Category: Tour-First Wild Card-2009

copyright 2010, Cindy (Cindy’s Love Of Books)
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“Remind me to never, ever star in another high school musical again.” Eliza sighed dramatically as she poured her coffee. It was the Sunday morning after the final performance of South Pacific and DJ suspected that Eliza was just fishing for compliments. Not that she hadn’t already gotten plenty. And last night, she’d been presented with a huge bouquet of roses. DJ knew they were from Eliza’s parents, but Eliza received them like an Oscar.

“But what if Mr. Harper really does High School Musical in the spring?” asked Kriti with wide dark eyes. DJ could tell by the way Kriti said this that she was hoping he would. Eliza probably was too.

“That is so last week,” said Taylor.

“Meaning you wouldn’t participate in it?” Eliza pushed a long strand of blond hair over her shoulder and sat up straighter, looking directly at Taylor like this was a personal challenge.

Taylor rolled her eyes then reached for the fruit platter. “Meaning I don’t really want to think about it right now. Sheesh, Eliza, didn’t you just ask us to remind you never to be another musical?”

“Eliza is probably just trying to secure her next starring role,” said Rhiannon. Then she frowned like she hadn’t really meant it to sound like that. “And why shouldn’t she?” she added quickly. “Eliza was absolutely fantastic as Nurse Nellie. Everyone said so.”

“And it’s obvious that Eliza will never want us to forget that she was a star,” teased Casey.

“Was.” Taylor chuckled. “As in she’s a has-been now.”

Some of the girls snickered, but Eliza just glared at Taylor.

Then as if she’d just started listening, Grandmother cleared her throat, closing the open date book that she’d been studying, she looked at the girls. “I see there are only two weeks remaining until winter break, ladies.” She shook her head sadly. “I just can’t believe that it’s already December. It seems like only yesterday that you girls arrived at Carter House. My, my, how time flies.”

“And the Winter Ball is next Saturday,” Eliza reminded them. As if anyone could’ve forgotten with all posters plastered all over the school. But DJ was still unsure. Conner had asked her to go, but she hadn’t agreed. Even though Haley hadn’t returned to school yet, it still made DJ uncomfortable to be seen as more than “just friends” with Conner. And DJ knew that Haley’s swim team buddies were probably reporting to her.

“My mother and I are shopping for gowns today,” continued Eliza. She glanced at her roommate. “And Kriti too, or course.”

“I already have my dress,” said Taylor. “A little something my mother sent over from Milan while she was performing there last month.”

DJ could tell this little dig was aimed directly at Eliza. The two girls had been going at it steadily for the last couple of weeks. It had started when Eliza’s boyfriend Harry had made what Eliza interpreted as a flirtatious move toward Taylor during a rehearsal for the musical. Actually, DJ had seen it herself and, although she hadn’t told anyone, she felt certain that Harry had been flirting too. But he’d been unaware that Eliza had been watching at the time. Yet, in a way, DJ was glad Eliza and Taylor were at odds again. They had all experienced those two “power forces” united during last month’s ski trip—and it had been rather frightening experience. Sort of like it might be if Russia and China ever got together.

“My mother offered to shop a gown for me in Paris,” said Eliza, her attempt at one-upping Taylor. “But I told her to wait. I wouldn’t want to risk having a dress that fit poorly.”

“That’s why God invented alterations, Eliza,” said Taylor. “Or perhaps you don’t have such conveniences down south.”

“I don’t see why girls think they need to go out and spend a bunch of money on something new for a silly dance,” said Casey. She glanced at Rhiannon and DJ suspected that Casey was trying to make her feel better. “I mean you’ll wear that dress like one time. What a waste!”

“So what do you intend to wear?” asked Eliza with a bored sort of interest. “Your Doc Martins and something with spikes?”

Casey made a face. “Actually, I might go eighties retro. Like Madonna or Blondie.”

“Right.” Eliza turned up her nose. “And the Winter Ball theme is White Christmas and we’re supposed to dress in a fifties style of Hollywood elegance.”

“You take those posters literally?” asked Casey.

“They suggested dresses in Christmas colors of red, green or white.” Eliza continued like she was reading it from a brochure.

“I think it’ll be pretty,” said Kriti.

“I intend to look for something sparkly in white to show off my tan,” said Eliza.

“Fake tan.” Taylor pushed a curly dark strand of hair away from her face and laughed. “My dress is black.”

“It figures.” Eliza snickered.

“I’m going to wear green,” said Rhiannon quickly, like she was trying to keep this from escalating.

“What do you mean it figures?” demanded Taylor.

“Everyone else will look Christmassy in red, green or white and the vamp will show up wearing black.” Eliza laughed.

“Speaking of Winter Break,” said Grandmother loudly. “What exactly are your plans, ladies?” She opened her date book and picked up her silver pen. “I’d like to make note of it now, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll be in France for Christmas,” Eliza announced proudly.

“So you’ll be flying directly to France from Connecticut?” inquired Grandmother.

“Actually, I’ll spend the first week or so in Kentucky,” admitted Eliza. “Visiting with friends and family. Then my older siblings and I will travel together just before Christmas. My mother said the rooms aren’t completely renovated yet. Her designer, a well-known Parisian, promises to have it completed before Christmas Eve.”

“La—tee—da,” said Casey.

Grandmother frowned at Casey. “So, how about you, Miss Atwood? When will you be departing for California?”

“The same day that school is out.”

Grandmother made note of this.

“And I’ll be leaving the day after school it out,” said Rhiannon.

Grandmother’s brows lifted with curiosity. “To go where, dear?”

“To an aunt who lives in Maine.”

Grandmother smiled. “That’s nice. I didn’t know you had an aunt, Rhiannon.”

“I didn’t either. She’s actually a great aunt and…” Rhiannon paused as if unsure. “My mother may be joining me up there.”

“Really?” Grandmother looked a bit skeptical, and everyone else got quiet. They all knew that Rhiannon’s mother was in drug rehab—the lockdown kind.

“Yes. If my aunt signs something, they’ll release her for the holidays.”

“Very interesting.” Grandmother looked at Kriti now. “I assume you’ll be in New York?”

