Full Figured 2:

Book 2: Full Figured

by Alexis Nicole, Trista Russell

Genres: African American Women's Fiction; Anthologies

Synopsis

Symone Davenport is a 22-year-old college senior who has set herself up for a very secure future, but all her achievements feel more like a duty than a labor of love. Her true love is singing R&B. She doesn't believe her plus-size figure could ever be diva material, so she settles for fading into the background in her father's church choir. It takes the help of Jaylen Richards, the handsome new choir director, to not only unlock her talent and try to bring her into the spotlight but to unlock her heart. Janice was never very thin, but the 50 pounds she packed on after her sister's sudden death two years ago sent her way beyond the size 14 she used to be. With a gorgeous face, personality, and brains, she isn't lacking friends, but her insecurities about her weight gain get in the way of things reaching the next level with men. Flirting over the phone and via e-mail with Tony is easy, since he's hundreds of miles away, but when business brings him to Janice's Chicago office, she goes out of her way to avoid meeting him face-to-face. She assumes he'll take one look at her and not even remember their conversations. She couldn't be further from the truth, and soon their romance blossoms. In his arms nothing, especially size, matters; however, when lies are uncovered and things come undone, layers of Tony are exposed. Will it reveal a golden pear or a rotten apple? Did he play on her insecurities for his own selfish gain, and is he just more dead weight she will eventually have to lose?

Release date: November 1, 2010

Publisher: Urban Audiobooks

Print pages: 224

Sample

I was born to be a star!

It didn’t take much for me to imagine myself standing center stage in the middle of Philips Arena. Or maybe the Staples Center in Los Angeles. Or even Madison Square Garden in New York! That would be sweet.

I could almost hear myself singing to sold-out crowds, with fans chanting my name: Simone! Simone! Simone!

Just the thought of that made me grin so wide my cheeks hurt.

So, if I was born to be rocking somebody’s stage, what was I doing here?

Not that I would ever ask that question out loud. Especially not to anyone here at Greater Faith Baptist Church. No, not a soul would ever hear those words come from my lips, ’cause I’d been raised right. I was a pastor’s kid and a daddy’s girl. That meant I always did the right thing, especially since I had to pick up the slack from my big sister, Skye. She never did anything right, at least, not in my daddy’s eyes. But I was different; I only spoke when I was spoken to, and when I did speak, I only said what everyone expected me to say. So, if I were to tell anyone that I was going to be a star, it would shake up the whole Greater Faith Baptist world.

But just because I didn’t say it, didn’t mean that it wasn’t true.

I was born to be a star!

I felt it the most every time I stood in this choir stand. Here in church, standing behind the organist, and in front of the musical director, singing was all I could think about. I mean, everyone in the choir always said I had the best voice, and though I didn’t have a lot of confidence in other areas, I knew that I could sing.

Sometimes, when I was in my dorm room by myself, I would turn up the music so loud the walls would shake, and I would singright along with my girl Yolanda, or Mary Mary. And, sometimes, I even rocked out with Beyonce and Rhianna. Now, it’s not like I want to brag, ’cause Daddy says that one who brags is full of pride. But though I understood what my dad meant, sometimes you just have to tell it. And when I sang with Yolanda or Mary Mary or Beyonce or Rhianna, I sounded dang good.

So, if I was so good, why was I here, singing backup for old Miss Maggie?

Okay, that’s a bit of an exaggeration–I wasn’t really her backup. Miss Maggie was singing the solo, and I was just one of the thirty-six people in the choir, singing behind her.

“This is my story . . .”

I tried not to do it. Tried not to roll my eyes as she held on to that note for as long as she could. In my head, I counted; she held it for five seconds, tops. Now, see, if that had been me, I would’ve rocked that note for at least double that time.

But no matter how long I could hold a note, or how wide my range was, I was gonna be backup for old Miss Maggie as long as my father was the pastor of Greater Faith.

It was kind of funny that I called Miss Maggie old, since I think she was just something like fifty-seven or fifty-eight; she was around my mom and dad’s age and they didn’t seem old. But me, Skye, and our girl, Chyanne, had been calling Miss Maggie old since we were little kids. And every time she sang these ancient Negro spirituals, she sounded even older to me.

“This is my song!”

This time, I couldn’t help it–I did roll my eyes, even though I tried to keep the smile on my face. But this was so tired, all of it: this song, the way we swayed, Miss Maggie. And I was tired too, of living this life when there was so much more that I wanted to do.

