Coldhearted & Crazy

Book 0: Say U Promise

by Ms. Michel Moore

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

When their parents are discovered brutally murdered in a ditch, Kenya and London are left orphaned and forced to navigate the unforgiving streets of Detroit. They might be identical twins, but they are as different as night and day. While one of them fights relentlessly to make it out of the ghetto, the other eagerly embraces true hood life and everything their parents believed in - selling drugs, living fast, and even dying young (if it means getting paid!). Kenya is coldhearted and crazy, just like her Pops. Nothing is off-limits, and no one else matters - not even her sister, if she gets in her way. Blood may be thicker than water, but in one sister's eyes, cash is king - her only true family, and most definitely the head of her conniving household!

Release date: June 24, 2014

Publisher: Urban Audiobooks

Print pages: 288

Sample

Buzzzzzzzzzzz . . . It was a typical morning in the small family household located in the middle of the crime-infested Detroit neighborhood. The digital alarm clock was making what seemed like an intolerable sound, yet there was still no movement from either one of the “different as night and day” teenage twins. The alarm going off on the clock at 6:45 a.m. every school day was a normal occurrence, just as normal as the girls trying to ignore the sound and their grandmother’s sometimes annoying voice.

“Get up!” Gran, cane in hand, yelled with a Southern drawl even though she’d been living up North in the city for decades. “Both of you gals get up before you’re late!” Every morning was the same routine. She thought, Lord have mercy, don’t let these girls end up like their mother Melinda because if they do, I don’t know what in the world I will do!

Gran had two children of her own. Melinda was her youngest, her baby. Everyone knew she’d tried her very best with both of her loving children, but to no avail; the black-hearted streets had other plans for them. Both had died young living the life she wanted so desperately for them to leave alone. Her son, just barely eighteen, had overdosed on drugs, heroin to be exact; and Melinda, who always thought she was too smart for her own good, was found shot to death in the projects in a ditch with her husband, leaving the girls, her only children, orphans.

Hattie Jean Lewis was a devout Christian woman, who stood tall in her faith and love for the Lord. She used to stay up countless nights and shed many a tear, worrying about her little girl. Damn, why did she have to meet that low-down, good-for-nothing Johnnie Roberts? Gran frowned up her face questioning why things had gone so wrong. Sorry, Lord. She quickly repeated over and over, Let thy will be done. If you thought it was best to call them home, I know you know best and only you can help me with these girls, especially Kenya.

Gran started loudly singing church hymns; that always got the entire household up and going. Not because the twins love hearing them, but the complete opposite. Whenever it came to going to church one of the sisters, Kenya of course, always bucked at the idea. She was considered the wild child of the two and everyone who would encounter the girls could easily tell the difference. Gran didn’t care how much Kenya rebelled. God was the head of her household and Kenya, London, and anyone else who stepped foot inside her home was going to follow suit. Gran would drag Kenya to services week after week praying she would soften her heart. From experience, the old woman knew good and well that everyone would need and call upon the Lord one day, Kenya included.

With a “mad at the world” attitude, Amoya Kenya Roberts was the first one of the girls to jump out the bed. The second verse of her grandmother’s song was unbearable to the young teen.

“Morning, baby.” Gran tried to kiss her on her forehead, but Ms. Kenya, waving her hand backward, was having none of that. Since the twins’ first names were so close, everyone called them by their middle names. Kenya was what you would call the most outgoing one of the two. She often joked and kept a smile on her face; that was, as long as she was having her own way, which she often demanded. Having a thirst for being the center of attention, she was most certainly the life of the party. However, just as easy as the jokes, smiles, and laughter could begin, they could be brought to a screeching halt. Kenya possessed a short-fuse firecracker temper that was unbelievable. The teen with a beautiful face, loved by some and hated by others, could and would snap just like that at a drop of a hat. Kenya was truly her father’s daughter in every way you could imagine, from personality and demeanor to his hustle by any means to get paid pedigree. And for that reason, among many more, her immediate family worried about her and what unseen tragedies that mentality could ultimately bring to her.

Amia London Roberts was the latter of the girls to get up and start her day. “Hey, Gran.” She smiled as she reached out to her granny. Knowing another day wasn’t promised to anyone, she hugged and kissed her every chance that she got.

“Mornin’, baby. I love you.”

“I love you too, Gran.” London beamed with joy as her sister came out the bathroom, interrupting their embrace.

