Growing Pains Ke n dr a ’s D ia ri e s
G R OW I N G PA I N S Ke n dr a ’s D ia ri e s
K . P. SM I T H
D O I N I T P U B L I SH I N G N EW O R L E A N S
Growing Pains
Doin It Publishing ©2011 K.P. Smith ISBN 9780615390307 Library of Congress Control Number: 2010940804 Disclaimer-This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places and incidents is entirely coincidental. Rights reserves-All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.
Continue the story on line at Kendra’s Diaries: www.kendrasdiaries.com
For my sons Solomon and Christian. The inspiration for everything I do and aspire to become.
Chapter 1
Facing My Fear The sounds of birds chirping caused me to leave my last moments of sleep and forced my mind into consciousness. I closed my eyes and lay on the bed. This was my favorite part of the day. Those first few precious moments when my mind was blank: no problems, no worries, just moments of peace. I needed to lie there. I needed to mentally prepare for the day—it was an important one. The peace and quiet continued for a little while longer, but just when I thought maybe I had gotten lucky—maybe the impossible had happened—I heard them. Ring, ring, sound the bell, Take a ring side seat, the morning fight is on. It started low at first, but that wouldn’t last. The voices got louder and louder. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I knew the script by heart. I had seen this film far too many times. “It’s the middle of another month and we haven’t paid the bills,” my mom said. “Valerie, there you go again, always about money. Is that all you think about?” my daddy shot back. “No, Robert, all I think about is how we never have enough 7
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money.” “And I’m sure it’s my fault. It is always my fault.” “Well, who is the one who can’t keep a job? I have been working at the same job for the past five years. What is the longest time you’ve ever stayed on a job?” “There you go, always putting me down. Talking about what I don’t do.” “Cause you don’t do nothing.” “Nothing! Huh? What about the fact that every dime I make goes into this house.” My mom laughed as if mocking my daddy. “Won’t you stop bringing me dimes and bring some dollars? Then you might be doing something.” “How much I make is not the problem. You don’t know how to manage the money. That’s the problem!” My mom laughed again. “Manage? There is not enough to ‘mismanage.’ These kids have to go to school, they have to eat, they need clothes, a home, transportation, they need activities. They need—” “You know what I need? I need some peace and quiet. I don’t need to be nagged all the time. All I get is your whining and complaining and asking for more, more, more, more. I am so sick and tired of all this. Not happy? Then I’ll leave. Then we can all be happy. I am sure your parents would love that.” “Leave my parents out of this. They have nothing to do with this.” “There you go, sticking up for them.” The next thing I knew, someone, it had to have been my daddy, pounded his fist on the wall. In the quiet of the morning,
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the sound was so forceful that it felt like the whole house shook. I lay and waited for the knock I knew was coming. After a few seconds, there it was, a knock on the door. “Come in,” I responded. My only sibling, my younger sister, Patrice, peeked through the crack she made when she opened the door, and asked “Can I lie with you?” I moved over to make room for her on the bed. She hopped onto the bed and lay next to me. I took one of my pillows and gave to her. In unison, and showing our years of practice, we put the pillows over our heads and tried to drown out the screaming voices. They were so loud that I could no longer hear the birds chirping right outside my window. Then, I heard my sister, speaking to me through the pillow. I lifted it to hear what she was saying. “Why do mommy and daddy fight so much?” she asked, for what seemed like the millionth time. I didn’t have a clue, myself. But, since I was the big sister, I guessed it was my job to come up with something. “Adults have a lot of things to deal with, and they don’t always agree on things, and sometimes they argue. It’s no big deal,” I said, trying to sound mature and confident, trying to reassure her. “Do you think mommy and daddy love each other?” That was a new question, and it kinda took me off guard. I hesitated for a second and gave the only response I could think of, “Of course.” That seemed to satisfy her. She put the pillow back on her face. Patrice had been subjected to the fights between my parents for most of her life. Things weren’t always that way, though. There were better times—times without all this fussing and fighting—
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but those times seemed far, far away. After a while, my sister’s breathing became softer and softer, letting me know she fell asleep. I lifted the pillow off of her face and looked around my room, since there was nothing much else to do while waiting for the argument to stop. I had a full-size bed with a matching, Chester drawer set. When I looked down at my sister, asleep on the full bed, I thought, Thank God I was finally able to get out of the twin bed I’d had since I got out of my baby bed. My bedroom set was a hand-me-down from one of my mother’s friends, whose daughter left for college this past summer. But since I was 13 and still in a twin, I was grateful for anything. My bed was not decked out with a comforter set, the kind with all the fancy trimmings—no decorative pillows, no bed skirt. Instead, it was modestly covered with a spread. At least it’s my favorite color, dark green, I thought. And my curtains are a nice, lighter shade of green, close to the color of green grapes. They match my bedspread nicely. My room was not horrible, but it was far from the beautiful rooms I had seen in magazines with the sparkling Princess bedroom furniture and everything decorated in pink. The highlight of my room, by far, was my brand new television—which I got for my birthday. My grandparents bought it for me. The downside was that my sister didn’t have her own TV, so, she often watched mine with me. At least she knows the rules. She can watch television with me, but we only watch what I want to watch. A girl has to have something of her own, right? I stopped surveying my room, sat up, and listened to my sister’s breathing. She was okay. She felt safe. Then I wondered, who is supposed to make me feel safe? At church they said, “God
