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  While Charlie and Claire went at it, Bacardi took it upon herself to try and squeeze into Claire’s mink coat. Seeing this, Claire immediately attacked her mother and tried to wrestle the coat away from her hands and it ignited a brief tug of war between them.

  Bacardi growled, “I just wanted to try it on. Don’t be a selfish fuckin’ bitch, Claire!”

  “It won’t fuckin’ fit you! And you gonna ruin it before I can even get to flaunt it outside,” screamed Claire.

  Meanwhile, Chanel noticed that two bags were already empty and the last bag almost was. She was going to be last, like always. But Chanel didn’t gripe; she patiently waited her turn to see what Charlie would bless her with this Christmas Day.

  Charlie turned to look at Chanel with disgust and reached into the garbage bag and handed her an Amazon Echo Dot and a used laptop. That was it—nothing else came out of the bag. It was the only thing left she had to give Chanel. Chanel stood there feeling her eyes welling up, but she refused to cry. She didn’t want to give Charlie and everyone else that satisfaction. Everyone received fabulous gifts that made them over-the-moon, and she got two less expensive items, and one looked used. Graciously, Chanel said, “Thank you,” to her big sister and decided to excuse herself, leaving the items in the living room.

  Charlie grimaced. “Oh, so your black ass just gonna walk out the fuckin’ room and not be fuckin’ grateful for what I got you? And I know you don’t got ya fuckin’ lips poked out, bitch. You lucky you got that shit!” Charlie barked at her sister. She was upset that Chanel hadn’t screamed at the top of her lungs in delight like Claire, Bacardi, and Butch had.

  Chanel stopped walking and spun around. “I said ‘thank you,’ Charlie. What more do you want me to say?”

  Charlie snatched the Echo Dot and laptop from the table and gave them away to Claire. Claire had no problems taking them. It was more gifts for her, and more was great. No one else found her behavior wrong.

  “That’s one jealous-hearted, miserable child I done gave birth to,” Bacardi commented as if Chanel wasn’t standing in front of her. “She think her shit don’t stink walkin’ ’round here like she the Queen of Sheba or some shit. Charlie, you shoulda smashed her fuckin’ teeth down her throat and made her eat that fuckin’ laptop!”

  “That’s y’all fault. You and Butch spoiled her li’l ugly ass.” Charlie gave a delusional explanation, which everyone accepted.

  Chanel quietly retreated to her bedroom, closed the door, and cried her eyes out. It was turning out to be one of the worst Christmases ever. Her life was hard because of her family, but Chanel saw herself as a survivor. She was the black Cinderella in a family that hated her. She wondered where her Prince Charming was. Where was that tall, dark, and handsome man to sweep her off her feet and take her away from her hell? She wanted a man who could protect—provide her security from anything. She had the most precious thing a woman could give a man, something her sisters could no longer give—her virginity.

  “Fuck that bitch!” Charlie said about her own sister.

  It was the standard behavior with the family. Chanel got the crumbs while everyone else feasted on a fine meal.

  Happy with their gifts, the rest of the family enjoyed a good meal that Bacardi put together, then God sparked up a joint and they all smoked some high grade weed and drank hard liquor. The family was happy and they couldn’t wait to show off their gifts—wait until the neighbors see all this new shit.

  Charlie boasted her Christmas gifts the best, taking off her new fur coat and showing off a diamond necklace and a gold Rolex watch. Bacardi and Claire were floored—in complete awe at the gleaming jewelry she had on. Bacardi had never been so proud. She beamed. Her daughter had gotten with the right nigga. Bacardi loved God like he was her own son.

  Unbeknownst to everyone, the perpetrators of the gruesome home invasion and double homicide in Jamaica Estates of Liasha and Malik Johnson were Godfrey “God” Williams, Frederick “Fingers” Avery, and Charlie Brown.

  Chapter Two

  The temperature outside dropped to a freezing 19 degrees, making it the coldest day of the month so far. The nasty chill outside matched the chill Chanel felt in her heart that early morning. She woke up with an attitude. Everyone had really nice Christmas presents except for her, and no one saw anything wrong with it.

