Not A Good Look

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

A Reading Group Guide

Discussion Questions

I
cannot believe that it's the middle of the night and I'm thirsty. I'm parched, really—my throat feels like it's growing an afro weave.

I glance to the left of me in the dark. I can make out my cousin Dreya's shape in the twin bed on the other side of
my
room. No one can tell it's my room, since I always have to share with Dreya and her little brother, Manny.

They get on my last nerve. Honestly.

Dreya is the reason for my cotton mouth. She finds it necessary to get out of the bed every night and turn the heat up to eighty-five degrees, like she and her mama are paying any bills up in here. Nobody with human blood running through their veins needs to sleep with the heat turned up that high.

And, of course, the vent is right up over my bed. Because of this, I've been swallowing heat for the past few hours.

I throw my feet over the bed and try to escape quietly before…

“Sunday! I want some water.”

Manny wakes up. Dang!

“Boy, you can't have no water. You're just gonna pee in the bed.”

He starts whining. “But I'm thirsty.”

“Boy! Go to sleep.”

He squints at me and frowns. “What's wrong with yo' throat? You sound like a man!”

“I'm thirsty and my throat is dry!”

“Mine too, so hook a brotha up and get me something to drink.”

“Manny, I'm gonna hurt you!”

“I'm gonna tell my mama you cussed at me.”

“I did not cuss at you.”

“So.”

I narrow my eyes at this little evil genius. He stays trying to blackmail somebody. The other day, he got half a candy bar out of Dreya by threatening to tell that she was kissing a dude other than her boyfriend. The fact that she never actually kissed anyone meant absolutely nothing to Manny. A candy bar is a candy bar to that little hobgoblin.

“Come on then,” I say, still fussing. “You better not try to get in my bed either.”

“I don't even want to sleep in yo' dusty bed! I'm sleeping with my sister!”

Beautiful! The thought of this makes me smile. Dreya's gonna be heated when she wakes up to sheets soaked with Manny's pee! That almost makes up for my interrupted sleep. Ha!

Manny and I creep quietly into the kitchen, which is hard to do because we have to pass through the living room to get there. We tiptoe around feet, legs, and blankets that are spread where they shouldn't be. It's something like a hood slumber party obstacle course.

In most people's homes (I would think—since I really don't go to other people's houses at night) the living room is a pretty quiet place. Living goes on during the day, so that's when it should be busy. At night, normal people go to their bedrooms and go to sleep, and their living room is quiet.

It's a whole other story in the Tolliver household. Our tiny living room is occupied twenty-four seven. My auntie, Charlie, is sleeping on one couch and my mother's boyfriend, Carlos, is asleep on the love seat, wrapped in Manny's
Transformers
comforter.

“Gimme my blanket!” Manny hisses and tries to snatch his comforter from Carlos.

I pull Manny into the kitchen, not wanting him to wake anyone. “Stop it, Manny! You don't have a bed anyway, so it doesn't matter.”

“I did at my other house.”

“I wish you'd go back to your other house,” I mumble under my breath.

Aunt Charlie, Dreya, and Manny moved here a year ago when they got evicted from their duplex. My aunt doesn't keep a job for longer than three weeks, and they never have enough money for rent, so they live with us off and on. It really sucks lemons.

As much as it irritates my mother that Aunt Charlie won't get and stay on her feet, she won't ever let her and her kids be homeless or on the street. That is not how Tollivers roll. We always stick together, no matter what. Even if we get on one another's last nerve.

“Sunday, I'm thirsty. Hurry up,” Manny says.

I know he's not trying to have an attitude. Let him keep it up and he'll be swallowing spit.

Just for that, I take my time getting Manny's sippy cup out of the dish rack on the counter and filling it with water from the faucet. I try to hand it to him, but he shakes his head.

“I thought you wanted some water.”

He shakes his head again. “Put some ice in it.”

“We ain't got no ice.”

“Yes, we do. My mama filled up the trays. I saw her.”

I open the freezer, crack two ice cubes out of the plastic tray, and drop them into Manny's cup.

While he's drinking, I search in the refrigerator for my orange, pineapple, and banana juice. The fruity goodness that will slide down my throat in a burst of yummy flavor will be the cure for my dry, parched mouth.

I know I sound like a commercial. It was completely intentional. Plus my juice is the bidness, ya dig?

For some reason, I can't seem to find it in our refrigerator. This can only mean one thing. My beloved juice has been stolen and consumed by someone else in this house.