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is always there with you. He is there to help you.” However, I had to wonder if that was true. If he is indeed here, then where is he? And when exactly does he plan on doing something? He could start by answering any one of the countless prayers I have been praying to him. They also said, “You have to wait on Him.” How long does it take for him to show up? They said, “He is always on time.” But, according to my watch, He is very, very late. The door slammed, jolting me from my thoughts. Round one was over. So who left the house, and who is left to get us to school? I wondered. I crossed my fingers, praying it was my daddy—the lesser of the two evils, at least in this situation. My bedroom door opened and my mom walked through. God, do you even listen when I pray? And can’t she at least knock before she comes barging in. No respect for my privacy. She doesn’t even say good morning before starting with all her yakking. “Kendra, you know you have to go to school. Why do I have to come in here and get you? You are the oldest. You should get up and get your sister up.” Was she kidding? Who wants to get out of bed with all that whooping and hollering? “Get up.” She started shaking Patrice. I took my chance to get the heck out of there, while her attention was not on me. “Kendra, are you listening to me?” Yeah, I hear you, I was thinking. But, I always waited while all that noise was going on. “Kendra, are you listening to me?” She asked me again when I didn’t answer her. I was near the door at this point. I knew if I kept walking
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there was a good chance she would come up behind me and really let me have it. So instead I just mumbled, “Yeah, I hear you,” and walked to the bathroom. If there was any good thing about my mom getting us to school, it was that she would make sure my sister got ready. My daddy would have made me do it. Now I can have some moments to myself. I studied myself in the mirror as I performed the normal routine of getting ready for school, praying not to find any new flaws that might have popped up during the night. At my age, pimples were a constant enemy that kept showing up for battle. From the looks of things, none came to fight that morning. I looked more closely at myself. I wouldn’t have won the Miss Teen USA pageant, but I liked what I saw. My complexion fell under the category of “light skinned.” In America, whites made up the majority, and then there were various other ethnic groups that were considered minorities, we blacks included. However, in New Orleans things were a bit different. There were whites and blacks, mostly, but blacks were divided into groups: “light-skinned,” “dark-skinned,” and everything else was “in between.” I had dark brown, wavy hair that went to about my shoulders. People had always called me cute, pretty or something like that. From the neck up, I had few complaints. But, from the neck down my confidence level swung up and down. I skipped the training bra and went straight to a “32 C.” Overnight, they just appeared. Further down my body, genetics came into play, big time, and not to my benefit. “Short genes” ran in my family. I know that if I reached five foot, it would be a miracle. I was not fat, but nowhere close to slim, either. At that time,
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I was considered “fine,” but I was keenly aware that I was on the edge—another ten pounds or so and that “fine” would have been changed to “fat.” It was not easy, living under that type of pressure. At least if you are born big, you learn to live with it. But, living under the thought that ten pounds could change my whole status—that was a lot for a girl my age to handle. As I stood in front of the mirror, my mind went back to my first cheerleading tryout two years ago. I was in sixth grade then— that was the youngest a girl could be and try out for cheerleading. I barely slept the night before. All day, I couldn’t concentrate in class. I kept rehearsing and practicing, in my head, every single cheer, over and over again. When it was time for tryouts, all of the girls waited in the locker room. Everyone tried to appear calm, but I knew everyone was just as nervous as I was. For some, it was their last year at the school, the last year to try and make it. For others, like me, it was not our last chance, but we still wanted to make it as much as they did. There was not much conversation. There were some nervous glances, some girls looking around, trying to size up their competition. Some people were in the corner getting in one final practice session. We could hear the cheerleaders in the gym, with music, gearing up the crowd and getting them ready. All of us could feel the excitement, the adrenaline, all the way in the locker room. As the minutes passed, the knots in my stomach felt tighter and tighter. When it was time we all ran out onto the gym floor and were greeted by the screaming crowd. My heart was beating so hard and fast that it felt like it was going to come out of my chest. I took my place on the gym floor and looked around. I made it, after
