Dream Jordan is the author of HOT GIRL. She was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York. She graduated magna cum laude from New York University with a Bachelors of Arts in Creative Writing. In her spare time, she visits schools to give talks promoting self-awareness and the value of education.

Chapter 1
 

I don’t know what I was expecting, but I wasn’t expecting this. As soon as Mrs. Cooper left me alone inside my bedroom, I wanted to call her old butt right back, and ask, “Are you serious right now?”
I looked around the shabby room in disbelief. Junky and funky—the first words that came to mind. In other group homes, we were never allowed to leave clothes sprawled on the floor, or food floating around in our rooms. Yet here I was, staring at a mountain of dirty jeans sitting in the middle of a stained gray carpet, and a half-eaten hot dog resting on top of a cheap wooden dresser. Four walls were covered in chipped beige paint, and white dirty blinds hung from the single window in our room. Twin beds sat across from each other. One bed was surprisingly decked in clean white sheets, the other was mad messy.
Earlier in the day, I was told Tracy was to be my roommate. Well, Tracy was a straight-up slob. I unpacked my bags with a serious attitude. Man, I missed my old bedroom so much. Although it was small as a shoebox, at least it was mine. Didn’t have to share it with nobody. And I missed the Johnsons even more.
In the Johnson household, I had no big beef or worries. As soon as I had stopped acting like a knucklehead and learned how to return the love they gave me, it was so easy and breezy living with them. Once my chores were done, it was all about creating my own program. I could chill by myself and watch the portable TV they’d bought me last Christmas (for getting all As on my report card), or I could sit up in bed and do homework in peace; I could play Spades with Ted, or have girl talks with Lynn; I could lounge on my fire escape, reading good books and cracking sunflower seeds. Real talk, I had it made in the shade while living there.
But here? Please. No peace up in this piece. Nobody to talk to. Nowhere to break away from the madness. Even the fire escape connected to our bedroom was located in a weed-filled backyard with a view of a corroded cemetery beyond it. How mournful could things get? I was ready to cry again.
After stashing all of my clothes away, I sat on my bed and leaned my head up against the wall, wondering what to do next. I wasn’t trying to go downstairs and beg the girls for friendship. I could hear them from upstairs, talking and laughing loud, bonding nicely without me. Well, my room was disgusting; I needed to bond with a broom.
I jumped up and tried to make my bedroom more livable. Cracked open the window to let in some clean air. Using my foot, I pushed the pile of jeans closer to Tracy’s side of the room. Then I kicked her sparkling white Adidas underneath her bed.
And just then.
Boom.
The second my foot connected with Tracy’s sneakers, here she comes, sheathed in a tight sky-blue jean jumper and silver gladiator sandals, hands on her hips, scowl on her lips. I had the worst timing in the world.
Tracy is a shorty like me, dark-skinned like me, thick body like me, but she wears a long burgundy weave and has slits for eyes. She was using them to glare at me right now, trying hard to scare me. Not possible, though. I stood my ground.
“Yo, why are you kicking my things around?” Tracy snatched her sneakers out from under the bed and placed them in full view, to spite me, I guessed.
“My bad,” I replied. “Sorry.”
“Yeah, right, your bad,” she snapped.
“I said I was sorry,” I snapped back. Her attitude was so unnecessary. When someone apologizes to you and they really mean it, accept it and move on, silly chick. I had no time for this.
I looked at Tracy like she was minor league, and dared her to say something else. She had nothing more to add. So I marched right past her out of our bedroom, and braced myself for a possible attack from behind. But Tracy just called me the “B” word when I was halfway down the hall. I guessed she was all mouth, no action. Weak witch.
I decided to take a trip to the bathroom, for no other reason than to be alone. I pulled the rickety door closed with its flimsy (pray-nobody-busts-in) hook in the hole lock. Clicked on the light, which was mad bright, revealing all the grime surrounding me. Stray hairs and blue soap scum decorated the sink, a see-through plastic shower curtain revealed scummy tub tiles. No bath rugs in place. No pretty pictures on the wall. The main attraction: a noisy toilet with dirty brown water swirling around inside. Ugh. Straight-up nasty in here.