Kriti nodded happily. “Yes. We have some relatives coming from India to visit. My mother is very excited.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll have a delightful Christmas.” Grandmother frowned with realization. “I suppose you don’t call it Christmas, do you, Kriti?”

Kriti looked slightly embarrassed. “It’s a different sort of holiday, Mrs. Carter. We celebrate things like love, affection, sharing, and the renewing of family bonds.”

“That sounds lovely.” Grandmother looked at Taylor now. “And what will you be doing during the holidays, dear?”

Taylor sighed. “My mother has invited me to tour with her.”

Grandmother’s eyes lit up. She was a huge fan of Eva Perez. “Where will she be touring? Europe still?”

“I wish. No, she’ll be in the southwest by then. And it looks like we’ll be spending Christmas in Las Vegas.”

Eliza snickered. “Charming.”

Taylor tossed her a warning glance. “Hey, Las Vegas has its perks.”

“Most importantly, is that you’re with family, Taylor.” Grandmother smiled. “Isn’t that what Christmas is all about?”

Taylor shrugged. “I guess.”

Now Grandmother looked at DJ. “Now, you’re still certain you don’t want to join your father and his family for Christmas, Desiree?”

“No, Grandmother.” DJ tried not to show frustration. But she and Grandmother had already been over this. The last place DJ wanted to be during Christmas break was with her father’s happy little step family. It was bad enough that this would be her first Christmas without her mother. But to be stuck playing the live-in babysitter to the toddler twins was unimaginable.

“Well, I’m sure that we’ll have a delightful time right here at home.” Grandmother smiled at DJ. “Perhaps we’ll have the general over.”

DJ got sympathetic glances from Rhiannon and Casey and maybe even Kriti. Not that she wanted their pity. But Eliza just smiled smugly. And Taylor, well, she was a hard one to read.

But later that day, after DJ and Rhiannon got back from church, Taylor asked DJ if she was happy about her “holiday plans.”

DJ groaned as she flopped onto her bed. “Holiday plans? Like I planned any of this?”

Taylor laughed. “Yeah, I guess not.”

“I’ll be fine,” DJ assured her. “I’ll catch up on sleep and reading.”

“Maybe Conner will be around to keep you entertained,” Taylor said in a sexy sounding teasing tone.

“Conner is going with his family to Montana for two weeks.”

“Bummer.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I know!” Taylor exclaimed. “You’ll come out to Las Vegas and visit me for Christmas.”

DJ just laughed. “Oh, yeah, like that’s going to happen.”

“Why not?” Taylor looked slightly hurt.

“Seriously, Christmas in Las Vegas?”

“Why not?”

“Well, besides the fact that it sounds totally crazy. I know that my grandmother would never—in a million years—agree to something like that.” And the truth was that DJ was secretly relieved for this excuse. Because, really, the only thing she could imagine being worse than spending Christmas with Grandmother in Connecticut, or even her father’s step family in California, would be to spend Christmas in Las Vegas with Taylor Mitchell.

Chapter 2

“Why don’t you just go to the dance with Conner?” demanded Casey as DJ drove them home from school on Tuesday.

“I agree with Casey,” said Taylor. “Why don’t you just get it over with and say you’ll go?”

“I agree too,” chimed in Rhiannon. “Just go, DJ.”

“You know you want to,” urged Casey.

“Yes, I’ve admitted that,” said DJ. “But I just don’t want to risk hurting Haley again. She’s been through so much already.”

“That wasn’t your fault,” pointed out Rhiannon.

And, sure, DJ knew that she hadn’t been the one to push Haley into her “fake” suicide attempt—an attempt that nearly killed her. But DJ cared about Haley. She didn’t want to take any chances.

“But you said that when Haley was in the hospital, she told you that she was fine with you and Conner getting back—“

“Sure, she said that. But who knows how she really feels? Or even how she feels now?”

“Where exactly is she now?” ventured Taylor.

“I’m not supposed to say.”

“We know it’s some kind of loony bin,” said Taylor. “Why not just be honest and tell us?”

“It’s not a loony bin.” DJ scowled at Taylor as she stopped for the light. “If you must know, it’s a therapeutic clinic in New Jersey.”

“Tomatoes, to-MAH-toes. Same thing, Deej.”

“Whatever. The point is I don’t want to hurt her.”

“I know what you’re worried about…” Taylor was using that sly tone she sometimes put on to get DJ going. “You think Haley’s thugs are going to beat you up again, don’t you?”

“I do not.” Okay, the truth was, that was a little worrisome. DJ had done what she could to befriend Bethany and Amy while Haley was still in the hospital. And while Amy showed some signs of understanding, Bethany (a very large and athletic girl) was another story. Bethany was fiercely loyal to Haley. So much so that DJ sometimes secretly wondered if Bethany had feelings beyond just friendship for Haley. Okay, that was dumb. But Bethany was scary.

“Why don’t you just call Haley?” suggested Casey. “Ask her how she feels about it?”

“That seems a little harsh,” pointed out DJ. “I mean she’s being treated for suicide and I’m calling up to see if it’s okay if I go to the Winter Ball with the guy she almost OD’d for? Maybe I should ask her about my dress too and if I go for a white gown is it okay to wear white shoes after Labor Day?”
“Yeah, that does seem a little harsh,” agreed Rhiannon.

“So, really, you guys can give it up okay,” said DJ. “I think Conner already has.”

“I just feel sad that you’re the only one in Carter House who’s not going,” said Rhiannon.

“Well, don’t.” DJ turned onto their street, eager to end this conversation. The truth was DJ felt a little sad about the whole thing herself. In fact, it seemed a little unfair. But it also seemed like the mature thing to do. As far as Crescent Cove High and the world at large were concerned, she and Conner were still just friends. And that’s how she planned to keep it until she knew that Haley could handle it.

“So, do you think Rhiannon and I could borrow your car?” asked Casey. “We still have a few things to pick up for the dance.”

“Sure…” DJ pulled into the driveway, suddenly feeling even more out of it. “You mean this afternoon?”

