SEPTEMBER 7
4:28 P.M.
Â
U nderneath a partly cloudy sky, Dakota had mixed in with a crowd of the students walking home from school. Aside from a few guys trying to holla at her for her digits, she hadnât made any new friends yet.
High school girls seemed to be even bigger haters than the little witches in her middle school class. It was ridiculous. The new school year was seven days old and not one single girl had spoken a few words to herâwell, with the exception of a super weaved-up chick wearing false eyelashes who had the nerve to ask Dakota what was she doing off the Indian reservation. Dakota let the insult slide off her back and kept it moving.
These derogatory remarks didnât faze her. The girl had been dealing with racial ignorance since second grade, when some little white boy stared her in the eyes and called her Pocahontas. Years of cruel remarks had desensitized Dakota and given her the tough skin she would need to deal with racially insensitive fools.
As she continued her stride down the street, Dakota couldnât help but notice how name-brand crazy a lot of her fellow students were. The backs of the students at Coleman were used to advertise big-name designers. She had heard one chick in her algebra class mention that it was either brand name or she would have to drop out. The statement had floored Dakota. She didnât think it was that serious. Nothing but jeans, a cute top, and some white no-name sneakers completed Dakotaâs look. The girl had more serious issues to contend with than the latest fashion craze, like her mother falling into one of her bad moods. As she walked her taste buds reminded her of the Snickers bar sheâd promised herself while taking notes in class. There was a small candy store five minutes from her crib. To shave a few minutes off the trip, Dakota broke away from the other students and turned down a side street. A quick left placed her on a street where the majority of the homes were abandoned with overgrown yards.
Dakota had to admit to herself, besides the slight dustup with that girl gang SNLGs, high school didnât seem like it was too bad. Not as rough as the students in her middle school classes had made it out to be. The rumors about the violence at Coleman had been legendary and horrifying amongst her eighth-grade classmates.
Dakota was walking past what remained of a stripped, burned-out minivan parked along the curb and sitting on blocks, thinking that Coleman High was nothing like the rumors. Of course it had only been a week since the start of the school year. But there hadnât been one fight on campus. Not one confrontation. Those SNLG girls were probably showing off that day when theyâd stepped to her in the lunchroom and were popping off.
That boy Xavier sure had those SNLâwhateverâgangsta girls shook , Dakota thought, with a smile on her face. The brother was absolutely fine too. Looking like a dark-skinned version of LL Cool J. And she just loved how he stepped in and took charge. Dude was massive, possessed mad swagger, and flexed with a look that said he didnât play. She couldnât help it. Smitten at first glance. He was like a superhero to her . . . yeah, that was it, a real-life fairy tale. Prince Charming rescuing the damsel in distress. The way Xavier had stepped in front of the little girl gang to rescue her had been something out of a fairy tale. For the first time in a long time, Dakota had felt like someone actually cared about her.
Xavier had waved and winked at her today in the lunchroom. Dakota smiled so hard that you wouldâve thought that she had been on the receiving end of a Barack Obama handshake. Dakota didnât want to approach his table because some girl was draped all over him like oversized clothing on a skinny, sagging hoodlum.
If she wasnât mistaken, London Curry was the name of the girl who was hogging all of Xavierâs time. Dakota just wanted to share a
4:28 P.M.
Â
U nderneath a partly cloudy sky, Dakota had mixed in with a crowd of the students walking home from school. Aside from a few guys trying to holla at her for her digits, she hadnât made any new friends yet.
High school girls seemed to be even bigger haters than the little witches in her middle school class. It was ridiculous. The new school year was seven days old and not one single girl had spoken a few words to herâwell, with the exception of a super weaved-up chick wearing false eyelashes who had the nerve to ask Dakota what was she doing off the Indian reservation. Dakota let the insult slide off her back and kept it moving.
These derogatory remarks didnât faze her. The girl had been dealing with racial ignorance since second grade, when some little white boy stared her in the eyes and called her Pocahontas. Years of cruel remarks had desensitized Dakota and given her the tough skin she would need to deal with racially insensitive fools.
As she continued her stride down the street, Dakota couldnât help but notice how name-brand crazy a lot of her fellow students were. The backs of the students at Coleman were used to advertise big-name designers. She had heard one chick in her algebra class mention that it was either brand name or she would have to drop out. The statement had floored Dakota. She didnât think it was that serious. Nothing but jeans, a cute top, and some white no-name sneakers completed Dakotaâs look. The girl had more serious issues to contend with than the latest fashion craze, like her mother falling into one of her bad moods. As she walked her taste buds reminded her of the Snickers bar sheâd promised herself while taking notes in class. There was a small candy store five minutes from her crib. To shave a few minutes off the trip, Dakota broke away from the other students and turned down a side street. A quick left placed her on a street where the majority of the homes were abandoned with overgrown yards.
Dakota had to admit to herself, besides the slight dustup with that girl gang SNLGs, high school didnât seem like it was too bad. Not as rough as the students in her middle school classes had made it out to be. The rumors about the violence at Coleman had been legendary and horrifying amongst her eighth-grade classmates.
Dakota was walking past what remained of a stripped, burned-out minivan parked along the curb and sitting on blocks, thinking that Coleman High was nothing like the rumors. Of course it had only been a week since the start of the school year. But there hadnât been one fight on campus. Not one confrontation. Those SNLG girls were probably showing off that day when theyâd stepped to her in the lunchroom and were popping off.
That boy Xavier sure had those SNLâwhateverâgangsta girls shook , Dakota thought, with a smile on her face. The brother was absolutely fine too. Looking like a dark-skinned version of LL Cool J. And she just loved how he stepped in and took charge. Dude was massive, possessed mad swagger, and flexed with a look that said he didnât play. She couldnât help it. Smitten at first glance. He was like a superhero to her . . . yeah, that was it, a real-life fairy tale. Prince Charming rescuing the damsel in distress. The way Xavier had stepped in front of the little girl gang to rescue her had been something out of a fairy tale. For the first time in a long time, Dakota had felt like someone actually cared about her.
Xavier had waved and winked at her today in the lunchroom. Dakota smiled so hard that you wouldâve thought that she had been on the receiving end of a Barack Obama handshake. Dakota didnât want to approach his table because some girl was draped all over him like oversized clothing on a skinny, sagging hoodlum.
If she wasnât mistaken, London Curry was the name of the girl who was hogging all of Xavierâs time. Dakota just wanted to share a
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