Give Some Take More: Is Blood Thicker Than Water

Give Some

          Take More

Is Blood Thicker Than Water

A Novel By Scherell Simonet

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© Copyright 2009, 2011 Scherell Simonet.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Cover Design: Linkzmedia/Bacchus Photography/Editor Brian Fontenot

This book is a work of fiction. It is not meant to depict, portray or represent any particular real persons. Names, characters, places and incidents are dialogues, products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Printed in the United States of America.

isbn: 978-1-4269-6457-2 (sc)

isbn: 978-1-4269-6481-7 (e)

Trafford rev. 04/14/2011

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North America & international

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Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chenoa Chapter One

Deloris Chapter Two

Chenoa Chapter Three

Deloris Chapter Four

Chenoa Chapter Five

Deloris Chapter Six

Chenoa Chapter Seven

Deloris Chapter Eight

Chenoa Chapter Nine

Deloris Chapter Ten

Chenoa Chapter Eleven

Deloris Chapter Twelve

Chenoa Chapter Thirteen

Deloris Chapter Fourteen

Chenoa Chapter Fifteen

Deloris Chapter Sixteen

Chenoa Chapter Seventeen

Deloris Chapter Eighteen

Chenoa Chapter Nineteen

Deloris Chapter Twenty

Chenoa Chapter Twenty One

Deloris Chapter Twenty Two

Chenoa Chapter Twenty Three

Deloris Chapter Twenty Four

Chenoa Chapter Twenty Five

Deloris Chapter Twenty Six

Deloris Chapter Twenty Seven

Chenoa Chapter Twenty Eight

Epilogue

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my biggest fans, Fred, Patrell and Kiana. Thank you for being the best husband and daughters any wife and mother could ever ask for. Without your love, patience and support, this book would not have been possible.

To my mother, Mandlyn Williams, thank you for having me. You are a fine example of a role model for young single mothers who strive to instill courage, strong values and determination in their children who must fight to succeed when all the odds are against them.

Also, to nine strong and courageous women:

Kioka R. Broussard, Brittany Hebert, Keisha Celestand, Summer Walker

Lindsey Hernandez, Erin Rode-Fiorello, Karen Gibbs, Linda Lentz and Debora Tremont

Sometimes we all need words of encouragement to help us along the way. You all are great counselors. Continue touching the hearts of others just as you’ve touched mine. Thank you for being my inspiration.

Acknowledgements

Ladies of Essence Book Club of Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

Thanks so much for welcoming me to Baton Rouge with open arms. Words cannot express how much you all mean to me. You are my sisters.

Charron Thomas, Sanettria Glasper-Pleasant, Kelli K. Dixon,

N. Manuel, Rolanda M. Durham-Gros, Antonya Coleman-Crump, Christa Davis, Deidra M. Douglas, Davetta Nelson, Jean Dorsey Martin, Towanda Taylor, Carondalette Rogers, Siminola Pavageau and Dawn Mellion-Patin

Special Thanks to: Jeanne C. Warren, Kendra Toodle-Register,

Rhonda Brooks, Roshell Jones and my Auntie Gina for being the first eyes to read my work in progress. I know your ears are still tired from listening to my venting on countless occasions. Thanks to The PaperBoyz, Kiandre Gillespie and Mike Charles. Thanks to my cousin, Trevor Foster at Tru Booksand to my cousin, NaDariah Gillespie, the baddest cosmetician on the East Coast. Brian Fontenot, my editor, thanks for all of your support. Last but not least, thanks to models, Breonne Hall and Patrell Mckenzie for allowing me to put your beautiful faces on my cover.

Prologue

I could smell the gun powder and see the smoke circulating through the air after the bullet exited the barrel. I was just seven and I had to use a couple of my fingers when I pulled the trigger on the gun my father kept under the bed in a shoe box I was forbidden to touch. But I felt it was a good time for me to use it.