“If you don’t mind…”

“We’d ask you to come along too,” said Rhiannon in an apologetic, “but that might seem crass…considering you’re not going to the dance…”

“Hey, why don’t we all go,” suggested Taylor suddenly. “You two can hit your retro stores and DJ can help me pick out some really hot shoes.”

“Okay,” said DJ, actually feeling eager. “And I’ll just pretend like I’m going to the dance too.”

“Who knows,” said Casey, “maybe we’ll change your mind.”

“Or maybe just talk you into a new pair of shoes,” teased Taylor.

So off they headed to the mall. And for a while DJ even pretended that she, like them, was getting ready to go to the dance. She even held up some dresses and imagined she was going.

“Oh, DJ,” said Taylor as DJ held up a garnet red sequined number. “That is really hot.” She shook her head. “And most people say blondes can’t wear red.”

“Well, I’m just a dishwater blond,” DJ reminded her.

“Why don’t you just go?” demanded Taylor. “If it makes you feel better, send Haley a note to explain it. Sheesh, she’s in therapy anyway…might give her something to talk about during one of her group sessions.”

DJ couldn’t help but laugh. Still, it seemed mean.

“Seriously, DJ. You might be doing her a favor to go. Kind of a reality check. I mean it’s about time Haley figured out that, even though she tries to kill herself, she can’t control other people. If a guy doesn’t like you, he just doesn’t like you. Get over it already.”

DJ considered this. As harsh as it sounded, it was probably true. “I don’t know…”

“Look, DJ,” said Taylor. “I know you’re trying to be nice—the goody-good girl. But have you considered the possibility that you’re just being codependent?”

“Huh?”

“You actually have some codependent traits.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, your desire to keep everyone happy and—“

“I do NOT try to keep everyone happy.”

Taylor laughed. “That’s right. You usually try to make me miserable.”

“I do not.”

“See,” said Taylor, like that proved her point.

DJ felt confused.

“All I’m saying is that you and Conner go tiptoeing around, pretending you’re not dating so that you can protect Haley’s delicate feelings while she’s in the loony bin and you think you’re helping her? What happens when she’s back in the real world and you and Conner, say, want to go to the prom, do you blame yourselves if Haley gets hurt and goes and jumps off a bridge? Will you forever be responsible for Haley and the choices she makes?”

“That does sound a little creepy…when you put it like that.”

“It sounds unhealthy and codependent to me.”

“So?”

“So, stop it!”
DJ pulled out her phone now and hit Conner’s speed dial. “Conner,” she said in a firm voice, “do you still want to take me to the Winter Ball?”

“Of course.”

So she quickly replayed what Taylor had just said and Conner actually laughed. “Well, I can’t believe that the roommate from hell could just tell you what I’ve been saying to you for weeks, but you would listen to her and not to me.”

“Sorry,” said DJ. “Sometimes God works in mysterious ways.”

Taylor frowned at her with arms folded across her chest and toe tapping.

“Anyway, if you’re okay, I’m okay,” said DJ. “But I plan to write Haley a little note to let her know what’s up. I think it’ll just be kind of like an I’m-thinking-of-you sort of email, and then I’ll casually mention that we’re going to the dance next weekend. Does that sound okay?”

“I don’t think you even need to do that much, DJ.”

“I just want to.”

“Yeah…that’s just one of the things I like about you.”

She smiled. “Okay, then…sounds like it’s a date.”

“You bet!”

“By the way, the dress is red.”

“Right…does that mean I need a red tux?”

DJ laughed and whispered to Taylor, “Conner just asked me if he needs to get a red tux.”

Taylor snatched the phone. “Not red, you idiot.” Then she told him specifically what he needed and where to get it before she handed the phone back to DJ.

“Sorry about that,” said DJ.

“No, it’s actually helpful. But I probably should’ve been taking notes.”

“I’m sure Taylor can write it down for you.”

“Guess I can tell the guys to put me down for the stretch limo now. Harry’s already ordered a Hummer.”

“Sounds fun.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” said Conner. “This will be our first real date in a long time.”

“Date?” DJ echoed as the meaning of the word sank in.

“Well, it is, isn’t it?”
“Yeah…” she nodded slowly. “I guess so.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“Yeah…I’m just getting used to the idea.”

“Have fun shopping.”

“Thanks.” DJ hung up and looked at Taylor. “I guess we’re going.”

“Of course, you’re going.” Taylor shoved the red dress at her. “Now, try this on. I think it’s you’re size, but I’ll grab a couple of others just in case.”

After several tries, DJ found the perfect fit and when she came out to show Taylor, a couple other shoppers paused to look. Everyone agreed that it was perfect. DJ spun around. “It feels so good to be in a dress like this without a big old cast on my foot.”

Taylor laughed and explained to the bystanders that DJ had recently recovered from a broken leg.

“You look stunning,” said the sales woman. “Do you want me to start writing it up for you?”
DJ paused. “Oh, I didn’t even look at the price.”

“Just put it on granny’s account,” ordered Taylor.

“But I—“

“Trust me,” said Taylor. “If necessary, I’ll do the explaining. But I know that you’re grandmother would want you to have this dress, Desiree!”

“Yes, Desiree,” said the sales woman, “I’m sure she would.”

But while Taylor was taking the dress up to the counter, DJ called her grandmother and quickly explained. “And Taylor insists it’s the perfect dress,” she said finally, “but I think it’s a bit ex—“

“If Taylor says it’s perfect, it’s perfect,” proclaimed Grandmother. “And I’m so pleased to hear you’re going to the Winter Ball, Desiree. I didn’t want to say anything, or to make you feel badly, but I was terribly disappointed when I heard you hadn’t been invited.”

DJ almost pointed out that she HAD been invited but that she’d declined, but then she realized it would make no difference. Grandmother, as usual, would draw her own conclusions. Why bother? “Thanks, Grandmother,” she said brightly. “And now I’ll need shoes and—“

“Of course, you will. Ask Taylor to help you with those too. Her taste is as impeccable as her looks.”

“Okay….” What Grandmother didn’t know never failed to astonish DJ. Still, everyone knew that Taylor was Grandmother’s prize pony.

