Her Auntie D’s voice played like a sermon on demand—God knows your heart, Luvvie. Can’t hide from that.
The nickname usually had a way of taking the bite off her aunt’s constant Scripture quotes and sermons. But lately, there were two Auntie D’s—the one who saw that Sheeda meant well and the one giving side-eye as if every little wrong was the world’s worst sin. Sheeda never knew which Deandra Tate was going to show up. For sure, the Auntie D who called her “Luvvie,” with affection, wasn’t around as much.
If she was keeping it a buck, the only time Auntie D was truly happy was when they were at church.
Shocker.
She leaned her head back and sighed toward the ceiling. Her thick rope Marley twists slid on the pew’s glossy wood. She adjusted until her neck laid flat. Her phone suddenly glowed beside her. Sheeda glanced at the message: whatchu doin? just as Sister Butler clapped her hands. “Okay, let’s get started.”
Ugh, of course. She couldn’t torture the keyboard for three more minutes?
Sheeda made her way into the choir loft. She debated if she had time to answer Dat Boy Ell back. His profile picture, eyes piercing the camera and throwing not one but two middle fingers, made her face even hotter. Middle-finger pic shots in church was most definitely wrong. She didn’t need her aunt to tell her that.
His pic wasn’t the only thing wrong, though. And since God didn’t like a liar, she admitted to herself that her church friendships, a little jealousy, and how she felt about church weren’t the only things complicated these days.
Dat Boy Ell was Lennie Jenkins, Mo’s older brother. She’d known Lennie since she was eight years old and he was ten. Then, he spent so much time being punished for one thing or another that Rasheeda had been afraid of him. Afraid that merely being in his presence might get her in trouble. Especially since Mo’s other three brothers were locked up. It took her a while to realize that Lennie only had a big mouth and mainly got in trouble for talking back at school.
That felt forever ago.
He was fifteen now and had never gotten in trouble like his brothers. Him and Mo were the “good” ones according to her aunt.
Actually she’d said, “Their mother finally caught a break. I guess they’re the good ones.”
Auntie D stayed waiting on people to go wrong.
Anytime her aunt threw shade at Mo and her family, Rasheeda felt two-faced. The only thing that comforted her was her aunt threw shade to pretty much anybody who didn’t go to First Bap. She definitely would have never approved of the message Lennie sent commenting on a picture on Rasheeda’s FriendMe page: all growed up like . . . and a GIF of a nearly naked model slo-mo walking down the runway with wind in her weave.
It made Sheeda take a closer look at the picture he was talking about. In it, she wore a white sundress with pink and green flowers. The dress had ruffled straps (three fingers wide, no more, no less), fitted her waist tight then flowed over her wideish hips. She guessed Lennie was referring to the length of the dress. It stopped a few inches above her knee, which was new. Until she’d turned thirteen, every dress she owned came to the middle of her calves.
Sheeda thought it made her look fat. She didn’t need help looking thick. But Lennie had liked it. Well, not liked it on her page but at least privately. And the only person in the world she would have shared it with, she couldn’t tell.
That had been a few weeks ago. He’d been texting her ever since.
A few times she almost admitted it to Mo. Felt like she should and let Mo say whatever she was going to say because Mo was forever honest. Then that would be that. Only, she still hadn’t.
She wasn’t worried about Mo getting angry and dramatic. Well, at least not dramatic. Mo was one of the realest people Rasheeda knew. And that was it. Mo could be too honest. Like, pointing-out-your-flaws-to-the-world honest.
Sheeda wasn’t sure what truth Mo would tell her once she found out about Lennie, but she knew with all her heart it was one she didn’t want to hear.
She glanced at the message, tempted to answer, then shut the screen down and placed the phone in her back pocket.
Sister Butler hit the first note for the song, and Sheeda sang out with all her energy, “Yessss, I’m a believer,” hiding behind the lyrics.
Monique
When Ms. Noelle opened La May at the rec center—La Maison de Danse for the bougie at heart—a lot of the older girls in the Cove had joked on it. “What kind of fancy name was Lah May-zon Duh Dance?” They wanted to learn hip-hop or something that would get them on tour or in a music video. And most of them dropped out, with the quickness, when they realized the classes were strictly ballet and jazz.
Until then, Mo had never been in a dance class. That first year Ms. Noelle (Mademoiselle, to her face) forced Mo’s body into the craziest most annoying positions. Mo had wanted to quit. Then, one day, they watched a video of Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater and the screen swallowed Mo whole. She was there, in the dark auditorium, watching all those Black bodies move like they didn’t have bones.
Ms. Noelle asked, “Who can see themselves doing this?”
And every hand went up. There was a satisfied look on Ms. Noelle’s face as she went on to say, “Good. I know that ballet is hard. But its technique is the foundation of modern dance. Want to do that?” She pointed at the screen. “Then you’ve got to learn ballet.”
Monique had been hooked ever since. And good thing, because right about now she felt like her body was ready to break.
“Cambré side.”
Monique repeated the word in her head: calm-BRAY.
She leaned toward the barre, feeling the stretch in her side.
Knowing the term made her feel like she could go to France and just start talking.
She couldn’t, for real, unless everybody around her was going to talk in ballet terms. But when she was in class, it made her feel smarter. Like she’d spent an entire hour in another country.
Every new position change was a command from Ms. Noelle. Yet somehow the words were silky, floating into Mo’s ear and slipping through her body so her arms, legs, and torso did the right thing. The tinkling piano music boomed so loud from the speakers, it demanded you follow it. And even though her ballet teacher wasn’t yelling, Monique heard her over the music, like it was magic trick.
“Now, back. Cambré.” Ms. Noelle held the word out to make sure her tiny class of two understood to stay in the pose.
No cheating. Make the body work, Mo told herself.
She knew she’d never be considered the best dancer. Not as long as her and Mila were competing for the title. Mila was long and lean and looked like the dancers Mo had seen in the ballet videos they watched. Mo was good and she worked hard. Ms. Noelle always praised her for her dedication and how focused she was in class. Mo took the W however she got it.
She couldn’t see Mila, but she knew her friend’s back was arched as far back as it could go. Mila probably wasn’t straining, either. She slid so easily into positions that Mo found herself clenching her teeth to back down the jealousy. In a few days, Mila would be the only person she’d know at the Summer Experience, a ballet intensive they had gotten scholarships to. They needed each other.
Her back straining in the deep arch, Mo gripped the barre, loosened her jaw.