“Manny, who drank my juice?”

He shrugs. “How you expect me to know? I'm only four.”

“Because you always asking your mama for my stuff!”

“What color was your juice?”

“What
color
was it? It was yellow!” I feel the anger rising from the pit of my stomach to my dry and crackly throat.

“Oh, that must be the juice I had tonight with my fried bologna sandwich.”

AARRRGGGHHHH!!! If my throat didn't feel as dry as the Sahara Desert, I would scream that out loud, but right about now, I can only offer a raspy hiss.

I leave Manny standing there in the kitchen, with his ice water, as I storm back through the living room and down the hall. I can't stand all these people up in me and my mama's spot. I don't have anything to myself, not my own room, my own clothes. Not even a carton of juice. I wish they would all disappear!

Then I hear whimpering coming from the kitchen.

I roll my eyes and go back to get Manny. “How you gon' have all that mouth and be scared of the dark?”

“I'm not scared of the dark. I'm scared of roaches.”

“We don't have roaches, Manny.”

“We did at the other house.”

I sigh and scoop him up into my arms. “Just come on.”

I tuck Manny into the bed with Dreya and get back in my bed. I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep.

Which is impossible.

Because. I'm. Still. Thirsty!

I
open my eyes and wake up to the same thing I wake up to every morning. Chaos.

“Manny, you better not sleep in my bed again, with your Peabody behind.”

I snicker into my pillow. Dreya and Aunt Charlie call Manny “Mr. Peabody” whenever he wets the bed. If you ask me, it's mean, but I don't get into their immediate-family drama.

“Sunday, where are your gold hoop earrings? I need them for my outfit.”

Why is it that none of Dreya's outfits are complete without borrowing something of mine? My gold hoops don't even go with what she has on—layered tank tops with a short leather jacket, skinny jeans, and black leather ankle boots. She looks like a biker chick, and biker chicks should be rocking chains—not my earrings.

“I don't know where they are.”

That was a total lie. I know exactly where my real 18-karat gold earrings are. The ones I got from my ex-boyfriend, Romell, on my sixteenth birthday. The ones I hardly ever take off. They are in a box under my pillow.

Wanna know where they're not going? In Dreya's multi-pierced ears.

Dreya sucks her teeth and runs her hand through her short hair. “You're such a liar.”

Once upon a time Dreya used to have long, thick hair like me, but she decided that it would look better if one side was shaved. The unshaved part has blond tips and is styled in an unruly roller set. She thinks it looks hawt…I guess as long as she likes it, that's the most important thing.

“Sunday, get up and get ready for school!”

My mother is standing in the doorway, wearing her postal uniform, somehow managing to make the plain blue and gray pants and shirt look fly. Her hands are on her hips as if she's going to do something other than yell to get me out of bed.

“Is Aunt Charlie still in the shower? Because if she is, I can sleep for ten more minutes.”

“Yeah, my mommy is still in the shower, and what?” Manny says while standing at the foot of my bed wearing only his pajama top.

How's he gonna have an attitude problem and still be peeing in the bed?

I throw a pillow at him. He's always trying to have his mama or his sister's back when they're the ones always spanking his little behind.

My mother sucks her teeth and grabs the bottom of my blanket, trying to pull it away.

“She'll be out in a minute, Sunday. Get on up and get your stuff together because Carlos needs to get in there, too.”

It makes no sense that the two people in this house who have absolutely nothing to do all day would need to be in my way when it's time to get dressed. Aunt Charlie isn't even thinking about a job, and none of Carlos's business associates are up this early. I use the term
business associates
loosely because, on the real, don't you have to be making money from something for it to be called
business?

Other than his failure to generate income, Carlos is cool people. Out of all the boyfriends my mom has kicked it with, he's the best one. He makes my mother laugh, and he doesn't try to act like my daddy. Every now and then we'll play a video game or two on Xbox and chill.

My mother sees my eyes roll and says, “Sunday, I know what you're thinking. Carlos has a stock-options-trading class this morning. My baby is about to get into the stocks and bonds market.”

I roll my eyes again and throw myself out of the bed. Carlos always has something going that's about to take off. Two months ago, it was a check-cashing store, six months ago it was a Laundromat that had a bunch of half-broken washing machines and dryers. Needless to say, it didn't pan out. And until one of his ideas makes him some money, he's gonna be my mother's boyfriend and not her husband. She claims she's not marrying him until he can take care of us.