“The second-hand shoppers just called,” said Taylor after the saleswoman put the dress on her grandmother’s account and handed over the sleek garment bag. “I told them the good news and that it’ll take us at least an hour to snag the other things you’ll need.”

“They were okay with that?”

“Sure, Rhiannon said they’d just grab the metro back to town.”

“They didn’t mind using public transportation?”

“You know those two.” Taylor shook her head. “The grittier it gets the happier they are.”

“Did they find what they’re looking for?”

“Sounded like it.” Taylor hurried DJ along. “And I just remembered a great pair of shoes that I noticed several shops back. I think they’ll be perfect with that dress.”

“Grandmother knew you would.”

Taylor looked curiously at DJ then laughed. “Well, of course!”

By the time they finished, DJ was starving. “Let’s get something at the food court,” she urged Taylor. “I’m craving real food.”
Taylor looked like she was going to turn up her nose, but then she noticed the new Japanese place. “I could go for sushi.”

“No,” said DJ, pulling Taylor by the arm. “I mean real food. You’ve been bossing me around the fashion arena, I’m going to boss you around the cuisine arena. We’re having pasta.”

“Pasta?” Taylor’s eyes lit up.

“Yeah. And, trust me, we’ve done enough walking and shopping that you don’t need to worry about the calories.”

And so they didn’t. And as they sat there slurping up linguini with pesto, DJ thought there might be hope for them yet. After all, hadn’t this been a fairly normal shopping trip? Just two friends out getting ready for the Winter Ball? And yet DJ knew Taylor well enough to know that Taylor could pull the rug out from under her at any given moment. And while that was kind of exciting—in an adrenaline rush sort of way—it was also a little frightening.

Chapter 3

“Show and tell,” said Eliza as soon as DJ and Taylor came into the house with their arms loaded up with bags.

“What?” Taylor frowned at Eliza.

“Come on,” urged Eliza in her southern singsong voice. “Show and tell.”
Taylor rolled her eyes. “In your dreams.”

“But I showed you girls my dress on Sunday night,” she protested.

“Showed off, don’t you mean?” Taylor just kept walking up the stairs.

“Come on, DJ,” urged Eliza. “Don’t you want to show us your dress? We already know that you’re going to the dance.”

“Who told you?”

“Your grandmother,” Kriti informed. “At dinner.”

“So you’ve decided that Haley can just go take a flying leap?” teased Eliza.

“No. I realized that I was doing her no favors by sparing her from the truth.” DJ looked up the stairs. Taylor was already in their room. “My roommate helped me to see the light.”

Eliza laughed loudly.

Now Rhiannon and Casey looked down the stairs. “Did you find a dress?” called down Rhiannon.

“Yes, but Taylor and DJ won’t let us see their dresses,” Eliza called back up.

“I didn’t say that.”

“So, can we see?” asked Eliza hopefully.

“I’ll think about it,” said DJ. Then she ran up the stairs.

“We’re watching a chick flick down here,” said Kriti. “If you’re interested.”

“Thanks,” said DJ. “But I have homework.”

“And we’re designing,” called Rhiannon.

“So we’ve heard,” Eliza called back. “Not that we’re interested. Are we, Kriti. Who cares what everyone else in the house is wearing. We know that we’ll look great.”

DJ couldn’t help but laugh as she went up the stairs. Why was it so vital for Eliza to know what everyone else was wearing? Of course, DJ knew the answer to this. It’s like everything was a competition with that girl. A competition where Eliza Wilton had to come out on top. And DJ had seen Eliza’s beautiful white dress. To be honest, it could’ve passed for a wedding dress. A comment that Taylor made, but not in such a flattering way. But there was no denying that it was beautiful—in a confectionary sort of way. All sparkly white and fitted, and Eliza did look like a princess in it. Fitting since Eliza probably did consider herself to be royalty. At least in Carter House.

And Kriti had looked like a nice little lady in waiting to Princess Eliza in her red velvet gown. Although DJ had thought it hadn’t done much for Kriti’s shape. Not that Kriti had a bad shape. But the velvet seemed heavy and awkward and probably added pounds, which didn’t help since Kriti was much shorter than the other girls, and not as slender. Anyway, it seemed that the dress overwhelmed her. But Eliza had proclaimed it perfect. And for a handmaid, it probably was. Poor Kriti. Still, she seemed happy with her lot in life—catering to Eliza.

“Want a sneak peek?” whispered Rhiannon once DJ was at the second floor landing.

“Of you guys?”

“Yeah, but we’d like to see your dress too.”

“Sure.” DJ slipped into their room, unzipping her bag to reveal the scrumptious gown.

“That’s gorgeous,” said Rhiannon with an affirming nod. “Really, really beautiful.”

“Swanky,” teased Casey.

DJ frowned.

“But pretty,” Casey said quickly.

“Thanks. Now, show me what you guys put together.” DJ looked around the messy room. Rhiannon’s sewing machine was still out and there were pieces of dresses and scarves and fabric strewn all about. “It’s certainly interesting in here.”

Rhiannon went over to her sewing machine and lifted up what appeared to be a pile of varying shades of green fabric. But when she held it up it turned into what looked like an incredible creation. “What do you think?” she asked hopefully.

“I think it’s fantastic, Rhiannon.” DJ went closer to examine it. Constructed of all different types of green fabrics, scarves, ribbons, beads and trims and yet it didn’t look goofy or homemade. “It’s amazing.”

“Isn’t it?” said Casey with pride. “I can’t believe she made this from scrap.”

“From recycled dresses and blouses and whatever I could find that worked,” said Rhiannon.

“You could sell clothes like this,” said DJ.

“And you don’t need to worry about anyone wearing the same dress,” added Casey.

Rhiannon laughed. “For sure.”

“Hold it up,” urged DJ.

Rhiannon held it in front of her, and those rich green tones against her pale skin and vibrant red hair looked absolutely stunning.

“I can’t imagine anything more beautiful,” said DJ. “It’s perfect.”

“I told her she looks like a Celtic goddess,” said Casey.

“It’s certainly magical. It reminds me of Ireland…or fairies.”

“Thanks so much, you guys!” Rhiannon was beaming now. “It’s kind of hard, you know, not having money like some people and trying to keep up with…well, everyone.”