The sirens from the police cruisers echoed outside of the living room window. The blue and red lights brightly lit up the street. It drowned out the glare from the pole lights that children depended on to remind them of curfew. My mother stood in the middle of the floor holding her head. Her body rapidly shook. The blood dripped from her forehead, through her fingers, and onto the beige linoleum floor. My father decided to give her a beating with his fist after giving her previous warnings against allowing her brother, Charm, to interfere with taking care of his family. My father wasn’t handling his responsibility but didn’t want anyone else doing it for him. My mother was being defiant. She wanted her children to have the best of everything. My father despised it. He slept with other women and took care of their children instead of his own. When he realized my mother wasn’t a needy case, she became his punching bag. I’d had enough. I was sure she was fed up, too.

My younger sister, Chenoa, was four at the time. Her pink pajamas were soiled with red stains from the blood that was also splattered on the walls. She sat in the corner of the room with her hands covering her face. She peeked through them with terror at my father’s limp body lying on the floor next to her. The blood drained from his forehead like my mother’s but his came from a bullet wound.

I heard loud voices coming from the outside hallway of our building. The police were coming to get me. I was startled by the pounding at the steel door. I threw the gun down. My mom hesitated but managed to open the door. It was my uncle Charm and his friend. They must have come in through the back entrance of the building. They hurried inside of our house. They didn’t bother asking what happened. They saw my father’s body lying dead on the floor. My uncle’s friend scooped up Chenoa. Uncle charm lifted me up next. I felt safe. They carried us out of the house. My mother trailed behind them. When we exited the front entrance of the building, all of the sirens were off but the lights were blinding. With guns pointed, the police yelled, Come out slowly with your hands up!

Chenoa

Chapter One

Baller’s Territory

Mr. Smith, my English teacher, looked like he probably worked out maybe twice a day, which I found quite impressive for a man his age. He was balding, short, and stocky. It seemed he always made sure to smell nice just in case a desperate student decided to make an appointment to get up close and personal or do whatever was necessary to tease his suppressed male ego to get his attention. I’m not a cologne connoisseur, but I think he was wearing the same Old Spice Cologne my grandfather used to wear. I always liked the smell, especially when my grandfather used to wear it the few times he visited my sister, Deloris, and me.

After weeks of falling behind in my English class, I decided to check my grade. I had a D, which was still a passing grade. I needed at least a B in order to get into the university I wanted to attend instead of going to the community college in my town. I wanted to be introduced to new experiences, meet new people, and live a different life. Being the first in my family to attend a four-year university and graduate with honors was important to me. But judging by the direction I was heading, I wondered if I was going to make it out of high school.

Mr. Smith knew I was in trouble inside and outside of his class. He knew I had Demetri, my son, who was two. I hadn’t received any help from his father, Lance. I completely trusted that man with my heart. The last time I saw him was when I told him I was pregnant.

Once the class cleared, Mr. Smith motioned for me to come over to his desk. Before coming over, I decided to leave my book bag on my chair. My books were already packed away for the day, so I figured I would grab it on the way out. He wanted to speak with me about earning some extra credit. I visited the writing center in the past faithfully but had issues with finding a dedicated tutor to help me. Mr. Smith said my writing skills were weak, but when they read my papers, it seemed they had difficulty with finding the problem. I wasn’t sure if their time was being wasted or mine. It seemed the tutors didn’t want to speak against Mr. Smith. He might have helped them get their jobs.

At the center, I believe the tutors were dishonest. They made deals under the table for their own benefit. The free one-hour sessions became costly because the tutors only offered limited assistance. Once they found out the severity of the writing problems students were having, they began determining the amount to charge per minute, after exhausting the free one-hour service. The school was already paying the tutors by the hour, but they wanted more money. For some strange reason, I needed more than an hour. I knew my pockets couldn’t handle their fees. I began realizing then to be on the lookout when I saw the word, free. Every time I saw it, there was some scam involved.

Mr. Smith’s eyes scanned my body from head to toe, as I sat in the desk next to his. This was actually a good dress day for me. Because I was feeling so bummed out about my English grade, I decided to dress up so I could look good on the outside, even though I was disappointed and felt like I was letting myself down. I thought it might cheer me up. So, I wasn’t wearing the usual faded jeans with whatever top found my finger tips first. I wore a cute black mini dress I found on sale at Macy’s Department Store. The dress wasn’t anything special, but for me it was definitely a change. My shoes weren’t a name brand, just a pair of black Payless leather pumps, so I hoped no one noticed I only paid ten dollars for them. I liked the shoes mostly because of the straps. They crossed in the front then circulated around my ankles to help support them. They reminded me of a pair of sandals worn by one of the female mistresses on a gladiator series I watched.

