Saved By Your Love

3. Who the Hell Are You?

Sunday 29th March 1987

Sheri's POV

"Sam! We're out of bread," I yelled.

He shuffled into the kitchen. "Do we really gotta restock?"

Smokey Robinson was playing on the radio. I stared at his cha-cha moves which he would have I described as hip or, (Lord spare me) cool. I ain't exactly the World's Greatest Dancer, but Sam had some funny-ass moves.

"Well, I want a sandwich. So yes."

"Geez o' Pete, Sheri. It's a beautiful Sunday. Why don't you get outside and enjoy yourself? Maybe relax a lil'?" He twirled on the spot and slid across the floor with jazz hands, before stopping and groaning when he moved his back wrong.

I lowered the radio volume and put on my old-lady-gossip voice, "I got a call from Brandi yesterday."

"Brandi, the ol', dried-up sister?"

Yes, Brandi. The old, dried-up, no-good, jealous, hating, money-thieving sister of mine. It's no coincidence we're both named after liquors - that's just what happens when all your mother knows is alcohol. Alcohol and crack cocaine. One hell of a combination. Sister Dearest is four years older than me. She earned the street title 'Handy Brandi' for being able to multitask in whatever degrading things she'd do to be able to afford a gas station burrito. I tried to convince her to get a proper job; I hated what she had to do to survive. But she would always tell to me keep my nose out of it 'cause apparently, I turned a blind eye to our situation.

Brandi, Brandi, Brandi...thou art false as hell!

I was still in school. How much did she expect me to do as a full-time student? I only went to every other useless class, but little did the teachers know, I was reading Shakespeare plays, books on famous painters and the art of theatre and film. My old school had an impressive library. There were no new or modern texts, but there was a ton on famous artists and plays.

I spent a lot of time at the drama club after school. I was the only girl there, and when my teacher told me that my rendition of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night was fantastic, (since I went back and forth between the male and female roles more times than my mom did between her men), I felt pretty damn good about it. When I was younger, I got so used to being alone and had no choice but to create my own fantasies and fun growing up. I dreamed that someday I could act professionally. Maybe even win an Oscar one day. But Hollywood ain't no place for people like me. We were so desperate for cash, I'd stand on the corner of the street and act out a scene from a play and people would actually walk by and tip! It was nice to have some spare change in my pocket till my sister took it as her own.

My mother was always a drinker, but not always an addict. She smoked outta her beloved crack pipe too much to care about what her two helpless children were up to. We lived in the inner cities and crack was literally sitting on our doorstep. She became an aggressive bulldog because of it. She saw all types of crazy shit and she could be a fucking psycho at times. If it got real bad, Brandi and I would sometimes go and live with our granny in some other housing projects nearby. She didn't know much English and that's how I learned how to speak Swahili!

And my father? Died when I was about four. Or five. I didn't really know him, can't say that I ever mourned his death. My mother and I have never brought it up but something tells me that my father's sudden death is what triggered her drugged downfall.

Point is, Brandi was wrong about me. She still is.

"What did the ol' girl want this time?" asked Sam.