“There’s no need to keep up with me,” said Casey.

“What are you wearing, Case?” DJ turned to look at her.

“Just like I said.” Casey opened her closet and pulled out something that looked like a cross between a string corset and a multi-ruffled petticoat. “And I’ll wear my black motorcycle jacket and fishnets and boots. You know, the rocking retro thing.”

“Eliza’s going to love this,” teased DJ.

“I think that’s why she’s doing it.” Rhiannon got a slight frown. “Just to get Eliza’s goat.”

“And to express my individuality,” proclaimed Casey.

“You’ll both be one of a kind,” said DJ. And a part of her wished that she’d used more ingenuity for her own gown. But, to be fair, creativity was not her strong suit. And she’d always been fashion-challenged.

As DJ zipped her gown back into the bag, Casey chuckled. “With you in that dress, Princess Eliza will probably be pea green with envy.”

“I doubt that,” said DJ. “But it’s fun making her wait.”

“Princess Eliza needs to learn that she doesn’t rule Carter House,” proclaimed Casey defiantly.

“Yeah,” agreed DJ, “This isn’t Eliza-lot.”

Rhiannon laughed.

“Thanks for showing me your dresses.” DJ headed for the door.

“And you promise you won’t show Eliza?” Casey peered at her.

DJ shrugged. “Don’t know why I should.”

Casey gave her a thumb’s up.

Of course, DJ felt slightly guilty now. It’s not like she specifically wanted to mean or to exclude Eliza. But sometimes Eliza was so pushy. Oh, she’d do it in that sweet southern style. But it felt pushy all the same. And, knowing that Eliza’s parents were from one of the wealthiest families in the country didn’t make it any easier to be nice. And, really, this wasn’t Eliza-lot!

“Did you see Rhiannon and Casey’s dresses?” Taylor asked with mild interest, not even looking up from her fashion rag.

“Yeah.” DJ hung her dress in the closet. “Rhiannon’s is spectacular.”

“Really?” Taylor set the magazine aside.

“Like it could be in a movie spectacular.”

Taylor’s brow creased slightly. “Maybe we should pay the girl to start designing for us.”

DJ picked up her laptop then sat on her bed. “You know…that’s not a bad idea, Taylor.”

“We’d have our own designer originals and Rhiannon could make money for college.”

DJ stared at Taylor in wonder. “Sometimes you blow my mind, Taylor.”

Taylor looked surprised now. “Huh?”

“You can be…kind of mean sometimes…and then surprisingly nice.”

Taylor just shrugged then returned to her magazine. “We all have our faults.”

DJ laughed and opened her laptop. “I guess….”

But before DJ even started her homework, she decided to write Haley the promised note. She and Haley had emailed a few times (not daily) since Haley had gone to Oak View for treatment. Finally, DJ felt like the note had just the right tone to it. Light and encouraging, but honest and to the point. She read through it one more time.

Hey Haley. I hope you’re doing well. Life around here is pretty much the same. School is boring. Finals are impending. And everyone is counting down the days to Christmas break. Everyone but me that is since all I get to do is stick around Carter House with my grandmother. Big thrill. I just wanted you to know (from me and not someone else) that I’m going to the Winter Ball with Conner next Saturday. The main reason I decided to go was because he felt left out since all his friends were going. And I suppose I felt left out too. I wish you were around so you could go to. I know there are dozens of guys who would jump at the chance to take you! And I hope it’s not upsetting for you to hear that Conner and I are going to this dance together. I know you said that it’s over between you two. But I don’t want to make you feel sad. Catch ya later. Love, DJ.

DJ said a quick prayer for Haley then hit send. Really, she told herself as she switched gears to homework, Taylor was right. This might be one more step in Haley getting over it. And if it wasn’t, well, wouldn’t it be better for Haley to be where she had professional help anyway? Still, DJ decide this would be even more motivation to keep praying for Haley. She really did want her to get well—and soon. Hopefully Haley would be back to normal and back school after winter break.

The next three days at school seemed focused on two things—and really, DJ thought, it seemed crazy—but everyone was either talking about the upcoming dance or complaining about finals. Kind of a dichotomy. But by the end of the week, DJ realized that a lot of the talk and excitement weren’t only about the dance, but about what was happening “after the dance.”

It turned out—big surprise here—that some of the guys had rented some hotel suites in the same place where the Winter Ball was being held. And there was no mystery as to why they’d done this. Oh, sure, DJ had overhead guys saying things like, “We just want to keep the party going,” or “we need a place to just relax and hang.” But DJ was pretty sure she knew what it was all about. And she mentioned this to Conner as they were going into the cafeteria for lunch on Friday.

“I’m assuming that you had the good sense not to rent a room?”

He looked shocked then chuckled. “Well, I’m not a saint, DJ. But, no way! You know I would never do something like that.”

“Besides being a waste of money, you’d end up dancing by yourself at the Winter Ball.”

“Trust me, I know that.”

She laughed. “Well, actually, I’m sure there are plenty of girls who’d want to dance with you, Conner. But I wouldn’t be among them.”

“Thanks.” He grinned. “I got that.”

“So what’s up with these guys?” she said quietly since they were getting into the lunch line now. “I mean like I even heard that Harry talked Josh Trundle into going in with them.” I glanced to see if Kriti was around. “And I just can’t imagine that Kriti would go for that.”
“Unless Eliza talks her into it.”

“Good point.”

“And I’m sure you’re aware that your roommate is on the guest list.”

“Not that she’s told me, but I assumed.” DJ rolled her eyes as she picked up a tray.

“I heard that Garrison is in on it too. He and Seth reserved an adjoined suite.”

Now this surprised her. “Does Casey know?”

Conner shrugged as he reached for a burger.

DJ sighed. “I wish our friends would just act like normal teenagers.”

Conner laughed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

DJ had to laugh too. “I don’t know…I guess I just wish everyone wasn’t so into playing grownups. Won’t we get there soon enough?”

