Rhythms of Redemption

Ripe Fruits

Dalia Eman Sherbert-Young believed herself to be a 13-year-old visionary. Dalia sleepily cracked one eye open, the soft light of dawn filtering through her lace curtains. She rubbed her hands furiously over each eye, feeling the gritty remnants of sleep. The faint hum of her pink alarm clock ticked steadily on her princess nightstand. Reaching over, she carefully navigated past a framed photo of her and her mom to grab two plastic cups. One cup held a thick, pink-colored liquid that smelled faintly of artificial strawberries—her morning medicine. The other cup contained cold, crisp water. She downed the pink drink in one go, the sugary taste lingering on her tongue, then chased it with the water, feeling the dryness dissipate as the cool liquid washed it away.

Dalia swung her legs over the side of the bed, the cool morning air sending a shiver up her spine. The sharp scent of soap filled the bathroom as she took a quick, hot shower. She slipped into her uniform—crisp tan khaki pants and a freshly ironed maroon shirt—feeling the fabric warm against her skin.

Standing in front of the mirror, she carefully combed her curls, the bristles tugging gently at the knots. The rhythmic strokes of the comb were almost soothing until a sudden crash from downstairs shattered the tranquility. Dalia's heart leaped into her throat as she froze, the brush clutched tightly in her hand, listening intently for any further sounds.

Once a few minutes had passed, and the adults downstairs had resumed angrily whispering, over causing a loud commotion, she began to brush her hair once more. Since as far back as she could remember, fighting between her mother and father had been the norm. Dalia treasured the days her dad was not around, as he frequented business trips every few weeks as a music producer. Those times he was not home had always been peaceful, Dalia thought bitterly. But as much as she loved him gone, some part of her missed him all the same. While he was a poor partner, he was far from a poor father; the 13-year-old had reasoned that she much preferred her parents living their own separate lives rather than whatever their present situation was. Both parties were unhappy and bitter, and she had to be the mediator for a relationship she didn't think should have existed in the first place.

Dalia finished pulling her hair into a tight ponytail or puff ball as her mom endearingly calls it. Rather than her bountiful curls cascading down her shoulder in a tight ponytail, like straight hair... her hair frizzed up, defying gravity.

Dalia grabbed her pink bookbag and quietly made her way down the stairs, careful not to alarm her parents from their argument in the living room. She then opened the shoe closet by the front door and begrudgingly pulled out her black ballet flats. She huffed as she looked at her red and white Jordan 4's, that she would much rather wear. Unfortunately for her, she lived in Compton, California, and she knew better than to risk getting mugged... or worse.

"I'll see ya later, Ma!" Dalia called out, breaking the adults from their ensuing argument.

______________

Cherry immediately rushed to the front door, her heart pounding, to watch her daughter safely get on the school bus. She lingered for a moment, the cool morning air a stark contrast to the heated atmosphere inside. With a deep breath, she turned back to face Andre.

"Damn, I ain't get a goodbye?" Andre chuckled, sinking heavily into the leather couch. The cushions sagged under his weight, emitting a faint creak. Andre, better known as Dr. Dre casually took out a fresh blunt and lit it, the sharp scent of marijuana quickly filling the small room. Cherry watched from afar, a wave of disgust washing over her.

"Why would she?" Cherry shrugged, her voice edged with sarcasm. Her raised eyebrow was a clear challenge, watching as Dre's relaxed expression slowly morphed into irritation.