A Girl Like Me

Book 0: Ni-Ni Girl Chronicles

by Ni-Ni Simone

Genres: Young Adult

Synopsis

A high school beauty is out to save her troubled family when she meets a hip-hop Prince Charming in this YA urban Cinderella story.
 
She's got a voice like Keisha Cole and attitude to burn. She’s the body-rockin', Bebe-sporting girl everyone in her high school wants to be—or be with. But behind her picture-perfect image, sixteen-year-old Elite has a crack-addicted mother, no father in sight, and is secretly raising her sister and two brothers on her own.
 
Now a radio contest has put her up-close-and-personal with mega-hot singer Haneef and their chemistry is too sizzling for Elite to stop pretending. As the clock ticks down fast for this 'hood Cinderella, she has only one shot to save her family and make all of her dreams come true.

Release date: December 1, 2008

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Track 1

I used to think I was the only one in the world like me and then I realized that there were a zillion mes…this is just my story. And this is how it all started….

I’d prayed for my boyfriend, but after a few years it was time to renegotiate. I wanted a new boo. Scratch that—I needed a new boo…and not any ole kinda boo, but a Hot Boy. Pants saggin’ and timbs draggin’. A Lil Wayne or a Haneef type boo—one who—

“Elite,” my eight-year-old sister, Aniyah, interrupted me as she lifted her head from under the covers. “Can you tell God I want a boo, too? But I want a Patrick from SpongeBob type boo.”

And who said I was talking to this chick?

“Patrick?!” Aniyah’s fraternal twin, Sydney, butted in. She peeked her head out from under the covers and said, “He keeps losin’ his underwear.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be lookin’!” Aniyah snapped, getting offended. “You’re way too grown!”

Sydney moved her hand midway up her face. “You better talk to the hand, ’cause the face don’t understand.”

“Oh, you got me twisted!”

“Alright!” I snapped, and they quickly retreated back under the covers.

I just wanted to put you down on this real quick: late at night, when the sun was setting and the moon was just right, I liked to pretend the ghetto twins didn’t exist. It was a little difficult, though, considering we not only shared a room, but they also slept at the foot of my bed. Which is why I made them go to sleep at least an hour before me, so I could have time to think. Otherwise, when would I have found time to get my famous boo fantasy on? Crazy, right? But not to me. That’s why I had been waiting for ten p.m.—I had an hour to go—to enter the radio contest sing for front row seats and a chance to be onstage with the hottest hip-hop and R & B sensation—Haneef!

Real talk, Haneef was putting Usher, Chris Brown, Bow Wow, and Omarion to sleep. Well…maybe not Chris Brown, ’cause he was kinda fly, but still—you got the point. Li’l Daddy was doin’ it: six feet even, Hershey’s milk chocolate skin, beautiful almond-shaped brown eyes, tight and tumbling muscles that went on into infinity, with a killah swagger like Jay-Z.

Haneef was that even-when-you-saw-it-you-still-didn’t-believe-it type fine, and I was sure, every time he was on the radio, he was singing not only about me, but to me.

My best friend Naja thought I was crazy. Whatever. Cause I never said a word when she was drooling over Flavor Flav.

I looked at the clock—still a half hour to go. I decided to call Naja so we could practice what I was going to sing. As I reached for my boost mobile, it danced in my hand. It was Naja. Oh, did I mention she popped her gums before every sentence? “I’ve been staring at the clock,” she popped, “for five hours, and it’s movin’ slow as hell.”

“Are the batteries dying?”

“I think so, but the number on the left stays the same for like an hour. And I’m like ‘Okay, you wanna move yo’ ass?’” Then she popped her gums again.

I never said she wasn’t an airhead, I just said she was my best friend. Naja and I had been down like four flat since kindergarten.

I didn’t even comment on the clock thing. “First of all, you better fall back from my baby daddy, Haneef,” I snapped. “You claimed Flavor Flav. Don’t get it twisted.”

“Ill, I don’t want him anymore, but I do think Bobby Brown is kinda cute.”

I made hurling motions with my neck. “I’ma throw up.”

“You better take something, ’cause if you throw up on the phone and it flies over here…then we gon’ have a problem.”

Okay, maybe I’d missed something. “Naja, how would it fly over there?”

“Duh,” she said as if I was the dumbest person on earth. “Think about it, Elite,” she snapped.

“Hmmm, I just did and you know what, I don’t even think I wanna know.”

“The clock moved!” Naja yelled, excited. “It’s ten!”

I screamed, “Okay, okay. What I’ma sing?”

“Sing,” Aniyah popped her head from under the cover again, “Whatcha whatcha know bout me…”

I balled up my fist and said, “If you don’t shut your mouth…”

“Puleeze,” Sydney popped her eyes wide and rolled her neck. “She don’t wanna sing that mess. She wanna sing, ‘Let me take you to bed, lead you to places you’ve never been.’”