Unfortunately Madison Dormont overheard this. And she laughed so loudly that she snorted. Then she took off and DJ could only assume she ran to tell her friends. Not that DJ cared. Sometimes DJ wanted to shout her opinions from the rooftops. “Everybody just chill!” she would scream at the top of her lungs. “You don’t have to drink alcohol or do drugs or have sex or break the rules to have fun in high school. News flash—it usually turns out to be exactly the opposite!” But DJ figured most kids wouldn’t listen. Or if they were listening they’d probably pretend like they weren’t.

Just the same, she decided to bring it up at Carter House. But not while her grandmother was listening. They were just finishing up dinner. Grandmother had excused herself—she and the general were meeting for dessert, which was probably in the form of an after-dinner drink. DJ thought it was somewhat unusual that all six girls were still sitting around the table on a Friday night. But there hadn’t been a basketball game, or anything else it seemed, to tempt anyone besides Grandmother out on a cold blustery evening in East Connecticut. And DJ supposed, because of the big night planned for tomorrow, everyone was taking it easy tonight.

“So I hear some of the guys are planning an all-night party tomorrow,” DJ mentioned casually.

“Are you coming?” asked Eliza.

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

Eliza laughed. “I didn’t think so.”

“I’m curious as to how you explained this to my grandmother.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

“Nothing…just that I’m curious.”

“You’re not planning ratting on us, are you?”

DJ innocently held up her hands.

“I’m not completely sure that I’m going yet,” said Kriti quickly.

“Good for you.” DJ smiled at her.

“Yes,” agreed Rhiannon. “That’s the wise choice.”

“Not that she’s made up her mind,” said Eliza with a cool smile.

DJ turned to Casey now. “So how about you?”

“What?”

“You’re joining in the all night party?”

Casey shrugged. “I told Garrison we could go up there for a while.”

“For a while?”

“Yeah…what’s wrong with that?”
“What do you think is wrong with that?”

She shrugged again. “Nothing. We’ll just hang and party a while. Then I’ll come home. No big deal.”

“And do you honestly think that’s why the guys are shelling out the big bucks to rent these expensive suites?” DJ asked her. “Just to put your feet up and have a few laughs?”

“Why not?”

“You don’t think they expect anything in return?”

“Oh, DJ, lighten up,” said Eliza. “Maybe we do just want to hang and have a few laughs. What is wrong with that?”

“What’s wrong is that you know that’s not what this is about, Eliza.”

Taylor, who had been silently watching had a very sly grin on her face, but she still didn’t say anything. So DJ turned to her. “Tell them, Taylor. Why do you think the guys are renting hotel suites tomorrow night?”

“Why not?”
“See,” said Eliza. “Even Taylor gets that it’s no big deal. I don’t see why you and Conner don’t pop up to check on us if you don’t believe it.”

“Yeah, right.” DJ glanced at Rhiannon for backup now.

“I have to side with DJ on this,” she said firmly.

“What a surprise,” said Eliza. “But, really girls, if you’re so sure that we’ll be up there having some big orgy, why don’t ya’ll pay us a little visit?”

“Maybe we will,” DJ said hotly.

Taylor laughed. “You will not.”

DJ sighed in resignation. “Probably not.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” began Casey, “I’ll lay my cards on the table with Garrison.”

“Meaning what?” DJ challenged her.

“I’ll tell him that if he’s asking me up there to have sex, then he’s out of luck.”

DJ nodded. “I can actually imagine you saying that,” DJ told her. “But I wonder if Garrison will take you seriously?”

“That’s a good point,” said Rhiannon. “It’s like saying one thing and doing another.”

“Like you tell a guy no and then you follow him up to his hotel room,” DJ added. “What’s that really saying?”

Casey seemed to consider this.

“I think Josh would understand,” said Kriti quietly.

“I’ll admit that Josh seems like a mature kind of guy,” DJ told her. “But he’s a guy.”
“That’s right,” said Rhiannon. “I thought Bradford was more mature too…” She glanced at Taylor, as did everyone else. “But I’ve been disappointed.”

“All I’m saying,” DJ said to everyone except Rhiannon. “Is that if you go up to the suite with your boyfriends, no matter what they say, they will want things to go further.”

“And, really,” said Eliza in an exasperated tone, “is that any of your business, DJ?” She stood like she was leaving and Kriti stood, too, just like her puppet or puppy dog or lady in waiting.

“Because we live under the same roof and because some of you are my friends…yeah, I think it is.”

Taylor narrowed her eyes at DJ. “So what are you saying, DJ? Are you threatening to tell your grandmother? Because, if that’s the case, I will have my alibi ready.”

“So will we,” said Eliza. She was obviously speaking for Kriti too.

Casey said nothing.

“All I’m saying is that I hope you all use good sense tomorrow night.”

“Your good sense?” asked Taylor. “Or our own?”

“Whatever.” DJ rolled her eyes, wondering why she’d even bothered.

“Nice try,” said Rhiannon after the other four had left.

“What’s the point?”

“Do you think that’s how God feels when he sends warnings to us?”

DJ sighed. “I don’t know….”

“Well, people have the right to make their own choices,” Rhiannon reminded her, “and their own mistakes.”

And, although DJ knew Rhiannon was right, she still wished there was something she could do. But sometimes the only thing to do was to pray. And maybe that wasn’t such a small thing.

copyright 2010, Cindy (Cindy’s Love Of Books)
If you are reading this on a blog or website other than Cindy’s Love Of Books or via a feedreader, this content has been stolen and used without permission.

