Stereotype (Two Books in One) *COMPLETED*

Chapter 1: Same Thing, Different Day

"Kendra? Kendra!?...KENDRA!

"Mm?" 

          I checked my half broken, silver alarm clock that I broke last year from tripping over the cord, and it read 7:03 AM. The time made me mad as hell because I already told my mom I have a late start every Tuesday. School doesn't start until 9:05 AM and I don't know if I'll be able to fall back asleep.

"Kendra how many times do I have to call you before you answer me? Get up out that bed now! I'm tired of your school calling about you being late!" 

"Ugh, mom, I thought I reminded you last night that I had a late start."

        On a regular day, school starts at 8:00 AM and since that's way too early for any normal person, I usually don't end up walking into my first period math class until 8:35 AM. Lord knows how much I enjoy Tuesdays because I could use the extra sleep. 

"You're too grown for me to be waking you up anyhow. Next time you don't wanna be woken up, set that damn alarm clock, and since you're up now and late all the damn time, you might as well get up and get ready so you can be early for once!"

        Damn, sometimes I wonder how my mom can stuff so many words into one long sentence without stopping to breathe or blink. I'm glad that she's dressed in her SEARS uniform, because that means she'll be leaving for work shortly. Hopefully my ass can fall back asleep!

"Well then next time don't wake me up then since you make it such a big deal," I grumbled that of course.

"Excuse you?"

"I'm up mom, good morning to you too."

"Mhm, I'm leaving for work and I don't want another phone call from that damn school."

        This is such a waste of a late start! While every normal person that goes to my lame high school is sleeping, I'm hopping in the shower and dreading the fact that I still have to find clothes to wear. 

        As I shower, I think about the fact that I'm too skinny. I hate it because I'm skinny without a choice. I would switch bodies with anyone at this point. I'm skinny to the point where teachers are concerned and the people at my school call me "chopstick". To top it off, I'm "Young-and-the-Breastless" so I wear an A-cup. My ass? Oh Lord, let's just say gravity has the best of me cause it isn't even all that big. It sags in some of my jeans, but it's not "Dayum" type flat, so I won't complain.

        I hate showering when I'm home alone, because I'm always thinking a killer is going to burst into my apartment and run away with my naked body. But since my mother works double shifts all the time, I've gotten more comfortable.

        Picking out clothes for my school is the hardest thing because my mom and I are definitely not rich, so I'll admit I wear Wal-Mart clothing that I can get away with. Sometimes I get sideways glances as if people notice that my clothes were off the clearance rack. Going to West Brook High is one of the most difficult things that have happened to me.

        Yes, the boys are very fine, but they sure as hell aren't noticing me. The females can be ratchet and rude at the same time, so it makes fitting in hard. The day I move out of Chi-Town will be the day I literally jump for joy, about five feet off of the ground. 

        After making a complete mess of my elevator sized closet and hard single sized mattress, I finally decided to wear an army green crop top that sits appropriately on my waist, and black tights that hug my skinny ankles. As for my shoes, I just copped a pair of  forty-five dollar all black Nike's last month, and I'm going to try and make it last until its worn out. Before my Nike's, I used to rock a cute pair of Dark Blue Toms, but it rained one day on my way from school, and now the shoes smell like ass.

        My mom doesn't like me walking around the apartment with shoes on, but that's just too bad because she isn't here anyway. I make my way down the short hall, peep into my mom's room, which is next to mines, then make a left straight into the half sized kitchen around the corner. 

        I contemplate on opening my fridge and cupboards, because I already know I won't find anything to eat for breakfast. I'm starving like hell, but my kitchen is bare. I open the off-white fridge, with no handle, since it broke off, and on the top shelf, it has a half-filled carton of homogenized milk and a tub of butter, with a plastic knife on top of the lid. On the second shelf, there is nothing there because the shelf caved in and it serves no purpose. In the two bottoms drawers, on the left, there are 3 tomatoes and an avocado, and on the right it's filled with rotten, smashed vegetables, that probably been there for about a month. On the fridge door there is one egg, out of the carton slightly rocking back and forth, but I don't like eggs.