Thank goodness I didn’t need to use the bathroom yet. I just needed to be alone for a few. I pushed the shower curtain aside and sat on the edge of the tub, feeling crazy depressed and out of it. Then someone pounded on the door, bringing me back into it.
I heaved a lungful of air, and stepped out of the bathroom to find Makeba, a pierced-up brown-skinned chick, doing the two-step like she had to go real bad. “It’s about time,” she huffed in a husky voice.
I flashed her the illest mean-grill and kept it moving. It felt like I had to be in defense mode 24/7. I’m saying, it felt like the whole house was against me for no apparent reason. I just couldn’t understand it … but then again I could. I had played the same dirty game back when I was all about bullying. The new girl gets clowned on until she proves herself. Yeah, I get it. But now that the combat shoe was on my foot, it hurt like hell … drafted in a war I wasn’t prepared for.
I couldn’t complain to Mrs. Cooper about how the girls were treating me. No snitching is my rule—street code in my blood. And the other two grown-ups in the house, Belinda and Gerald, were a big fat joke. They could care less about encouraging us girls to get along. I could already tell they were just there to collect paychecks; chilling around the crib like a couple of stone-faced simpletons.
I had absolutely no one to confide in, to comfort me. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, “Get me out of this madhouse!” But if I screamed, who would hear me? Even my new social worker was ghost. She never returned my calls. I don’t even remember her name.
I had nobody. Absolutely nobody.
When Mrs. Cooper called me down for dinner, I lied about a stomachache. Wasn’t in the mood to be sitting at the table flanked by these skanks.
From upstairs, I heard their forks and knives clanging while my stomach was sangin’, “Kate, what’s going on? I’m starving like Marvin!”
*   *   *
Later that night, I tossed and flipped around in my strange new bed, hungry and restless. I couldn’t sleep for nothing. Meanwhile, the whole house was catching zzz’s. I had to do something to keep myself busy or I was about to lose my mind. I had left all my novels back in my old bedroom; had no magazines to flip through, no nothing to do.
Just then, I remembered my Lifebook, the book given to me by Lynn, the book Ted had told me to keep all of my experiences in. “Kate, you need to capture all of your life’s moments,” he had explained. “Big things, little things, good times and bad…”
Well, these times were bad and I needed to capture them. Then maybe one day I could look back and release them, saying to myself, “After all of the hardships you’ve experienced, look how far you’ve come.”
Careful not to wake Tracy, I eased out of my bed and slid my knapsack from underneath it. I crept downstairs, hoping no one would block me. The hallway lights were on, but thank goodness not a soul in sight to stop me. I went into the living room, turned on the end table’s lamp, and sank down on the couch. I pulled out my Lifebook, opened it up, and quickly flipped past all of the pictures of me and the Johnsons. Looking at those pictures would precipitate a rainstorm inside of me.
From my knapsack’s side pocket, I pulled out my favorite fancy black felt-tip pen Ted had given me, and stared at the blank page staring back at me.
Now how should I begin?
My first day here and I hate this dirty stinking house. These chicks are asking me for problems, but I can’t be snapping necks anymore. I have too much to lose. Too much I’ve already gained by changing my old ways. I know if Tisha were around, she’d tell me to suck it up and be strong. And I know I can be strong. Sometimes I forget that I’m a survivor. Always have been. Always will be. So let me stop tripping. I can do this. I can really do this. Nobody can bring me down, but me.
Seeing these words in print eased my mind. I repeated the last line out loud: Nobody can bring me down, but me. I wanted to believe in these words. I needed to believe in these words. I clicked off the light and sat up in the dark, repeating these words over and over again. I felt a little crazy, but what else could I do? I had no one around to put my mind at ease.
Finally, my eyelids got heavy. I made my way upstairs, feeling peaceful, maybe even a little hopeful about the rest of my stay at Common Grounds. From now on, I could write down all of my pain and frustrations, I reasoned. My Lifebook would be my lifeline to sanity. But three days later, bump a freaking journal. I was ready to choke a chick to death.