The Night That

Changed My Life

How to Choose

to Do the Best

Job of Living

It should have been a scene of American family bliss. A Sunday afternoon in our home on a beautiful fall day in South Florida. My husband, Keith, was watching the Dolphins game in the living room with some friends. He’d waited all week for this. Our girls, six-year-old Ashley and four-year-old Kayla, were helping me in the kitchen. Well, kind of. Our six month-old, Jake, was jumping and laughing in his Jolly Jumper. I was baking Vanishing Oatmeal Raisin Cookies, our favorite, and everybody could smell the cinnamon and butter and couldn’t wait for the cookies to come out of the oven. Especially me. As I worked in the kitchen, I could hear the football game coming from the living room. The announcers were talking about a player who had arrived at training camp completely out of shape. He was six foot four and weighed 320 pounds. “That is a big boy,” they said. “Wow! He is huge.” “Would you look at that guy,” I heard my husband say with disgust. “I can’t believe he got so fat! What a lazy bum.” Those words cut me to the heart. I had created a happy home, with a

happy husband and happy kids. But at that moment I wanted to die, because I outweighed that player by at least 10 pounds. I was bigger than anyone playing for the Miami Dolphins. And I knew I was anything but lazy. I pulled the cookies out of the oven and felt nauseous. I was pathetic. I’d been overweight my entire adult life, but I was bigger than I had ever been. I was miserable but doing an excellent job of faking out everyone who knew me. I was five foot nine and weighed 330 pounds, maybe more. I didn’t know for sure because it had been months since I’d dared to step on a scale. Besides, the only one in the house was a conveniently inaccurate discount-store model with a wheel underneath that calibrated the scale. I had adjusted it to register the lowest weight possible. I was in denial, but I was also without hope. It was the autumn of 2000. I was twenty-eight years old and was starting to believe I would never live a long and fulfilled life. Not this way. If an angel had landed on my shoulder and whispered in my ear that, in less than two years, Oprah Winfrey would have me on her show to tell a feel good weight-loss story, I’d have sent that angel packing and gone back to my cookies. I wasn’t Oprah material. And there was absolutely nothing feel-good about my life. Call me when you want a feel-bad story. That was me. If that angel had whispered that I would one day run a marathon, I’d have checked him in to an insane asylum. I couldn’t run around the block. Even in high school I hadn’t been able to run the required twenty-minute mile. My knees hurt all the time. I was morbidly obese—a term that I knew meant an early death. If one thing was clear about my life in the fall of 2000, it was that

I could never, ever run a marathon. But I did. I finished my first one in 2005 and after that ran four more— in less than a year. I went from weighing nearly 350 pounds to less than 150 pounds. And I have appeared on Oprah and Good Morning America and the cover of People magazine as one of America’s great weight-loss successes. Getting fit wasn’t easy—there was plenty of pain, deprivation, tears, and hungeralong the way. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I won’t try to sugarcoat any of that. But, honestly, I didn’t give myself a choice. Once I made the unconditional decision that I was going to lose weight and get healthy, nothing could stop me. And nothing will stop you if you make the Five Decisions to break the fat habit for good. That’s a guarantee. Here is the secret I learned—the same secret I want to share with you. I realized I had to change my mind before I could change my body, my health, and my life. I discovered the Five Decisions, which brought about an unconditional commitment to getting healthy and fit. Once I started, I treated it like a job so that no matter what else was going on in my life, I did what I had to do to achieve daily goals, weekly goals, monthly goals, and eventually the target weight and fitness that I desired. After making the Five Decisions, getting fit was a matter of showing up for work each day. The process developed from the inside out, which was a new concept for me.

FIRST, YOU CHANGE YOUR MIND

People constantly ask me how I lost 200 pounds and started running marathons. When I explain that it took several years to achieve those goals, they wonder how I was able to stick to the plan when so many others can’t. I ask myself the same question. I had failed plenty of times before. I’d tried a few diets and failed, including a bit of foolishness called the chocolate-wafer diet, which I’ll tell you about later. I’d resolved so many times not to eat the entire package of Oreos, without success. So how did I lose all that weight and keep it off reclaiming my health and gaining a new life in the process? Here’s the simple answer: my brain changed. I decided to first become a different person in my mind and then learned patience as my body followed. My success wasn’t measured only by a declining number on a scale; it was much deeper. I had to change on the inside. I needed to change my mind before I could change my body. It will work the same way for you. First you must get to the right place in your head, and then you can create the lifestyle to go along with that. Your body reflects your daily choices, so stop confusing it by the way you think. The mistake so many people make is to focus on weight loss and how long it will take. In fact, the multibillion-dollar diet industry banks on people thinking this way. Don’t get stuck in the weight loss weight gain cycle. What you should focus on is the person you want to be. Set your sights very high, and keep your commitment level even higher. In this book I’ll explain how I did that. I went from being someone who weighed more than a Miami Dolphins lineman to someone who is strong and trim and can run twenty-six miles. I went from a state of hopelessness to a life of incredible confidence. And I want to help you achieve something great in your life. If you change your mind before attempting to change your body, you can do this.

HITTING ROCK BOTTOM

While I was learning how to lose weight and regain my health, I faced setback after setback. My husband lost his job, and my mother was diagnosed with cancer—and those were only two of the crises that came along. Changing your life will never be easy, and that’s why in order to succeed, you first need to be ready to succeed. It’s a choice you make. In the fall of 2000, when I was baking cookies and overhearing my husband’s criticism of an overweight NFL lineman, I fell into despair. I realized my life was out of control and I was headed for an early grave if I didn’t change. But even then, I wasn’t yet ready to make the commitment that was necessary to change my life. The truth is, on that dark day I still wasn’t miserable enough to change. I hit rock bottom about six months later. I was at my heaviest ever—349 pounds, I think. Though I was still mostly in denial, I was starting to see myself clearly, and I hated what I saw. I’d look in the mirror and say, “You are pitiful! How could you have let this happen?” My appearance started to affect my family life. We live in South Florida, where every weekend is a pool party. My daughters were young, but they were being invited to a few parties, and I was horribly uncomfortable in a bathing suit. I knew it wouldn’t be long before my girls would be embarrassed by their mother, and that made me want to cry. It did make me cry. But that was the least of it. I was more worried that their mom would die young. I’d seen fat people, and I’d seen old people, but rarely had I seen fat, old people. If I couldn’t change for myself, maybe I could do it for my kids. One night I was driving home alone from an event at church. I felt trapped in despair. At age twenty-nine, my body felt old. I had recently had an emergency gallbladder operation, and the doctor had told me he was afraid to cut through all my layers of fat because of the risk of infection. Imagine being worried about your diseased gallbladder and experiencing anxiety about surgery. And then you learn that your weight problem makes you more prone to infection. That night in the car I felt like the most pathetic person who had ever lived. I believed that God had made me and put me on earth for a purpose, and I was not living the life He intended for me. I knew I had to change. As I drove, drowning in self-pity, I began to envision what my life would be if I weren’t fat. I thought of all the things I could do—even simple things, such as walking down an airplane aisle without having to turn sideways. I’d be able to board a flight without getting fearful stares from people hoping I wouldn’t sit next to them. And there were deeper things, such as being able to go down a slide at a playground with my kids. And I wanted never again to feel as if I was embarrassing my husband when he introduced me to business associates. I was tired of feeling prejudged by every server in every restaurant for what I ordered. I wanted to be able to shop in the same clothing stores as all my friends. I wanted a normal life. As I drove home from church, I came to the realization that I absolutely could not go on with my life as it was. I pulled over, sobbing. In total despair I cried out to God. I remember every word. “This is it!” I said. “I can’t live like this anymore. I’m done. I give all this pain to You. I surrender this battle. I need You to take over and give me a plan. Otherwise, I don’t want to live anymore.” Almost immediately a sense of inner peace filled me, and I calmed down. I had gone to church all my life and had a relationship with God, but I had certainly never felt anything like that before. The peace was real, and in my mind I heard from God. I clearly heard these words: You are not being the best you can be. It wasn’t a booming voice like in a movie, but it also wasn’t a voice coming from me. The words were a jolt to my soul. And that moment would change my life forever. Again, with crystal clarity, I “heard” a whisper: You are not being the best you can be. And for the first time in my life, I understood that this was a choice. I could choose to be the best I could be or not. We all have the same choice. We can’t choose our natural talents or what opportunities life is going to throw our way, but we can choose to do this one thing: we can do the best job of living that we are capable of. After praying alone in my car, I knew I could do better.