  Chanel was the only one awake in the apartment. Claire was still sound asleep in the twin bed opposite Chanel’s, Butch was passed out on the living room couch with a half-empty liquor bottle still clutched in his hand, her mother was asleep in her bedroom, and Charlie and God were passed out in Charlie’s bedroom. Her folks didn’t have a problem with a nigga laid up with a teenager.

  Chanel got out of her bed, donned a long robe and some slippers, and left her bedroom for the kitchen. The entire apartment was left a wreck. The trashcan was overflowing with garbage, the living room was cluttered with junk and remnants of drug paraphernalia, and the sink was piled with dishes. No one had attempted to clean up anything. Chanel was adamant that she wasn’t going to clean up shit. She looked at the hurricane of untidiness and sighed heavily. Her family was the worst.

  The knocking at the door made her pivot and walk to the foyer. Chanel looked through the peephole and saw her friend, Landy, standing in the hallway.

  “Girl, I know you see me standing out here and shit. Hurry and open da’ door,” Landy hollered.

  Chanel gladly opened the front door and let Landy inside.

  “Hey bitch, what’s good wit’ you?” Landy spoke in her urban tone.

  “I just got up,” said Chanel.

  Landy was a young white girl one would call a wigga. She dressed and spoke more urban than Chanel. Landy’s long, brown hair was styled in cornrows under the dark blue Yankees fitted skewed atop her head. She had tattoos and several piercings, including a nose ring. Dressed in a white sweatshirt, a gold cross around her neck, navy basketball shorts with leggings underneath, and a new pair of Air Jordans, Landy bopped inside the Browns’ home.

  “So, you the only one up, huh?” Landy said, eyeing Chanel’s drunk pops on the couch.

  “Yup! They won’t be up no time soon.”

  “Lazy fucks.”

  “But them Jordans are nice. I really like those joints.”

  “Thanks—one of my Christmas gifts from my bitch-ass father. At least he did somethin’ right, know what I’m sayin?” said Landy. “And what you get fo’ Christmas?”

  Chanel shook her head and frowned.

  “Yo, they ain’t get you shit, Chanel?” Landy said.

  “Not one thing. But everyone else got some nice shit.”

  Landy sighed. “Yo, that’s fucked up.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Landy hated the Browns for the way they treated Chanel. Chanel was cool and innocent, and she was a good friend. There were plenty of times Landy wanted to go off on the Brown family for fucking with Chanel. She could and would fight anyone in a heartbeat. But out of respect for Chanel, Landy kept the peace with Chanel’s sisters and the parents.

  “You want breakfast?” asked Chanel.

  “Yo, that would be cool. I’m fuckin’ starvin’ out this bitch, fo’ real.”

  Chanel and Landy made their way into the kitchen. Chanel washed out a few pans and went to work on making some bacon and scrambled eggs for breakfast. While she worked her magic over the stove, Landy pulled out the latest iPhone, and Chanel’s mouth dropped.

  “Oh shit, you got the new iPhone? Get the fuck outta here—that’s what I wanted for Christmas.”

  “Yo, this fuckin’ phone is dope, Chanel. Shit got wireless charging, it’s water and dust resistant, a fuckin’ ill-ass camera an’ shit. It’s on point, ya feel me?”

  “That shit is nice. What else did you get?”

  “A couple of hundred-dollar gift cards, a Fire Stick, and a new bedroom set.”
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br />   Chanel was happy Landy had a better Christmas than she had. At least someone got what they wanted. Landy took a seat at the rickety table and slouched in the chair. She eyed the messy kitchen that matched the messy apartment and shook her head in disgust.

  “Damn, your peoples don’t clean?”

  “They don’t do shit around here,” Chanel replied.

  “So what happened yesterday?”

  Chanel turned to her friend with a look that said, Bitch, too fuckin’ much. She made sure not to speak too loud while talking to Landy, nearly whispering her troubles to her friend.

  “Charlie came by with her boyfriend God with three big ol’ garbage bags of gifts, and she hooked everyone up. I’m talking about red bottoms and mink coats and a Valentino bag for my mother, a cashmere sweater for my father. She was just spilling out nice shit for everyone, and she was even rocking a fuckin’ diamond necklace and a Rolex for herself.”

  Landy asked, “Damn, where she get that kind of money?”

  “That’s what I want to know. But she out here actin’ like she won the lottery. And then she gonna give me my gift last, handing me some old-ass laptop and some Echo Dot, and she wanted me to kiss her ass for it.”