 
Copyright © 2012 by Dream Jordan

Chapter1
 

I don’t know what I was expecting, but I wasn’t expectingthis.As soon as Mrs. Cooper left me alone inside my bedroom, I wanted to call her old butt right back, and ask, “Are you serious right now?”
I looked around the shabby room in disbelief. Junky and funky—the first words that came to mind. In other group homes, we were never allowed to leave clothes sprawled on the floor, or food floating around in our rooms. Yet here I was, staring at a mountain of dirty jeans sitting in the middle of a stained gray carpet, and a half-eaten hot dog resting on top of a cheap wooden dresser. Four walls were covered in chipped beige paint, and white dirty blinds hung from the single window in our room. Twin beds sat across from each other. One bed was surprisingly decked in clean white sheets, the other was mad messy.
Earlier in the day, I was told Tracy was to be my roommate. Well, Tracy was a straight-up slob. I unpacked my bags with a serious attitude. Man, I missed my old bedroom so much. Although it was small as a shoebox, at least it wasmine. Didn’t have to share it withnobody. And I missed the Johnsons even more.
In the Johnson household, I had no big beef or worries. As soon as I had stopped acting like a knucklehead and learned how to return the love they gave me, it was so easy and breezy living with them. Once my chores were done, it was all about creating my own program. I could chill by myself and watch the portable TV they’d bought me last Christmas (for getting all As on my report card), or I could sit up in bed and do homework in peace; I could play Spades with Ted, or have girl talks with Lynn; I could lounge on my fire escape, reading good books and cracking sunflower seeds. Real talk, I had it made in the shade while living there.
But here?Please. No peace up in this piece. Nobody to talk to. Nowhere to break away from the madness. Even the fire escape connected to our bedroom was located in a weed-filled backyard with a view of a corroded cemetery beyond it. How mournful could things get? I was ready to cry again.
After stashing all of my clothes away, I sat on my bed and leaned my head up against the wall, wondering what to do next. I wasn’t trying to go downstairs and beg the girls for friendship. I could hear them from upstairs, talking and laughing loud, bonding nicely without me. Well, my room was disgusting; I needed to bond with a broom.
I jumped up and tried to make my bedroom more livable. Cracked open the window to let in some clean air. Using my foot, I pushed the pile of jeans closer to Tracy’s side of the room. Then I kicked her sparkling white Adidas underneath her bed.
And just then.
Boom.
The second my foot connected with Tracy’s sneakers, here she comes, sheathed in a tight sky-blue jean jumper and silver gladiator sandals, hands on her hips, scowl on her lips. I had the worst timing in the world.
Tracy is a shorty like me, dark-skinned like me, thick body like me, but she wears a long burgundy weave and has slits for eyes. She was using them to glare at me right now, trying hard to scare me. Not possible, though. I stood my ground.
“Yo, why are you kicking my things around?” Tracy snatched her sneakers out from under the bed and placed them in full view, to spite me, I guessed.
“My bad,” I replied. “Sorry.”
“Yeah, right,yourbad,” she snapped.
“IsaidI was sorry,” I snapped back. Her attitude was so unnecessary. When someone apologizes to you and they really mean it, accept it and move on, silly chick. I had no time for this.
I looked at Tracy like she was minor league, and dared her to say something else. She had nothing more to add. So I marched right past her out of our bedroom, and braced myself for a possible attack from behind. But Tracy just called me the “B” word when I was halfway down the hall. I guessed she was all mouth, no action. Weak witch.
I decided to take a trip to the bathroom, for no other reason than to be alone. I pulled the rickety door closed with its flimsy (pray-nobody-busts-in) hook in the hole lock. Clicked on the light, which was mad bright, revealing all the grime surrounding me. Stray hairs and blue soap scum decorated the sink, a see-through plastic shower curtain revealed scummy tub tiles. No bath rugs in place. No pretty pictures on the wall. The main attraction: a noisy toilet with dirty brown water swirling around inside. Ugh. Straight-up nasty in here.