“What in the—let me find out that you been singing that mess and see what happens to you,” I threatened. “Now don’t let me see you pop up from the covers again.”

“I’m tired of being treated like a slave,” Sydney sighed.

“Be quiet!” I yelled.

“Come on,” Naja snapped. “We have to hurry up. We should sing a Whitney Houston throwback. Hit all the high notes.”

“Yeah, and get hung up on.”

“I can sing,” Naja said certain of herself. “I put Rihanna to sleep.”

“Wow, that’s a hard thing to do,” I said sarcastically. “Look, we don’t have time to argue. I’ll sing, you just hum…softly.”

We called the station at least a hundred times before we were able to get through.

“Hot 102,” the DJ said. “You’re on live! Who is this?”

“Ahhhhhh!!!!!!!!” Naja screamed in everybody’s ear.

I swore that if we got hung up on, I was taking her drawstring weave and slinging her ass! “Would you shut up?!”

“Ladies,” the DJ said, getting our attention. “This is Hot 102, and you’re live on the air…”

“Hey,” I said. “My name is Elite, and I’m from—”

“Brick City, in the house!” Naja cut me off. “I’m Naja, and I wanna give a shout out,” I heard her ruffling paper in the background, “to my mother at work right now, my god brother on lockdown, and to all the homies who ain’t here—”

“Naja—”

“Wait,” she carried on, “and to Al-Terik, you know I’m through with you. Cause I saw you and big butt Belinda in the corner of the cafeteria—”

“Naja!”

“Dang girl, why you so rude? You know we got company on the phone.”

“We’re supposed to be singing!”

“Okay, and what’s the problem? Sing.”

“Thank you,” I said, trying my best not to sound as aggravated as I felt. “Sorry about that…uhm…I wrote a song that I would like to sing—”

“Elite, they don’t wanna hear no poetry.”

I ignored her. “Okay, here goes. Do you want me to sing now?”

No answer.

I looked at the phone to make sure it was still on, and it was. “Hello?” My heart dropped in my chest.

No answer.

“Did they hang up?” Naja gasped.

“I think so.” I couldn’t believe this. “Hello?”

“Girl, they’re gone. Dang, why would they do that?”

I didn’t even answer. I simply hung up on her, turned on my side, and placed the covers over my head. I’m not surprised it didn’t work out. Besides, my mother was a crackhead, and I knew the furthest I was probably going to get in life was from one side of my tight ass bed to the other. Tears slid down my cheeks as I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.

Track 2

“Good morning. Welcome to Hot 102,” the alarm clock radio echoed throughout my room, a signal that I needed to get up and get ready for school. I turned over on my back and stared at the ceiling, where my taped poster of Haneef flapped in the top left corner and sagged in the middle.

“We’re here today,” the radio continued, “with hip-hop sensation Haneef.”

“Wassup?! Everybody!” Haneef said and my heart palpitated.

“So,” the DJ spat, filled with excitement, “today is the last day to win tickets to the Haneef concert! So, if you can sing, give me a ring!”

God must have been trying to tell me something. I reached for the house phone and dialed the radio station—they answered on the first ring.

“Hot 102. Who do we have on the line?”

“Elite!”

“Say hello to Haneef.”

“I can’t,” I said in a pant. “I’m speechless.” I heard Haneef laugh…and oh, he had a beautiful laugh.

“Alright,” the DJ continued. “So you’re calling for the contest?”

“Yes.”

“Can you sing?”

“What?! Boy, don’t play with me,” I said seriously. “Can I sing? I sing all the time. Listen…” and I burst into the best soprano version of “Haaaaa…llelujah! Haaaaa…llelujah! Hallelujah, Hallelujah…Ha-lay-lu-yaaaaaa!”

“Oh…kay…” the DJ said. “I hope that’s not what you’re going to sing for us.”

“Oh, no. My song is ‘When You Touch Me.’ It’s a dedication to Haneef.”

I closed my eyes, opened my mouth, and Heaven sprang from my throat. I was naturally an alto with a sultry voice like Keyshia Cole, but I had a range like Mariah Carey, so there was no mistake that I was straight killin’ this contest! “I’m missing you baby…”

“Lee-Lee!”

Hmph. I kept singing, but I swore I heard my mother calling me by my nickname. I glanced at the clock but knew it wasn’t her, because at that time of the morning she was sleeping off her high from the night before.

“Miss when you touch me…” I continued to sing.

“Lee-Lee!”

My eyes popped wide open. That was my mother.

“Elite Juliana Parker, get yo’ fresh ass off this phone, talkin’ crazy?!”

“Ma, get off the phone! I’m doing this to win tickets for Haneef!”

“Haneef?! Who the hell is Haneef, some li’l hoodlum ass drug dealer? All you can do for Haneef right now is get his chin checked. You up here singing like you hot in the ass about somebody touching you! Keep on singing, and it’s gon’ be me reaching out to touch that ass! If anything, you need to ask Haneef if he got two dollars I can borrow. If not, then get yo’ ass off my line!”