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six years—I made it. I was there. I looked up into the bleachers and saw my best friend, Katrina, right where she said she would be. She gave me the thumbs up sign and I smiled broadly at her. Lord knows, my insides were a mess, but I was ready, prepared and confident. My confidence served me well. The first few cheers were great. As each minute passed, my insides calmed down and I went into a “zone.” I could see and hear the crowd, but I was transported to another place. I was at home in my backyard. No one else was there but me. We finished our last cheer together and the gym exploded in applause. I looked up at Katrina and she was smiling, jumping up and clapping, letting me know I had done well. We went back into the locker room to wait. Then came the hard part—the part that separated the average from good, and good from great. It was time to do our cheers individually. If I thought the knots were bad before, they were nothing compared to what I felt as I waited in the locker room for my turn. There was silence in the locker room—no conversation and little movement. Some girls had their head down, some were pacing the floor. I elected to sit with my hands folded, praying to God. I prayed so hard I didn’t hear my name called at first. Then across the intercom I heard the second call for Kendra Foster. I popped up and hurried out. There I was in the middle of the floor with hundreds of pairs of eyes all on me. I took a quick look at Katrina again. She smiled at me, but I could see she was just as nervous as I was. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and began. The first cheer went off without a hitch. It could have been better, but it was still pretty good. One of the requirements was that everyone had to do a spread eagle, which meant I had to jump up, do a split in the air
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and land on my feet. No problem for me, I have been practicing this for months, right? I thought. I chose to do the spread eagle in the middle of my second cheer. I am not exactly sure how it happened, if I tripped on my shoes laces or maybe there was a wet spot on the floor. Maybe I was just clumsy. All I know is when I came down from the spread eagle, instead of landing on my feet, I landed flat on my face with a loud thud. As my face slapped onto the hard gym floor, I heard hundreds of gasps. The pain in my head was instantaneous and severe. Even though I didn’t want to, I had to lift my head to make sure I could move it. There they were all those pairs of eyes on me, some in horror, some in fear, some with pity and, of course, some laughing, but all bearing down on me. My face was hot with shame and tears blinded my vision. I jumped to my feet to get out of there, but my body would not cooperate. My legs came out from beneath me and went down. The next thing I knew, there were people everywhere, feeling my head, asking me my name, asking me how many fingers I could see. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me. I had to sit in the middle of the gym floor with all this commotion. I managed to meet Katrina’s eyes. She looked so worried. I smiled to try and reassure her. They finally felt comfortable enough to move me and asked if I could make it to the office. They wanted to call my mom to come and get me. I quickly shook my head “yes.” I was ready to get outta there. When I got up, the crowd cheered and that made me feel a little better. My mom almost passed out when she got there and saw that gigantic knot on my forehead. A few hours and several x-rays later, the doctor gave me the “all clear” sign. He told my mom, “Keep a
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close eye on her for the next few days, but I expect her to be fine.” Fine? I will never be fine again. On the way home I closed my eyes and leaned against the seat. It wasn’t long before my mom tried to make me feel better. “Kendra what you have just experienced is terrible and I won’t even try to make like it isn’t. At your age this must seem like the end of the world, but it’s not. Now, when you go back to school tomorrow—” Tomorrow? She is making me go back to school tomorrow? I was thinking more along the lines of dropping out. “—hold your head up. You can always try out again next year.” Next year? How can I even think about that? All I could think about was going back to school and having all those eyes on me again. “Don’t be a quitter. Life will bring about many difficult situations and the last thing you want to do is start quitting when things get hard. This is a painful, but important lesson for you to learn. The choice is yours. That is the most important lesson for you to learn from this. Life is about choices and we have to live with the consequences of the choices we make.” I never told anyone, not even Katrina, but all through the next summer I practiced every day. But when the first day of tryout practice came, I chickened out at the last minute. My mom was right. I’ve had to live with that choice. By not trying out, I thought I took the easy way out, but it turned out to be the hard way. It was hard to look at the cheerleaders, longing to be one of them: wanting to do it, preparing to do it, saying I would do it. But fear stepped in. The fear spoke to me. It told me, you can’t do it. You will fail. The fear haunted me and stopped me. Yes, the fear was always, always there.
