Read Online The Girl of His Dreams by Amir Abrams - Free Book Online Page A

had a say in where we moved.”
    She reached for my hand, but I pulled away. “Listen, sweetheart. I know you miss Brooklyn. I miss it, too. It was our home. And I know we’ve left behind a lot of memories by moving out here to Jersey. But one day I hope you’ll understand that this was the best thing for us.”
    â€œI will never understand so don’t hold your breath waiting on a miracle. What you did was selfish.”
    She huffed. “ Selfish? Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. I’ve done nothing but put you and your father’s needs before my own. Now it’s time I start looking out for my own. Starting with this move.”
    â€œOh, please. It’s always been about you. Anytime you’ve left Daddy or put him out, it was about you . And if it wasn’t about you, then you sure picked a fine time to wanna start thinking about you now. What about me, huh? How and when did you ever put me before your needs? Please refresh my memory on that ’cause I musta missed it. The only thing you’ve ever cared about is keeping track of a man who spent more time in the streets than he did at home with his family.”
    She yanked me by the arm. “I’m warning you, Miesha. Don’t you dare talk about your father like that, or use that tone with me .”
    â€œWell, it’s the truth!” I shouted. “And all you wanna do is act like it’s not. So then why’d you—no excuse me, we —leave him, this time?”
    She narrowed her eyes at me. “ I’m the parent here. Not you. What your father and I go through is not your concern.”
    I let out a sarcastic laugh. “Oh really? And you still haven’t answered the question. Well, newsflash, mommy dear”—she hates when I call her that—“it is my concern! You made it my business and my concern when you dragged me into it!”
    â€œOh, Miesha, stop. Now you’re being melodramatic. I did—”
    I cut her off. “I am not being dramatic. I’m being real.”
    â€œI said you were being melo dramatic. . . .”
    I huff. “Same difference. The point is—”
    â€œYou keep cutting me off. And yelling at me. Now if you’d just shut your mouth and stop trying to talk over me maybe you’d . . .”
    I threw my hands up over my ears. “I’m not hearing you!” Her lips were still moving, but I kept yelling over and over, “I’m not hearing you! I’m not hearing you . . . !” Finally she got the hint and walked outta my room.
    Then this morning while I was getting ready for school, Mariah’s mom came in my room tryna check me for coming at my mother sideways the night before. “Miesha,” she started, leaning up against the frame of my door as I stood at the mirror and combed out my wrap. “I heard you yelling at your mother last night.”
    I glanced over at her and gave her an Okay, and? look, then went back to staring at my reflection in the mirror. I have my mother’s doe-shaped eyes framed by long, thick lashes and her narrow nose and pouty lips. But I have my father’s forehead, his caramel complexion and his bright smile. As much as I don’t like her and can’t stand him—okay, okay, I’m lying...I love him. But, whatever! I am both of them—neatly wrapped into one big ball of mess.
    â€œI know this move is hard for you,” she continued as she eyed me. “But no matter how you feel about being here, that doesn’t give you the right to be disrespectful to your mother.”
    I frowned. I hated when adults—who didn’t know jack about what I was going through or had been through—felt it was their right to tell me what I had to do. Sorry, boo-boo . . . respect isn’t given! You either earn it or you take it. My mother has done neither. I remember asking my father two years ago—after she caught him in another motel