I felt good about my sudden change in appearance until third hour. By then, I became annoyed with my hair and decided to pull it back into its usual ponytail. Due to the lack of attention paid to it, my hair grew a few inches over the years. My hair didn’t have any natural body. I tried wearing it out, but whenever I held my head down to write, it flopped in the way. In the mornings I didn’t have much time to work with it anyway. Along with dressing Demetri, doing my hair became a struggle, so I didn’t see why black people made such a fuss about having long hair.

I sat in Mr. Smith’s hot seat, waiting for him to say something. He just stared at me.

Chenoa, you look absolutely gorgeous today, he said with a slight stutter.

Nervous from Mr. Smith’s compliment, my palms and underarms started to sweat.

Thank you, I replied, sensing he was getting ready to say some inappropriate things, because of the way his tongue kept licking his upper lip.

A beautiful girl like yourself is quite the distraction for me. Because of you, I frequently lose my concentration and have to find my place in my lesson plan.

He smiled and patted my knee, making me tense up and shift my body to one side. I crossed my legs then looked at the picture of his wife on his desk. After that, I just wanted to get out of there. I figured I was wasting my time with him when I should have been concerned about the time, because missing my bus was not an option. Catching the school bus was the only way home for Demetri and me. I wanted to interrupt Mr. Smith, while he was still rambling, but I waited patiently until he passed the complimentary stage of his conversation.

As he continued, he asked me a question that had nothing to do with English. He wanted to know how I spent my spare time. I told him I enjoyed going to the movies. I knew I’d told a lie, because I did not have any time to spare. And he was aware I was a single mother, so most of my time was devoted to my son. He then asked for my phone number. Not once did he offer any help or show any concern as to why I was averaging a D in his class. I wondered if he was willing to help me with my work or if he expected me to grant some type of sexual favor to earn the grade I needed. Why did he want my phone number and what difference did my extracurricular activities or hobbies make? I felt nervous not knowing what to expect. And, because his rambling worsened, I was left with no other choice but to push our meeting along.

To avoid missing my bus, I wrote down my cell phone number and handed it to him after recording his number in my phone. My dress didn’t have any pockets, so I placed my cell phone on his desk. I didn’t feel comfortable with walking back to my desk to place my phone in my bag. Besides, I had a bus to catch. My goal was to continue walking out of his classroom.

My purpose for giving Mr. Smith my number was simply to stop him from talking. He didn’t offer any advice on how I could improve my grade. I wasn’t sure what he had up his sleeve, but I hoped this unexpected get-together had nothing to do with sex if he decided to call. I couldn’t figure out how I would make myself available to him anyway. I didn’t have anyone to watch Demetri, especially at the drop of a hat. Any me time was totally out of the question, unless Deloris had some spur of the moment event she wanted to take Demetri to. But with my bad luck, I wasn’t expecting a break anytime soon.

I tried not thinking about Mr. Smith’s comments, but couldn’t ignore his unwanted voice in my head and the disgusting thought of even forcing myself to see him any other way other than as my English teacher. When I looked back while walking out of his class, his eyes were locked on my ass.

When I finally got to Demetri, the late bell already rung, so I knew the school daycare was closing. The other children had already left with their mothers. Demetri’s teacher, Ms. Johnson, rolled her eyes the minute I walked through her classroom door. She looked tired. She stood over Demetri as he sat on the special rug she normally allowed the children to sit on only during story time. She was eight months pregnant but her pregnancy wasn’t very noticeable since she was normally so heavy set. I assumed she must have been on her feet all day, chasing after toddlers, because her feet were bare and swollen. Demetri took to her well. I was a bit concerned because her replacement while on maternity leave was scheduled to take over in a week. Usually, Ms. Johnson would give a report on Demetri’s progress for the day, but I only remember hearing the sound of her teeth sucking to let me know she was not happy. When Demetri looked up and saw me, he stood up, ran to the toy box, and threw the red toy