in the play, but the lower grade levels sang songs and did skits, while the Nativity Scene had always been performed by, and reserved for, the eighth grade class. It was tradition.

The shepherds, the wise men, the angel Gabriel, and the other characters were all coveted roles. But the most coveted—of course—were the roles of Mary and Joseph. Every boy wanted to be Joseph and every girl wanted to be Mary. Every year, it was up to the teacher to decide how to determine who played Mary and Joseph. There was no way a teacher could just choose someone without inciting a riot, so that method went out the door a long time ago. The only way for it to be done fairly was for students to have to win it. Yes, win it. It was that serious. Over the years, I saw races, spelling bees, basketball shootouts, and double Dutch contests, for the prize of playing Mary and Joseph. This is Ms. Pat’s first time teaching eighth grade, I wonder how—

Greg Harris had the same thoughts and asked from the back of the classroom, “Ms. Pat, what will we do to see who plays Mary and Joseph?”

“Now Greg, you know I won’t tell until the time comes,” Ms. Pat responded with a sly grin on her face. “I just wanted to get everyone excited and stirred up for the play. Remember, there are other roles besides Mary and Joseph, and everyone in the class will have a part to play. We will begin practice soon.”

“Now that I have everyone’s attention, let’s do some English, which I know you will find just as exciting as the play.” There were some good-natured groans in response to that one, and Ms. Pat had to laugh herself.