Thank goodness I didn’t need to use the bathroom yet. I just needed to be alone for a few. I pushed the shower curtain aside and sat on the edge of the tub, feeling crazy depressed and out of it. Then someone pounded on the door, bringing me back into it.
I heaved a lungful of air, and stepped out of the bathroom to find Makeba, a pierced-up brown-skinned chick, doing the two-step like she had to go real bad. “It’s about time,” she huffed in a husky voice.
I flashed her the illest mean-grill and kept it moving. It felt like I had to be in defense mode 24/7. I’m saying, it felt like the whole house was against me for no apparent reason. I just couldn’t understand it … but then again I could. I had played the same dirty game back when I was all about bullying. The new girl gets clowned on until she proves herself.Yeah, I get it.But now that the combat shoe was on my foot, it hurt like hell … drafted in a war I wasn’t prepared for.
I couldn’t complain to Mrs. Cooper about how the girls were treating me. No snitching is my rule—street code in my blood. And the other two grown-ups in the house, Belinda and Gerald, were a big fat joke. They could care less about encouraging us girls to get along. I could already tell they were just there to collect paychecks; chilling around the crib like a couple of stone-faced simpletons.
I had absolutely no one to confide in, to comfort me. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, “Get me out of this madhouse!” But if I screamed, who would hear me? Even my new social worker wasghost. She never returned my calls. I don’t even remember her name.
I had nobody. Absolutely nobody.
When Mrs. Cooper called me down for dinner, I lied about a stomachache. Wasn’t in the mood to be sitting at the table flanked by these skanks.
From upstairs, I heard their forks and knives clanging while my stomach was sangin’, “Kate, what’s going on? I’m starving like Marvin!”
*   *   *
Later that night, I tossed and flipped around in my strange new bed, hungry and restless. I couldn’t sleep for nothing. Meanwhile, the whole house was catching zzz’s. I had to do something to keep myself busy or I was about to lose my mind. I had left all my novels back in my old bedroom; had no magazines to flip through, no nothing to do.
Just then, I remembered my Lifebook, the book given to me by Lynn, the book Ted had told me to keep all of my experiences in. “Kate, you need to capture all of your life’s moments,” he had explained. “Big things, little things, good times and bad…”
Well, these times were bad and I needed to capture them. Then maybe one day I could look back and release them, saying to myself, “After all of the hardships you’ve experienced, look how far you’ve come.”
Careful not to wake Tracy, I eased out of my bed and slid my knapsack from underneath it. I crept downstairs, hoping no one would block me. The hallway lights were on, but thank goodness not a soul in sight to stop me. I went into the living room, turned on the end table’s lamp, and sank down on the couch. I pulled out my Lifebook, opened it up, and quickly flipped past all of the pictures of me and the Johnsons. Looking at those pictures would precipitate a rainstorm inside of me.
From my knapsack’s side pocket, I pulled out my favorite fancy black felt-tip pen Ted had given me, and stared at the blank page staring back at me.
Now how should I begin?
My first day here and I hate this dirty stinking house. These chicks are asking me for problems, but I can’t be snapping necks anymore. I have too much to lose. Too much I’ve already gained by changing my old ways. I know if Tisha were around, she’d tell me to suck it up and be strong. And I know I can be strong. Sometimes I forget that I’m a survivor. Always have been. Always will be. So let me stop tripping. I can do this. I can really do this. Nobody can bring me down, but me.
Seeing these words in print eased my mind. I repeated the last line out loud:Nobody can bring me down, but me.I wanted to believe in these words. I needed to believe in these words. I clicked off the light and sat up in the dark, repeating these words over and over again. I felt a little crazy, but what else could I do? I had no one around to put my mind at ease.
Finally, my eyelids got heavy. I made my way upstairs, feeling peaceful, maybe even a little hopeful about the rest of my stay at Common Grounds. From now on, I could write down all of my pain and frustrations, I reasoned. My Lifebook would be my lifeline to sanity. But three days later, bump a freaking journal. I was ready to choke a chick to death.

 
Copyright © 2012 by Dream Jordan