“Dang, why y’all two gotta be so mushy all the time? It’s too early in the morning!” Kenya asked while turning her lip up, “And, London, why don’t you stop being such a butt kisser? I mean dang!”

London paid her sister no mind. She loved her grandmother. They would discus all sorts of important subjects. Prejudice and racism in America and civil rights struggles that had taken place in Alabama and throughout the South. They shared conversations about Dr. King, Malcolm X, and even the Black Panthers organization. Not only did London like to hear about the struggle of her people, she promised Gran one day to be part of the solution. The honor-roll teen loved to read books and would spend countless hours at the library. She would study every chance she got, even at night when the troubled neighborhood she lived in was quiet and still or her sister was chattering away on the phone.

While London spent her nights studying, Kenya would stay posted on the phone. She could often hold a conversation for what seemed like hours on end talking about absolutely nothing of any value. Meeting different boys at the mall and exchanging phone numbers, she’d tell them all kind of things a normal fourteen-year-old had no business knowing about life in general, let alone repeating. Everywhere she’d go, the boys, some her own age and some much older, flocked around Kenya like bees to honey, but London didn’t care one bit. Her only focus was obtaining and maintaining good grades and a high GPA. Their Gran had taught London that knowledge was true power, and with a good education, she could easily write her own ticket in life.

London always daydreamed, wondering if her mother had stayed in school and hit the books as much as she heard that she’d hit the streets getting into mischief with her dad, would she still be alive today. Nevertheless, bottom line, Kenya, not giving a damn about jack shit, was hell-bent on living her young life recklessly and London, determined to make something of hers, studied, wanting to be labeled something other than a hood rat.

Both London and Kenya got dressed for school. They were only fourteen, but each had already developed their own style of dress. Kenya picked out a pair of light blue jeans that were neatly pressed and had a jacket and baby T-shirt to match. She grabbed her new designer bag and belt, throwing them on the bed. After finally pouring herself into her pants, she turned around in the mirror and smiled as she thought, Both tight and right.

“Humph, should I were my K-Swiss or my new Air Force 1s?” she then questioned out loud, still checking out her own ass.

“I think you should wear the K-Swiss,” London whispered under her breath.

“Did you say something over there Miss Power to the People?” Kenya had a smirk across her face, turning to face London. Kenya loved her sister, true enough, but she knew the girl had no taste whatsoever. “K-Swiss you said, then I know it’s the Forces today.” They both shared a laugh as London playfully threw her pillow across the room at her twin.

London pulled out a pair of black slacks and a plain black polo shirt. She wasn’t into all of those high-priced designer clothes that her sister liked. Why walk around with someone else’s name plastered across your chest and behind? Why be a free walking billboard on display? Free promotion and advertisement for the white man, I don’t think so. No way, not the kid, she thought as she watched Kenya get dressed.

They both had long sandy-brown hair that stretched past their shoulders. Kenya always let hers hang and flow wildly, while London favored hers pulled back off the face in a ponytail. Their features were identical. If not for their clothes and obvious different characteristics, many of their own distant family members and friends couldn’t tell the twins apart. With two different agendas for the day, they were out the door on their way to school—separately.

“I hope none of these fake thirsty snakes try to start no bullshit with me today. I’m definitely not in the fucking mood for their messy asses!” Just as Kenya turned the end of the long block she spotted Carmen. She was her girl, for real, for real; her best friend. If ever there was a female who had your back no matter what happened or jumped off, it would be her. Kenya had been in serious physical altercations with groups of jealous girls several times over, and Carmen was always there standing right beside Kenya, if not in front of her, showing their opponents what was really good with them both.

Carmen smirked, tugging down on her skirt. “What up, twin? What’s happening?” Carmen always smiled when she said that shit because she knew that it irked Kenya. Her friend always wanted to be known for her own identity. As far as Kenya was concerned London was London and she was herself, twin or not.

“Very funny. Ha-ha, motherfucker, very funny. I been told your ass about that twin shit! I didn’t know I had my own personal comedian to walk to school with!” Kenya snapped.

“Damn, girl, is that a new hookup you rocking? That shit is seriously hot to death. I know that ain’t no regular off-the-rack shit, is it? You’ve been straight holding out on this one!”

Kenya was cheesin’ from ear to ear, taking in every last one of the compliments Carmen was dishing out. Kenya knew there wasn’t a girl from miles around who could fade her style or unique way of rocking her gear. Everywhere she went, people would be on her envious of her wardrobe.

