Chapter One

Introduces the protagonist Myella (Mya) McBride.

     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 c**k 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.
 

Author's Note

I hope you enjoy the excerpts from Tonight I Give In. Thanks for your time. :-)

Reviews

[BLACK PRINCE]

I read the first paragraph and I wanted to continue reading.
Clearly, this proves that you are a good writer.
I see you have great potential.
I would love to buy this book ( one day ) and read it.
This is a good beginning of your book and writing career.
If this is your first book, then I believe you are definitely going far.
You are an amazing writer.
There is definitely suspense.
You definitely have that sense of rhythm and progression
that's required in good writing, that shows a good writer.

I really like the third Paragraph,
about Myella supporting the Black community as much as she could.

' How were Black communities going to thrive economically
if Black consumers did not at 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 neighbourhoods,
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 neighbourhoods they made it. '

This is a true and sad situation among Black communities
in countries where Blacks are the minority.

This also shows that you, as a writer, definitely have a social awareness,
and you do not forget the Black community.
That is very important for a good and serious writers
to be socially aware and evoke the problems
faced by their direct community
and incorporate such awareness
in your book, with the aim to educate the masses.
Because as well as entertaining,
a true writer educates in truth.

I AM NOW A FAN OF YOUR BOOK.
TODAY I READ THE FIRST CHAPTER.
WHENEVER I READ THE NEXT CHAPTERS,
I'LL REVIEW THEM WITH CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM.

I BELIEVE IN KEEPING IT REAL

[T. R. Writer]

Very interesting, definitely makes me want more. It's like reading a little piece of a book in the bookstore and wanting to buy it afterwards.