thought we were in such trouble.
"You should still be in class."
I dropped my head and sheepishly walked back toward the building with Will just a step behind.
"Ms. Garrison, Mr. Maddox," he called after us. "Tell your teachers I said your tardies are excused."
Chapter 9:
A Warning
We don't know who you think you are. But anyone who lives in this hell hole isn't worthy of Bridgeton. Do what we say or you're gonna pay. - The Bitch Brigade
I read the note over and over again. When I closed my eyes to blink away the tears of frustration and anger, I still saw the words as if they were engraved inside my eyelids. No matter what I did, or how hard I worked I'd still be the unworthy, poor black girl from Venton Heights. I snatched the note off of the door and stuffed it into my dance bag before entering my apartment.
"What's wrong?" my mother asked as she stirred a pot of what smelled like spaghetti sauce.
"Nothing. I'm fine." I dried my eyes on my sleeve and swallowed my emotion. I didn't want to worry my mother. I sat down at the kitchen table hoping to spend a few minutes talking to her. I barely saw her anymore. When Sasha and I were little and we lived in the little white house with the red shutters, we all used to be so close. My mom only worked during the day and she would always be home in time to pick us up from school and take us to the library or to a museum. So even if I'd had a bad day at school, I could always look forward to being home. I was always part of something. I belonged to a family.
"Well, I made some spaghetti for you and Sasha. I gotta get to work." My mother put the lid on the spaghetti sauce and whipped off her apron revealing her nurse's uniform.
"Mom, do you ever feel like you just don't belong?"
"Oh, Baby girl, are you getting picked on at school again?" She looked at her watch. "I really gotta get out of here. My shift starts at seven and I still have to catch a bus across town. Just tell Sasha who's bothering you. I'm sure she'll take care of it."
My mother grabbed her purse and kissed me on the cheek before dashing out of the door leaving me alone.
I went to my room and turned on Mozart's symphony number 25 in G minor in order to drown out the ghetto symphony of gunshots and sirens. I strapped on my pointe shoes and practiced my échappés and bourees to Mozart's stirring string composition while trying to stamp out thoughts of the Bitch Brigade. Dance was my way out. Ten years from now, when I'm dancing for the Russian Ballet, I'm not even going to remember those bitches. What did it matter what they thought of me?
I felt my courage rise along with the crescendo of the music. Who cared about them? The fact that I lived in this hell-hole and I went to bed to the sound of gun shots and police sirens actually made me stronger in some sense. If I could grow up in this place and not end up dead or pregnant by sixteen, I think I could handle a little second grade-like threat from a couple of blond bimbos. I grabbed the note out of my bag, crumpled it up, and tossed it into the trash.
Already feeling a bit relieved, I sat down to watch a video of Natalia Karleskaya with the Russian Ballet. As I watched, however, my mind kept wandering back to the note. I had been invisible at Bridgeton for two years. Most people didn't even know my name. So why did I suddenly become a target? It must have been because of Will. That was the only explanation.
And what exactly would they do to me? Name a cow after me? Big deal. Revealing where I lived would be embarrassing, but I'd get over it. It would actually affect Sasha more than me. So I had nothing to fear, right? But for some reason, a sickening sense of dread plopped in my stomach and grew at an alarming pace.
My thoughts drifted to that girl in the stairwell. What if that was the result of a Bitch Brigade threat? And what about the sudden rash of honor trials?
"You should still be in class."
I dropped my head and sheepishly walked back toward the building with Will just a step behind.
"Ms. Garrison, Mr. Maddox," he called after us. "Tell your teachers I said your tardies are excused."
Chapter 9:
A Warning
We don't know who you think you are. But anyone who lives in this hell hole isn't worthy of Bridgeton. Do what we say or you're gonna pay. - The Bitch Brigade
I read the note over and over again. When I closed my eyes to blink away the tears of frustration and anger, I still saw the words as if they were engraved inside my eyelids. No matter what I did, or how hard I worked I'd still be the unworthy, poor black girl from Venton Heights. I snatched the note off of the door and stuffed it into my dance bag before entering my apartment.
"What's wrong?" my mother asked as she stirred a pot of what smelled like spaghetti sauce.
"Nothing. I'm fine." I dried my eyes on my sleeve and swallowed my emotion. I didn't want to worry my mother. I sat down at the kitchen table hoping to spend a few minutes talking to her. I barely saw her anymore. When Sasha and I were little and we lived in the little white house with the red shutters, we all used to be so close. My mom only worked during the day and she would always be home in time to pick us up from school and take us to the library or to a museum. So even if I'd had a bad day at school, I could always look forward to being home. I was always part of something. I belonged to a family.
"Well, I made some spaghetti for you and Sasha. I gotta get to work." My mother put the lid on the spaghetti sauce and whipped off her apron revealing her nurse's uniform.
"Mom, do you ever feel like you just don't belong?"
"Oh, Baby girl, are you getting picked on at school again?" She looked at her watch. "I really gotta get out of here. My shift starts at seven and I still have to catch a bus across town. Just tell Sasha who's bothering you. I'm sure she'll take care of it."
My mother grabbed her purse and kissed me on the cheek before dashing out of the door leaving me alone.
I went to my room and turned on Mozart's symphony number 25 in G minor in order to drown out the ghetto symphony of gunshots and sirens. I strapped on my pointe shoes and practiced my échappés and bourees to Mozart's stirring string composition while trying to stamp out thoughts of the Bitch Brigade. Dance was my way out. Ten years from now, when I'm dancing for the Russian Ballet, I'm not even going to remember those bitches. What did it matter what they thought of me?
I felt my courage rise along with the crescendo of the music. Who cared about them? The fact that I lived in this hell-hole and I went to bed to the sound of gun shots and police sirens actually made me stronger in some sense. If I could grow up in this place and not end up dead or pregnant by sixteen, I think I could handle a little second grade-like threat from a couple of blond bimbos. I grabbed the note out of my bag, crumpled it up, and tossed it into the trash.
Already feeling a bit relieved, I sat down to watch a video of Natalia Karleskaya with the Russian Ballet. As I watched, however, my mind kept wandering back to the note. I had been invisible at Bridgeton for two years. Most people didn't even know my name. So why did I suddenly become a target? It must have been because of Will. That was the only explanation.
And what exactly would they do to me? Name a cow after me? Big deal. Revealing where I lived would be embarrassing, but I'd get over it. It would actually affect Sasha more than me. So I had nothing to fear, right? But for some reason, a sickening sense of dread plopped in my stomach and grew at an alarming pace.
My thoughts drifted to that girl in the stairwell. What if that was the result of a Bitch Brigade threat? And what about the sudden rash of honor trials?
Similar Books