        It's kind of selfish of me to be picky when it comes to foods, because my mom and I are broke, so I should be more appreciative. But broke people deserve opinions too.  My mom is ridiculous though. Not even a banana I can satisfy myself with or a bag of chips? Of course not, I'm stuck with tap water for breakfast, which is why I'm so damn skinny.

        As I sit at the off white plastic dinner table, with chairs to match, in the left corner of my kitchen, closest to the door, I begin to realize just how messed up my life is, and how it got to this point. I'm waiting for a phone call from my best friend Janelle, and the plastic gold clock above the kitchen doorway says 8:11 AM.

        My best friend and I usually walk to school together, but since it's a late start, I bet her lazy ass is still sleeping. I won't allow us to be late for school today, so If she doesn't call by 8:45 AM, I'll go ahead and call her. I start to tap a little beat with my Nike shoes against the cold heater under the table and I just reminisce about when life wasn't so bad. 

                                                                                       *****

        I hate having a stereotypical life, being a broke African-American family. But it wasn't always this bad. I will never forget the way my father was taken away from me and my mom. The police just busted through the front door of our little apartment and read my father his rights. A tear silently fell down my mother's cheek, while me on the other hand, was yelling on the top of my lungs with confusion and anger.

"What are you doing to him!? That's my daddy! You're hurting him!"

"It's okay Kendra, let them take me...You're too young to understand." 

        Those were the last words my father said to me that night. It was as if he just gave up on life. After all those years of preaching to me that I always have to stand up for myself in this world no matter what. Those values went out the window when my father told me "let them take me."

        I was fourteen years old when that incident happened. It was the middle of summer break, in July and I couldn't do anything for the rest of my break without thinking about my father. My best friend kept showing up at my door to go out and "window shop", but at that moment, I wasn't in the mood for shopping. My mom kept telling me I was going to regret sitting inside instead of taking advantage of my two month summer break, but I didn't regret it at all. I had too much on my mind and I had questions that my mother avoided answering.

        My tiny room was the perfect space for me, and lying on my hard single sized mattress, was starting to become my casket in the middle of my room. What could he have done wrong? I'll never forget the look on his sweaty, fear filled face. His jaw was clenched and his eyes were closed. It was as if he was ashamed of himself, but then again, it was as if he knew it was going happen that night. He was breathing heavily and I noticed he was fully clothed too. Usually when my father came home from running errands, he would march straight to the room he shared with my mother, and undress. 

        When the police took him away they looked so happy. As if it felt good to lock up another African-American. My father never showed me a violent side of him, so I always wondered what could have caused him to get locked up.  

        I remember when I turned fifteen years old on April 15, 2010; my mother said I was old enough for a jail visit. I didn't know what the huge difference between fourteen and fifteen years old was to her, but all I knew was I've never seen my father in nine months and a couple weeks. 

"Kendra, quit staring at the officers like that before they think we're here to cause trouble."

        I was in a trance. I just couldn't believe that an innocent African-American, forty year old man could be brought to jail for no obvious reason. My father isn't even all that bad. He's not on the "Americas Most Wanted" list, so what's the big deal? 

        "Follow me", said a bearded white man wearing his all black police officer uniform. He looked about 5'6" and had a huge round stomach that poked out and made him look seven months pregnant.

        We walked down a lit up, long ass hallway, that I swear would never come to an end. The white walls made me feel like I was walking towards heavens gates, but the chipped grey floors made me remember I was in a jail building, not heaven. After walking for two minutes, but felt like thirty minutes, we finally came to a stop. A blurry bullet proof window had a big sign above it in bold red writing that read, "REGISTRATION"...

                                                                                     *****