That’s when my eyes wandered into the congregation and I looked right into the faces of my two best friends. Chyanne was staring at me with her eyebrows raised so high, they were almost at the top of her forehead. I knew that look. That meant she was about to crack up at any moment. And sitting right next to her was Devin, already laughing, though he had his head down and his hand over his mouth, like he was trying to hide it.

Uh-oh. Chyanne must’ve seen the look on my face, and we’d been girls for so long, she knew what I was thinking. Or maybe it was Devin who was reading me. I hadn’t known Devin as long as Chyanne; Skye and I had known Chyanne since forever and I’d only met Devin in middle school. But that was ten years ago, so he knew what was up just by looking at me.

Well, if my friends had peeped what I was doing, then I needed to straighten up before my daddy or mother saw me. I made sure I didn’t turn to the right where my dad was sitting at the altar, dipping his head to the music, and smiling as if he was so proud of his choir. And I certainly didn’t look to the left and the first pew where my mom always sat, because if she saw me making faces at old Miss Maggie, my mother just might march right up into this choir stand and snatch me.

So I kept my eyes on Brother Steve, the choir director, and kept my mind away from my dreams.

I sure was glad when Miss Maggie hit that last note and we were finally able to take our seats. Folks were shouting, “Amen!” and “Hallelujah!” and “Thank you, Jesus!”

The smile was still on my face, but not because I was happy about our song or the congregants’ reactions; I was just glad that now, if I started daydreaming, no one would be able to see me.

The parishioners were still shouting and my dad sat back; he didn’t make a move, as if he wanted to give the folks time to get out all of their praise. I wiggled back in my seat and waited right along with him. One thing was for sure, I knew I would hear a good Word today. That was the thing about my daddy; I hardly ever got bored when he was preaching, because he had a voice that was made for singing. Just listening to him was amazing. And then, he always had a good Word. My dad could break it down so that even the young’uns–as he liked to call us–could understand what he was saying.

Finally, my dad stood and strolled toward the podium. Though my daddy was a preacher, and his daddy was a preacher, and his daddy was a preacher, my dad didn’t look anything like a pastor. Back in the day when Skye and I were growing up, we hated when our friends said Daddy looked like a movie star. I mean, it didn’t bother me now, but before, when I was little, I didn’t want my dad to look special. I just wanted him to look like a daddy.

I had to admit, as I watched him stroll with a swagger that all the guys in church tried to imitate, he did look a little like Idris Elba. But though he had the looks and the strut, my father was sold out for Christ. And he was one of those old-time preachers, seriously old school: girls should wear dresses, only men should preach, and the choir had to sing those tired songs with solos by old women.

Just thinking about how out-of-date my father was made me want to sigh.

“Good morning, saints!”

“Morning, Pastor,” rang through the sanctuary.

“You know, I just love that song,” he said, turning to look at us in the choir stand.

Okay, I was about to do it again. I was about to roll my eyes.

“Blessed assurance; I know that’s right, my father said. “That song is da bomb.” He chuckled, as if he’d just said something clever.

See what I mean? Even my dad’s slang was old-fashioned. He didn’t even know people didn’t say “da bomb” anymore.

He kept on. “Y’all better recognize! There is power in the title of that song.”

“Preach, Pastor,” someone yelled out, though my father had just gotten started.

“We are blessed to have the assurances of God!” my father said, his voice starting to rise. “And here’s the thing: we had the assurances of God before, I said, before we were even born!” Now, his voice was booming, bouncing off the huge stainedglass windows. Sometimes when my dad preached, he could make those windows rattle. And he could rattle the people, too.

I looked into the sanctuary and almost shook my head. It didn’t take much from my father. He already had the members of Greater Faith going. They were twisting in their seats, lifting their hands, raising their Bibles. And he hadn’t said ten sentences.

“How blessed do you have to be to have the Lord’s assurances before you were born?” my father asked. “And if you don’t believe me, if you don’t know that you had His assurances while you were in your mama’s womb, let me show you the scripture. Turn to Jeremiah 1:4.”

I didn’t even wait for my dad to read the words out loud because that just took too long. There were folks who only opened their Bibles on Sundays, and they didn’t have any idea whether Jeremiah was in the Old or the New Testament. So sometimes, my father had to wait like, five minutes for everyone to get on the same page.

As soon as I got to the scripture, I read it for myself.

Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you, before you were born,

I set you apart.

Wow! I wondered what the Lord had set me apart to do.

“We were set apart for His blessings,” my father said after he read the scripture aloud, “for His assurances, for His grace, and His mercy. Y’all need to hear what I’m saying, saints.”

My dad had to pause as people jumped out of their seats and raised their hands and their voices. Most of the time, I couldn’t understand a thing these people were s. . .