I'm waiting to see if that's gonna happen. It wouldn't be a bad thing at all because, like I said, Carlos is good people. But I'm not holding my breath, or getting my hopes up.

As soon as I hear the water in the shower shut off and the bathroom door open, I dash in with all my Bath & Body Works toiletries and my outfit. Before all these people moved up in our crib, I could leave my stuff in the bathroom. Not so, anymore. Aunt Charlie and Dreya used up a whole bottle of Sweet Pea lotion in one day. What do you know? The water is cold. It's okay, though, because I love taking cold showers in the fall. Sarcasm in full effect.

Strands from Aunt Charlie's platinum blond yaki weave are all over the shower curtain and clogging up the drain, causing the chilly water to rise up around my feet. I let out a long sigh and wash myself quickly, because I really am running late.

After I'm dressed in a bebe tee and Apple Bottoms jeans, I slick my hair into a bun with a long, curly side bang in the front. My gold hoop earrings and grape lip gloss complete the look. Yes,
my
gold hoop earrings.

When I finally emerge from the bathroom, my best friend, Bethany, is in the living room harmonizing with Dreya on a song that I wrote. I should say that they are attempting to harmonize, because Dreya doesn't harmonize. She can sing the mess out of a solo, but getting her voice to blend with other voices is a pretty tough task.

Bethany must be able to tell that there's something not right about their vocals because she twirls her thick, brown cornrows between her fingers. Nobody likes to tell Dreya she hit a wrong note, especially not Bethany. She looks away from Dreya and slides her hand over the words on her baby tee and into her snug jeans pocket.

Bethany is cool as what. We've been girls since elementary school. We have the occasional beef, but she's a down type chick, and she can sing.

Even if she competes with me over boys.

Dreya, Bethany, and I are a girl singing group called Daddy's Little Girls. The name was Dreya's idea, and since I do write all the songs, the least I could do was let her name the group.

“You're flat, Dreya,” I say, as my cousin tries unsuccessfully to hit another string of notes.

Dreya puts her hand on her hip and gives me the stank attitude look. “Hi, hater. You're just mad because my runs are off the chain.”

“I don't know about off the chain, but they
are
off. Actually, every time you do a run, you go flat. You've got to learn better voice control, Dreya. When was the last time you sang scales?”

“Whatever, Sunday. Who made you vocal instructor? Oh, and I see you conveniently found your earrings,” Dreya says as she flicks one of my earrings with her hand.

I reply, “Imagine that.”

Bethany laughs. “As if she'd ever lose them. Her boo gave her those.”

“Romell is not my boo,” I protest.

“Yes, he is,” Bethany teases.

“No. Romell is a cheater. And that's why you look like Ice-T's wife, Coco, with them cornrows to the back.”

Clearly, I'm trying to deflect attention away from the conversation about cheater Romell and onto Bethany's hip-hop look. Although I just clowned her, the cornrows actually suit her dainty, pretty face, pulling her wide eyes into slants that make her dark eyelashes even more striking. Glitter lip gloss completes her look.

Bethany giggles. “I love it when you get all angry, Sunday. Anyway, Coco's boobs are bigger than mine.”

“Are we rehearsing after school or what?” Dreya asks as she grabs her backpack. “Truth is outside.”

“Yeah, because y'all most definitely need it,” I reply.

Carlos chuckles from the kitchen.

“What are
you
laughing at?” Dreya asks.

“You could use a lil' work, Dreya,” Carlos replies. With his thick Puerto Rican accent, he almost rolls the
r
in Dreya's name.

“Ugh. Why don't you just make your pancakes?” Dreya says with attitude.

The fact that Dreya and Carlos don't get along makes him even cooler in my book. He laughs her off and flips a plate-sized pancake on the skillet.

My mother storms up the hallway from her bedroom. She looks really mad about something as she snatches her keys and purse and walks toward the door.

Carlos calls from the kitchen, “You not gonna say 'bye or wish me luck on my class?”

Maybe after dating my mother for two years, Carlos still can't read her moods. But I wasn't even about to trip about her leaving without a word, because I can tell she's heated about something. I'd help a brotha out, but I ain't trying to get in my mama's warpath.

She spins around with fire in her eyes. “Carlos, you really need to check your baby mama.”

He blows breath through his lips in an irritated-sounding whistle. “Did LaKeisha call you again? What did she want?”

