Living Short in Bel Air (Completed 2013)

ChapteЯ 1: Bacon. Period.

The beginning of the novel is very similar to Monster-in-Law. Yes. I know. I'm sorry.

Dedicated to my PTBBG fans for the inspiration and support! I love you all and I promise I won't let you down with this novella.

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I should be a boy. I wear sweatpants instead of lacy skirts. Baseball caps, screw feathered hats. A bottle of beer unlike cups of tea. I prefer juicy bacon, not pricey salad fees.

I'm short, I'm skinny, and flat all over.

Boys have never asked me out, because they know I'd whip their video game ass's later.

I'm far from perfect, and that's perfectly fine with me.

Suddenly I'm forced to do something no rebel should ever have to be.

To let you know now, to let you know who,

Clint Ryder is trying to change me, but I don't want to be brand new.

He thinks he can do it, except what he doesn't know,

Is that I will always go down with a fight, being the little spitfire Ly-a Monroe.

ChapteЯ 1: Bacon. Period.

My Latina mother looked like the Grinch. Running around wearing only a robe (shiver) and half of her hair in curlers? Not to mention her sun baked face was masked with seaweed wrap. Oh yeah. Scary.

Amused, I couldn't help but watch.

"Ly-a!"

I bit off my nail. "What?!"

"Where's Ruby?" my mother asked.

"How am I supposed to know?"

"I'm here!" Ruby called.

My mother's tiny assistant strutted through the door, wearing her expensive white suit. The sassy black woman took a single look at my frantic mother, rolled her eyes and spun back around.

"You're getting the vodka, right?" I hollered.

She waved a dismissive hand. "Yeah, yeah. I know the routine."

Just when I thought I could enjoy my Saturday TV time in my big sweater and mug of bacon, my mother proved surprisingly more entertaining.

"How could they!" my mother moaned, finally collapsing on our living room couch.

I took a mouthful of crispy bacon. "Could they what?" I mumbled as the crumbs fell onto my sweatpants.

"They replaced me! Me! That's like-like replacing Oprah!" she sputtered.

"Mom. Oprah's famous."

"I know that," she snarled.

My eyes did a roll. "And you're not."

"Yes I am! I've been in the top 40 talk shows of America! I ranked a spot behind Oprah once!" She leaned closer and spoke in a hushed tone. "Between you and me, some people even thought we were sisters in the teen years."

I deadpanned. "She's black."

"And?"

"You're white."

"So?"

"How can you be sisters?"

"We just are, okay?"

"Really?" I wrinkled my nose. "Doesn't that make you old?"

My mother narrowed her gaze. "What are you trying to say, daughter?" she snapped, reminding me who wore the pants in the house.