Shelves: fiction This review has been hidden because it contains spoilers. To view it, click here. I dont like to suspend all belief in my fiction. These kiddie ventures seem so wrong. I feel like a pervert peeking into the sex lives of children and then all of a sudden, theyre behaving like grown folk.

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If no adult has ever apologized to you, please allow me to be the first. I apologize not out of pity for you, but out of pure love—the ingredients that each of you needed in the first place. Remember that whatever your circumstances, you are still responsible for yourself and your choices. You may be young, but you are not powerless. Speak up, speak out, read, study, learn, build, and resist injustice.

Above all of the hurt, pain, and corruption there is still a MAKER of your soul to whom you can direct your prayers and seek guidance.

No matter what others may do, make sure you do what is right and true. Have faith! All of your faithful efforts, discipline, and hard work will be rewarded. Chapter 1 Not every bitch is a queen.

Most chicks are just regular. Most of them know it and accept it, as long as nobody points it out. A queen is authentic, not because she says so, just because she is. Everybody can see it, and feel it, too. A queen knows who she is, inside and out. In fact, she creates original styles, waits for the bootleg bitches to catch on and copy, then switches, making their heads spin, eyes roll, and their short money pile disappear.

The majority of my time is spent stacking my status and plotting to get back my stuff. I hate conceited girls. Matter of fact, some of the ugliest females I know are conceited. We living at a point where this shit is all mixed up on purpose. The ugly ones pretend they look good, when everything they got is cheap and fake, including their personalities. The pretty ones play themselves down, cause jealousy is more realer than the air we suck in and blow back out.

I, Porsche L. Santiaga, am a real, real pretty bitch. I try my best to stay in my lane and mind my own business, to keep all the envious ones from talking shit, mobbing up and jumping me. Naturally, I look up to her.

But still, I gotta be me. Imitation gets no respect. I would never live my life trying to look like or be someone else. Regarding my sister, Winter Santiaga, every day for eight years I had my big brown eyes trained on her. None of those are the reasons. Ricky Santiaga has four daughters. His firstborn, Winter, seemed to have occupied his whole heart. My handsome father was not to blame.

Everyone loved her. When she was in a crowded room, everyone was looking her way or trying to stand or sit right beside her. Even in our home she soaked up all the love, as though she were the only child. Or, their eyes would be on the youngest, because they are the babies and they might get hurt. The middle girl is too young to be fucking and too old to be falling down. I got mixed feelings about being invisible. There are benefits. But sometimes, quietly, I was yearning for Poppa and Momma to pay more attention to me simply because their love for me was as true and as strong as my love for each of them.

I hate pretense. When she did receive it, no one cared if she returned it. They loved her whether she loved them or not. She commanded it. Winter had the best of everything without working or obeying. Her friends, who were coming and calling constantly, surrounded my sister. Even my young friends wanted to grow up to be Winter. My old aunties wish they could be young again only to try to look and live like Winter.

More than that, in my younger eyes, Winter was above pain and punishment and mostly no one else in the world can claim that. In the chaos of any crisis she walked in looking good, stylish, clean, and untouched. I was home when they arrested my father. I was left at home when they arrested my mother. We three sisters were separated and trapped in the system.

Shocked for some seconds, I still wanted to hug h er and have her hug me back tight enough to signal to me silently that she knew that this shit was all wrong. That she would take me back home with her. Winter looked rich. She was sparkling and free, like she had a thousand little light-bulbs outlining her entire body. Her caramel-colored skin was glowing.

Her hair was fresh, soft, long, and second only to her pretty face. She looked unbreakable, untouched, and unaffected. Then it was confirmed in my eyes on that exact day, that Winter was straight royalty, above everyone else who suffered on a regular, including now my momma and me.

That so-called visit was the first time I saw my mother and sister after being tooken, and the last time I saw both of them together ever again. Only a thick yellow fluid comes out, that one nurse said is called bile.

As for Poppa, six one, light-skinned, strong, and suave with not even a teaspoon of bitch in him, no man on earth is better than him. Momma is like a cup of hot chocolate on a freezing morning. Poppa is like a cup of black tea with a whole lot of heavy cream mixed in. Dark and light, they complemented one another.

Winter was the best parts of both of them, all in one. Listen when I tell you, I am percent loyalty. I inherited these looks. Like Winter and Momma, my beauty is undeniable, captivating, and offensive to many.

Stop that silly shit, as if there is only one shade to be deeply admired. My brown-gold eyes are outlined with a thin black line that circles around the pupil, like an exotic bird. When people first notice them, they pause and look again. Every day I fight. Not because of anything I did, just because of who I am naturally. My skin is flawless like satin, or an unaffordable diamond. Back on our Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, block I had an all-girls dance crew.

We used to rock. We even won first place at our block party over some girls that was older than us. My hair is black. It grew from my own scalp and lays on my back. Or, she cut it off because she ran up on some rotten love. In a two-year stretch, I had seventeen fights.

Nine of them were brawls over hair, with half-bald bitches with homemade weapons. I fought a conceited ugly girl named Cha-Cha four out of the nine hair fights. She wore my hair braided into single box braids on her head the next day.

I had gotten comfortable with my short cut overnight. So she fought me again. They release me into that little space butt-naked. Then I dance. Repetition makes my legs beautiful, strong, and tight. The music plays in my head, sounding crisp like it did back in Brooklyn.

I stop when I collapse. Santiaga, born rich. My daddy was rich. My momma was rich.


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A Deeper Love Inside: The Porsche Santiaga Story


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