“The same thing she always wants, Carlos. Money. She said your son needs some new sneakers.”

Carlos sighs. “Okay. I'll call her back.”

“When you talk to her, tell her to lose my number.”

Carlos walks over to my mother and pulls her into a hug. “I'm so sorry, Shawn. I'll handle it.”

Just like that her anger melts away and the fire leaves her eyes. Carlos's got some serious skills, because I thought she was going to flip out on him.

My mom looks at the three of us girls all up in their business. She narrows her eyes at Carlos, like she wants to say more but doesn't want to say it in front of us.

“I'm going to work, Carlos. We'll talk about it when I get home.”

My mom slams the door as she leaves and Carlos goes back to fixing his breakfast.

“Come on, Bethany,” I say. “This is too much drama this early in the morning.”

Bethany, Dreya, and I walk outside. Me and Bethany are on our way to the bus stop, but Dreya's grown, nineteen-year-old boyfriend, Truth, is waiting for her in his tricked-out Impala. You would think they'd offer us a ride since we're all going to the same school, but nope—they're not even cool like that.

As Bethany and I start down the street, my cell phone rings. “Hello.”

“Sunday, it's Dreya.”

I whip my head around to see if they're still parked in front of the house, but they've already pulled off.

“What's up?” I ask.

“I can't practice after school because I'm going to the studio with Truth. He's almost done with his album and he wants me there for inspiration.”

“All right then. Me and Bethany will practice without you.”

Bethany looks at me with questions in her eyes as I press End on my phone.

“What?” she asks.

“Dreya's not practicing after school.”

“What's new? She hardly ever practices—that's why she sounds a mess.”

“I know. We're never gonna get a record deal, messing around with her.”

“You're going to college anyway. It's not like you'll be able to go to school and be a star.”

“If we get a record deal between now and the time we graduate, I can help my mom pay my college bills.”

“Or you could not go to school,” Bethany says. “Then we could kick it hard on the red carpets and go on tour and…”

This is the part where I tune Bethany out. Truth is, I don't really want to be a star. I want to be rich, not famous. And as far as being an artist is concerned, I want to write songs. I couldn't care less about being a performer.

But it seems like the way to make all that happen is with a girl group. Here in ATL there are so many retired and semiretired R & B stars looking for the next group to manage or sign. We've been approached by more than one bootleg producer, but I refuse to go out like that.

“Maybe we should ask Dreya if we can come to the studio tonight. You never know what might happen,” Bethany says.

“You can ask her. She'll tell me no.”

The bus stop is packed, as usual, because everybody is too lazy to walk to school and it's starting to get chilly. October is hit-or-miss down here in the A. It's either warm and sunny or chilly and rainy. Since it's a week away from November, we're getting some of the latter.

I see my ex-boyfriend, Romell, chilling with some of his boys, and butterflies dance in the pit of my stomach. As much as I can't stand him anymore, I still have to admit that he's fine. He's deep, dark chocolate with a pretty smile. His cornrows to the back look good on him, too. But I wonder which new chick put them in for him. His playa tendencies are what made me sideline our teenage love affair.

“Look at your boy,” Bethany whispers.

“I ain't thinking about him.”

“Then why you still rocking those earrings?”

“Maybe because they're the only piece of jewelry I own that doesn't come from Claire's.”

Bethany grins at me like she knows something that I don't. “Whatever, Sunday. You still dig Romell.”

I shake my head and click on my iPod. I let the smooth vocals of Chrisette Michele drown out the noise. This girl can blow, for real. Not like these pop princess divas who need Auto-Tune to make a record. My eyes close and my head bobs as I let the music take me to another place where cheating ex-boyfriends don't reside.

Bethany taps me on my shoulder, snapping me out of my trance. “The bus is here.”

I nod and follow the rest of the group to the bus. I just listened to a sad song, and it's sticking with me right now. Music does that to me. I can listen to a Jay-Z track and get pumped about my career, or listen to a Biggie track and have to dance no matter what. Seriously, can you hear “Hypnotize” in the club and
not
get up and dance? That's for real.

Bethany usually sits with me on the bus, but today it's packed and we have to split up. I end up sitting in front of Romell, and next to someone who's on their way to work. It would be nice if our school had actual school buses. They just give us bus tickets and expect us to share the public transportation with all the grown people who don't have cars.

I get ready to flick my iPod back on, when Romell leans forward and whispers, “You looking real nice today, Sunday. When're we getting back together?”