  “Wow, that’s crazy, yo.”

  “I know. I gave her that shit right back.”

  “I woulda whooped that bitch’s ass!”

  “It’s all good.”

  “Nah, it’s not all good, Chanel. They need to stop treatin’ you like shit! You don’t deserve it. You one of da coolest peoples I know, and if I gotta pop off on ya family, then bitch, let me do it,” Landy said.

  Chanel smiled. She knew that her sisters would beat the brakes off of Landy and Bacardi would pulverize her. “Thanks. You’re a good friend.”

  “You my bitch, Chanel. I got your back.”

  “It’s just odd, Landy. I don’t understand why they hate me so much.” Chanel sulked. “I guess it’s because I’m the black and ugly one.”

  Landy was confused. “Y’all are all black, or am I missing something? If it’s us four in a car who do you think is not getting racially profiled?”

  “We’re all black but not the same black. My sisters are that lighter, whiter black with red, curly hair—it’s too much to explain. If you were African-American you would get it. I’m the ugly one.”

  “Ugly? You really believe dat?”

  Chanel shrugged. “Landy, you’re more of a sister to me than my own blood, so I feel like I can keep it one-hundred with you. You know some black parents love their kids to be bright white with that good hair like Charlie and Claire. Charlie and Claire walk around here talking about how their freckles are like Meghan Markle and how niggas love their red pussy hair. They’re so revolting! And they’re constantly talking about how I’m not a redbone like them.”

  Landy smirked. “Girl, bye wit’ all that dumb shit. I would kill for your complexion. I look like a jar of mayonnaise.”

  Chanel chuckled. “You do not.”

  “Let’s just say I don’t run from the sun but I’m cool wit’ that. I use my complexion to my advantage ’cause I understand the politics of it all, and you need to get down wit’ that.”

  Chanel had no idea what Landy was referring to. “How do I use my black skin to my advantage, Landy? There is no such thing as black privilege. You’re talking foolishness.”

  “You’re not red like your sisters ’cause God wanted you to be darker. Stop comparing yourself to them and be happy in your own skin. Look in the mirror and see the black beauty and watch how differently Charlie and Claire start to treat you. If you know you’re pretty too, shit gon’ change. All these beautiful black women didn’t pave the way for you to be walking wit’ your head down. You need a role model—Oprah Winfrey, Naomi Campbell, Viola Davis, Serena Williams, that beautiful Lupita chick. I shouldn’t have to tell you dis shit.”

  “You don’t get it.”

  “But, I do, though. You want a pity party. Bacardi really got you fucked up, yo. You’re one of the prettiest females I know, and that’s no homo. In fact, you’re beautiful—like model–pretty, but your low self-esteem will be your downfall. If you fall in the hands of the wrong nigga you’re done. Hasta la vista done.”

  “You’re being dramatic. I don’t even have a man.” Chanel paused for a beat, “And, Landy, you my bitch, but you don’t get to say the N-word.”

  “My b.”

  Things got quiet in the small, messy kitchen as the girls processed their conversation.

  Landy continued with, “Check this, Bacardi pits y’all against each other and runs a divisive household. It’s manipulation 101. As long as you don’t feel worthy enough for her love you will always clean out the shitty toilets, wash the dirty dishes, and take whatever abuse Bacardi dishes out. How she treats you is her issue not yours, yo. I would start cursing her fat ass out.”

  “I can’t disrespect my moms, Landy. She’d fuck me up.”

  “Well then I would go hard on them two red bitches. I would be callin’ them hoes fire crotches and soulless gingers. Let them know all those freckles ain’t cute. It’s a fuckin’ connect-the-dots puzzle on their face! Start speaking up for yourself.”

  Chanel laughed. She appreciated that Landy was trying to cheer her up. She also knew she had some good points. It was hard to take advice about self-esteem and colorism from a white girl who wanted to be black, though. Landy was book-smart—she had a 4.0 GPA—but she too was suffering from image issues. Maybe that was how she was able to recognize Chanel’s insecurities.

  Chanel finished making breakfast. The bacon and scrambled eggs mixed with green peppers and onions were the bomb. Landy praised Chanel on her cooking. The two sat at the table and shared a few laughs. But their enjoyable moment together was short lived. A few minutes at the table and Bacardi entered the kitchen scowling at the two girls.