Something told me…I had just died. I hung up the phone, laid back on my bed, and watched my Haneef poster fall straight on my head.

A half hour into gettin’ my misery on, I rose from the floor, showered, and dressed in a pair of fitted Juicy jeans, a V-neck tee, colorful bangles, and matching earrings.

When I walked in the living room, I saw that either my mother had found two dollars to borrow or she’d stolen something to supplement it, because she wasn’t around anymore. Cassie Parker was one hot blazed-up mess.

She raised us from behind the bathroom door most of our lives because that was where she hid to get high, as if we really didn’t know what was going on. And when she got with her new zootedup boyfriend, Gary, they took crack love to the streets. Most of the time she was either in somebody’s hallway, a street corner, or an abandoned building.

I’d never had the type of home where my friends came over and kicked it in my room. As a matter of fact, the only ones who knew the real life I lived were Naja and Jahaad (my boyfriend). Everybody else knew nothing. And I wanted to keep it that way. The last thing I needed was a buncha chicks or the state in my business. I had adjusted to being the “real” mother around this place, and it was cool.

I loved my sisters and brothers, and whatever it took to keep my family together was what I was going to do.

And about my father: the shit was so typical. He just wasn’t around.

Needless to say, I was nothing special. So…it was what it was, and other than having been played (twice) like too sweet Kool-Aid for Haneef tickets, I didn’t complain. What was the use? I’d never known shit to change because I complained. Which was why I kept it movin’ around my house.

I walked over to the pull-out couch, where my brother Ny’eem was asleep, and said, “Get yo’ ass up!”

He sucked his teeth and ruffled the sheets, but did I look fazed? Puleeze!

“And don’t think,” I carried on, “that I don’t know what time you came in here last night. Play with me if you want to, and you’ll be down at the men’s shelter or juvie somewhere.”

“Shut up!” he snapped and stretched. “You always tryna be somebody’s mother.”

“I’m the best mother you got.”

“What?” He stood from the couch and looked down in my face. He was only fifteen, but he towered over me by at least three inches. “Girl, I’m grown.”

Grown? Was this suckah tryna buck? Okay, I saw where this is going. I stood up on a rusted metal chair that had somehow ended up as part of our décor and struck a karate pose, lifting my leg high enough so that if I had wanted to, I could have taken it to his chest.

And he cracked up laughing. He laughed so hard that tears fell from his eyes. “You think I’m funny? Do I look like I’m laughing to you?”

“No, you look like you lost your mind.” And he left me standing there.

“You just get ready for school!” I yelled behind him. “And let me even hear a whisper that you’ve been skipping class again and see what I really do to you.”

Just as I stepped down from the chair, my five-year-old brother, Mica, rushed out of the bathroom with a sheet wrapped around his neck, like he and Superman were boys. “What the hell? Boy, where are your school clothes?”

“I’m not wearing that shit!”

“Hol’ up…hol’ up…don’t you cuss again!” I balled up my fist. Mica was the one I really had to bring it to, ’cause he thought he was tough, but if I looked at him hard and long enough, he’d burst into tears. “Go put on those clothes. As much money as I paid that booster! I work at the mall part-time—”

“Mommy gets a welfare check.”

“And Mommy gettin’ high, too,” Ny’eem snapped as he gathered his clothes for the day.

“Shut up!” I said to Ny’eem. “Now,” I turned my attention back to Mica, “why don’t you want to wear what I laid out for you?”

“Because I want my pants to droop down like Ny’eem’s. You got a belt laid out for me, some hard-bottom shoes, and a turtleneck. I may as well be going to church.”

“I didn’t lay out a turtleneck for you. It’s a Phat Farm shirt. Know what, I don’t have to argue with you.” I stared him down and just like I predicted, he was in tears.

“Everybody treats me like a baby around here!” And he stormed back into the bathroom.

Whatever. I didn’t have time to listen to that, so I returned to my room, where the twins had to be watched closely when they put on their gear. Otherwise, they’d be happy to walk out of the house draped in my bebe, Baby Phat, or any other designer dig I had either worked or gotten a hook up for.

And yes, they looked a hot mess, considering I was five foot five and a size ten, and they were just eight years old. So, I stood guard while they slipped on their jeans, cute li’l Bobby Jack shirts, and some pink and white kicks.

Their hair was shoulder-length and easy to maintain because for ten dollars, every other week the girl across the hall put it in cornrows and beads. An hour after me acting like Jerome the flashlight cop, everybody was ready to roll.

We took one bus but got off at different stops for our respective schools. The twins, Mica, and Nyeem got off at the first stop and mine was last.

As soon as the city bus doors opened and I stepped foot in front of the school, I knew right away that everyone had heard me get played on the radio. Especially since they all looked at me and either smiled too wide or laughed in my face.

But it was all good, ’cause I was too ready to read these ghetto birds like they stole somethin’. Besides, just be. . .