The girls’ uncle was always showering them with money, jewelry, and, most importantly of all to a stuck-up Kenya, clothes. The majority of their gear he would get from New York or Cali. Sometimes he’d even have his weave shop owner girlfriend pick out and send garments back from overseas when she’d travel. After his older brother, Johnnie, and his sister-in-law got murdered back in the day, he always tried to look out for his little nieces the best he could. Even when he’d get locked up, which was quite often considering the ruthless lifestyle he lived, he made sure he had his woman continue to hold the twins down. Gran, knowing it was blood money he was spending, didn’t like all the expensive gifts he gave the girls, but what could she do? He was their family also: blood. Matter of fact, he was the only one out of the Roberts family who even tried to maintain a relationship with both London and Kenya after their mom died. She knew he truly loved his nieces and would die for them if need be and Gran respected that fact.

Finally, after letting Carmen go on and on with her praise, Kenya, extremely loyal to her friends, told her she would gladly let her have some of the pieces that she didn’t want or couldn’t fit in.

“Thanks, girl, I love you.” Carmen started trying to hug her friend for always looking out even though she didn’t have to.

“Urgg fall back, chick! What I tell your ass ’bout all that kissy-lovey shit? Save that for them busters you be dealing with,” Kenya hissed, trying to play that hard role.

Carmen looked at her girl and shook her head. If ever there was a person in need of a hug and some affection it was Kenya. Carmen knew that her best friend had major issues with trusting or loving anyone or anything. She didn’t know or even care to know where Kenya had developed those feelings, because everyone in their Detroit hood had their own problems and demons to deal with and she and Kenya were no different. Life was hard in the Motor City.

As they slow strolled down Linwood Avenue, the pair encountered all types of ghetto hood antics, from early morning junkies bold looking to get a fix, to bums fighting in the middle of the street over the last sip of a warm beer some stranger had just tossed out the window. The classmates could have just as well taken the side streets and avoided all the turmoil of street life, but the girls loved to fuck with the “common folk” as they called them: “Y’all girls look pretty today, can you spare a dollar? Get an education, do you have a quarter?” or “I’m trying to get something to eat and I need thirty-five cents.”

Kenya, immune to sympathy for the next person’s bad luck in life, had heard every crackhead, drug addict, and sorry-ass story in the book known to man. Sometimes she and Carmen wouldn’t hesitate humoring themselves by making them do outlandish things no sane human being would even consider. She would have them bark like a dog for fifty cents or imitate other farm animals for their own childish amusement. There was no limit to what they could easily encourage a Detroit crackhead to do if the price was right. And since times were so hard and cold in the city, the price was always right.

As Kenya and Carmen passed the liquor store, Daisy appeared. She was a middle-aged woman hard in the face strung out on heroin, who used to be friends with both Kenya’s parents and wouldn’t let the young teen forget it. No matter where the girls would go in the economically stressed neighborhood of longtime homeowners, they were reminded about their deceased parents’ impact on the community and its residents, whether they were fond memories or not.

“Yeah, me, your mama, and daddy used to get our souls proper back in the day! All top side, uncut! That good shit!” Daisy rocked from side to side to the imaginary music that was playing in her drug-infested mind. “I’m telling you, Kenya or London or whichever one you is, your daddy only copped the best shit this damn city ever seen! Oh yeah! Ol’ Johnnie Roberts knew how to play the game, for real!”

Always begging for this, that, and the third, she felt Kenya and London were obligated to give her spare change whenever she asked for it just on the strength that she and their parents shared needles or blow from time to time. Some mornings, this one in particular, Kenya was in one of her moods and cruelly decided to make Daisy dance for a dollar, recording it on her cell phone so she could laugh at it later and post on Facebook. After humiliating her parents’ less fortunate friend with not much coaxing, she and Carmen ran off giggling.

“What’s so funny, y’all?” It was Allan, their homeboy from around the way. Randomly, he always seemed to appear out of nowhere when they least expected him to. He always walked with the girls to school. “I said what’s so damn funny? Why y’all laughing so hard?” He gave both of his friends a stupid look as he repeated his question, not receiving an answer the first time. They girls looked at each other and busted out laughing again.

“Nothing, nothing.” Kenya was wiping the tears off her face. “It’s just I didn’t know that people could be so desperate that’s all.”

Allan never got the joke and the girls let it go, especially because Allan’s mom was a closet head. Ain’t no true secrets in the hood and his mother’s smoking crack most certainly wasn’t one of them. Everything in the dark always comes to light, please. . .