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I looked at my reflection again in the mirror, this time talking back to myself. “Kendra, you have to forget all that. That was two years ago. You have to focus on today. This is it; this is your last chance.” I refused to live in regret. Trying out was not just about being a cheerleader—it was also about me. It was about truly facing myself and, most importantly, facing my fear. “Kendra, come on, your breakfast is on the table,” my mom’s voice boomed from the kitchen. I quickly finished getting ready and put on my uniform. I was glad my school had moved on from that dull navy blue skirt to a full pleated skirt. Finally, we were wearing the plaid skirt with the box pleats that all the other Catholic School girls were wearing. I looked at my saddle oxfords and wondered if I would get by my mom or any of the teachers without hearing how dirty they were. Probably not, but I was not going to worry about such trivial matters today. I’ll polish them before the week is out. As soon as I walked out of the bathroom, the smell of bacon beckoned me to the kitchen. I sat down to a nice plate of golden brown pancakes—the steam was still wafting from them into the air—with a side of bacon fried extra crispy just like I liked it, and orange juice on the rocks. Okay, there was a second plus to my mom taking us to school. If it were my daddy, breakfast would have been a bowl of cereal, and toast, courtesy of Chef Kendra. “Kendra, have you decided which high schools you are going to apply to?” my mom asked as I was taking my first bite of breakfast. Oh, and she warmed the syrup! I thought, as the pancakes melted in my mouth. Mom you made my favorite breakfast please let me eat it in peace. That morning above all others, I didn’t want to engage in any
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conversation. I wanted to keep my mind clear and focused on the most important matter of the day: cheerleader tryout practice. “Yes mom, I have been thinking about it.” I was hoping that would be enough and she would drop the subject. She continued, “I know you have your heart set on The Academy, but your daddy and I want to make sure you apply to other schools, just in case you can’t go to The Academy.” I nodded. I glanced at Patrice, who was enjoying her breakfast. Wasn’t there something going on in her life that my mom wanted to discuss with her? “What does the counselor at school have to say? Have you met with her yet?” It was obvious I was going to have this conversation whether I wanted to or not. “Yes, I met with Ms. Santa Marina. Yes, she also advised me to keep my options open. We agreed I will apply to other schools, plus The Academy. Yes, I will mail off all the applications soon. I am waiting for my teachers and Ms. Santa Marina to write their letters of recommendation. Ms. Marina told me that with my good grades, I will definitely get accepted to all of them, and there is a good possibility I will get more than one scholarship offer. Now, can I please just eat?” “Don’t get smart with me, little girl. We have sacrificed, and with the help of the good Lord, we have been able to pay for you and your sister to attend St. Peter, Paul & Mary. But high school is much more expensive, and without a scholarship we can’t afford it. But we want you and your sister to have the best education possible. You need to be prepared, in case you have to go somewhere other than The Academy. Like Ms. Marina said, you have to keep all of your options open.” It amazed me that my mom never tired of saying the same
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thing over and over again. Lord knows, I got tired of hearing it. I didn’t live with my head in the sand. Our money problems were no secret. They argued about it all the time. I know they can’t afford to send me to any of the schools I am applying to, let alone The Academy. I just get tired of being reminded all the time. Mom, I would love to tell you how hypocritical this sounds. I’d love to point out how you always say how good God is, and how He answers prayers—how you have to have faith, no matter what, no doubt. “No matter how impossible things seem, you had to keep your faith,” you always say. What I really want is to ask her, “So, where is all that talk now? Can’t I believe God will answer my prayers? Can’t I have some faith and believe that I could go to The Academy? I have been studying and making very good grades for years. Is it so farfetched, too much to ask for, to believe that I will get the scholarship to The Academy? Is that too much to ask for? “Do you hear me, God? Are you listening?” As soon as I stepped onto the school yard about 30 minutes later, Katrina came rushing up to me. She stopped in front of me and was trying to catch her breath. “Guess what?” she exclaimed, and before I could ask, “Melanie Meyers is also trying out for cheerleading. I just found out.” What? “Good for her.” I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I was fighting to think positive thoughts and that was the last thing I wanted to hear. “At least we found out, so you won’t freak out when you see her at practice.” “Yeah, I’m already close to freaking out, and it won’t take