  “Hello, Mrs. Brown,” Landy greeted with a smirk.

  Bacardi completely ignored Landy. Her focus was on Chanel. She had smelled the food cooking and desperately needed something in her stomach to soak up the alcohol she’d consumed last night. She took one look at the empty pan on the stove and went off.

  “Oh, you selfish bitch,” she started. “You cook you and your friend some fuckin’ breakfast and don’t make any for anybody else?”

  “Y’all were all ’sleep,” said Chanel.

  “So! That’s your damn excuse? After your sister done hooked you up wit’ some nice shit yesterday, you can only think about yourself. And why the fuck this house ain’t clean?”

  Chanel could feel her face getting hot. Her mother was always a crass woman, and now she was embarrassing her in front of her company. Landy sat right by Chanel’s side frowning and trying to keep herself from going off on Mrs. Brown in her own home.

  “You need to tell your company to leave and you need to make us some fuckin’ breakfast too. And clean up this damn place! Shit! I work hard every day, and your lazy ass just eats, sleeps, and shits!” Bacardi griped.

  Landy stood up. “I’ll see you later, Chanel,” said Landy coolly with her plate of breakfast in her hands.

  Bacardi quickly vetoed the idea of Landy taking food out of her home. She snatched the plate out of Landy’s hand. “You ain’t pay for shit in this fuckin’ house to take home wit’ you.” Like a barbaric bitch, Bacardi sat down at the table and started to gobble down the meal.

  Landy clenched her fists with a hard stare aimed at Bacardi that expressed, Oh, no this bitch didn’t just snatch shit out my fuckin’ hands.

  Chanel looked at her friend and her eyes pleaded for Landy to chill. She didn’t need any drama and problems right now.

  For Chanel’s sake, Landy excused the incident. “Yo, I’ll see ya around, Chanel.”

  She pivoted and marched toward the door. Once she was gone, Bacardi berated, “You always got that white bitch in t
his fuckin’ apartment. Her fuckin’ wanna-be-black ass. She wanna be a fuckin’ nigga, then I’m gonna start treatin’ her like a fuckin’ nigga!”

  Chanel kept silent. Her mother was in an extra foul mood this morning. Chanel just stood there coyly, not wanting to escalate the situation. She sighed lightly. Bacardi wasn’t done with her yet. Still stuffing her face with eggs and bacon, Bacardi exclaimed, “You need to make some more breakfast and take your sisters a plate too. You know they gonna be hungry when they wake up.”

  Chanel grudgingly did what she was told. She cooked up some more of her specialty eggs and bacon and took the plates of food to her sisters, including God, because Bacardi considered him family too. Afterwards, she cleaned the entire apartment alone. Once again, Chanel felt like a ghetto adaptation of Cinderella—but there was no fairy godmother, and most certainly no Prince Charming.

  After devouring her breakfast, Bacardi lifted herself from the table and marched to her bedroom. She closed her bedroom door, went into her dresser drawer, removed a pack of Newports, lit one up, inhaled and exhaled, and then took a seat at the foot of her bed. From where she sat, she could see her disheveled image in the bedroom mirror. Her glory days of beauty and fitness were becoming a faraway memory for her.

  Bacardi had lived a hard life and she carried a lot of burden and guilt on her shoulders. She sighed profoundly with her eyes still fixed on her dark image—her murky soul gazing right back at her. She thought about Chanel and the animosity she carried toward her youngest. She would never admit to herself or anyone else that she hated Chanel. It wasn’t because Chanel was her darkest child out of the three girls or that Chanel looked like her in her younger years—when Bacardi had the finest shape and beauty like a runway model. She held a profound hatred for Chanel because she knew that Chanel wasn’t Butch’s biological daughter. Bacardi didn’t know who the father was until Chanel had gotten older.

  When Bacardi was a bartender at a Harlem bar, she had an affair with a man named Leroy, a smooth and handsome hustler with the gift of gab. Night after night, Leroy captivated Bacardi with his charm. It didn’t take long before she fell deep for his sweet, big black dick that would thrust deep into her after her shift ended at the bar every night. She became infatuated by him. He made her feel good. He made her feel like a woman, and the sex was amazing. Then she became pregnant—and Chanel came into her world.