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much to push me over the edge.” “Don’t worry about her, focus on you.” Don’t worry about her? All the eighth grade girls have been worrying since she got here. The problem was she hadn’t done anything to any of us—unless you counted being born, being born beautiful, coming to school at St. Peter, Paul and Mary, and capturing every boy’s attention. Now she was trying out for cheerleaders. Melanie Meyers captured all our attention the first day of school. I noticed her instantly. Tall, graceful, beautiful, long straight hair, flawless skin—and instantly I disliked her. I knew from looking at her she had to be in at least seventh grade. She stood there on the first day of school, all by herself. She stood confidently, as if she was oblivious to all the stares she was getting from both boys and girls. The boys were more gawking at her than staring. Everyone wanted to know who she was, where she came from, and whose class she was going to be in. My eighth grade class was the lucky one. Melanie had barely made a friend. We were all green with envy. We knew it, and Melanie knew it, too. She knew we wouldn’t accept her, and she kept her distance. Girls were like that—catty, competitive and jealous. “Are you listening to me?” Katrina asked. “Yeah, I am sorry, my mind wandered off for a second. Katrina, are you applying to any school other than The Academy?” I asked her, changing the conversation. My conversation with my mom that morning still lingered on my mind. She looked confused by my question, which seemed to appear out of the blue. “No,” she replied slowly trying to figure out where this was coming from.
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“Have you changed your mind?” I could hear alarm in her voice. Katrina and I never discussed the fact that her family had money and mine did not. There was no need for her to apply to anywhere else. She definitely had the grades to get in. Her grades were better than mine, but they didn’t need to be. She didn’t need a scholarship. Her parents could afford it. She was going to The Academy, and that was that. “No, it’s that my mom was giving me the ‘if I don’t get a scholarship I won’t be able to go’ speech this morning. My mom and Ms. Marina are both singing the same song: ‘I have to keep my options open.’” Her face changed from alarm to genuine concern. “You will get it.” She squeezed my arm. I smiled at her. I still remember the first day we met here in first grade. I was already seated in my seat. Katrina was walking around the class, looking for her name on a desk. A few minutes later, she found her name on the desk next to mine. She smiled at me. I smiled back at her, and we had been inseparable since. In the fifth grade we went on a field trip to see a live production of “Annie.” The play was performed at The Academy. When the bus stopped in front of the school, my eyes grew wide. I had never seen a school like this. It was so big. As we walked from the bus to the school grounds, I took it all in. The buildings were all white, with gold trim. The grass was a deep rich green. It looked like something out of a movie. We were given a tour of the school before the play. The inside was even better. The floors were sparkling, the walls freshly painted, and the classrooms were modern and new. They had a gym, an auditorium, a soccer field, and a cafeteria that looked like a restaurant. The name fit perfectly, it was: The Academy. That day,
Katrina and I fell in love with the school. We made a pact that day: We were going to The Academy for high school. I smiled up at my best friend. Our family’s finances were not our only differences. I am short. She is tall. I am curvy. She is slender. I am fair skinned. She is dark skinned. My hair is long and wavy. Hers is short, with a perm. Standing next to each other, we looked like “the odd couple.” But inside, we were kindred spirits. “You are right. I will get the scholarship,” I replied, linking my arm through hers as the school bell rang. “Of course I am. We are going to The Academy and you will make cheerleading.” Katrina said and we headed to class.