THE CHOICE IS YOURS

No matter how overweight and out of shape we are, our bodies and minds are capable of much more than we think. No matter what battles we face in life, we can have victory. The amazing thing is that so many of us choose not to. I know this is true because I was as guilty as anyone. For years I’d made poor choices and come up with excuses for why I really didn’t have a choice at all. I was big boned. I let myself overeat because I was pregnant. I skipped exercise because I didn’t have the time. I was too far gone to ever recover. I told myself whatever it took to hide the truth that I was not doing the best job of living. I was also being scammed by the diet industry. We all have been taken in by the hype. “We’ll give you your eating points,” the industry tells us, “and let you spend them on any food you want. And we’ll love you when you get on that scale, whether you’ve lost weight or not. We’ll keep hugging you for the next twenty-three years if need be.” Counting my points was not going to save me. Choosing the right frozen entrée and having it delivered to my home for the next two years was not going to save me. I didn’t need the unconditional love of strangers; I needed unconditional commitment from myself. I was also scammed by the “fat gene” scientists who insisted that my weight problem was out of my hands. They were wrong; it was in my hands. Chantel, I told myself, this is not cancer. I knew, because my mother had leukemia, and I had spent more tearful nights than I could count praying for her recovery something I couldn’t do anything about. I prayed that chemotherapy would work and that God would heal her. But I realized that I’d been thinking of my obesity in the same way, as an illness. I’d even been told by experts that drastic surgery might be my only option. But that was another lie. The way I lived my life and how I contributed to my health were completely in my hands. Every one of us knows what we should do, but we don’t always do it. Instead, we pretend it’s out of our control. We take the easy way out and let ourselves down. Gaining weight doesn’t come about by accident, and it’s not forced on us. We gain weight through a series of poor choices made on a regular basis over a long period of time.

We gain weight

through a series of poor choices

made on a regular basis

over a long period of time.

The same process holds true for achieving a goal related to your health and fitness. Whether it’s weight loss, athletic accomplishment, or any other personal or business goal, you achieve what you seek by learning to make the right choices and not being scared of self-sacrifice. I began wondering what my life would be like and what I would be capable of if I simply started being the best me I could. It was time to find out. After hearing God tell me, You are not being the best you can be, I made my decision, and I said it out loud: “I can do this. I will do this.” I repeated it, and I meant it. At that moment by the side of Cypress Creek Road, my life turned around.

DO IT, THEN TALK

Having made the commitment, I knew I was going to change my life, but I didn’t have a specific plan. I knew I’d have to start exercising, no matter how much I dreaded it. I knew I would have to change the way I ate, and I would need to learn more about nutrition. And to become a different person, I knew I would have to start thinking like the person I wanted to be and not the person I had allowed myself to become. I didn’t know how I was going to do all this, but I knew I would have God by my side. He might not make it easy, but He’d give me the strength to do everything that was needed. When I got home that night, Keith was already in bed. He had never criticized my weight, for which I was incredibly grateful, but I knew how he must have felt. I looked into my husband’s eyes, told him that God had spoken to me in the car, and announced that the next morning I would begin losing weight and getting healthy. (I even mentioned that one day I would write a book to reach others in my situation.) I made it clear that I was totally committed to being the best I could be. Keith smiled at me and quoted one of his favorite sources of inspiration, the self-made billionaire Art Williams: “Do it, then talk.” He was right. I shut up. Keith fell asleep, but I had a burning passion that kept me awake that night and has kept me up many nights since. Making the unconditional decision to change—the complete commitment with no turning back—had to be followed by action. First you change your mind. But to change your body and your life, you have to get moving. You have to do things and do them differently from the past. Do it. How incredibly simple—yet how long it had taken me to get to a place where I could see that clearly. Getting fit and accomplishing my dreams was simply a matter of choosing to do it, following through every single day, and understanding that failure was not an option. I could do it. I would do it. And I did.

w

Keep reading, and you’ll find out how to change your life through five crucial decisions. The Five Decisions change your brain, giving you a new way of thinking about yourself, your life, your health, and your future. As long as you keep thinking the same way you always have, you will keep doing the things you have always done—including the unhealthy habits you have developed. Join me in the next chapter as we explore the past—including all the influences that worked together to bring us to where we are today. Understanding the messages that influence our self-perception and the way we respond to obstacles enables us to make the new decisions that are necessary for permanent change.

What Do You Want to Change, and Why?

As you prepare to make the mental changes that will lead to permanent life change, think through the reasons you want to change. What is motivating your desire to lose weight and reclaim your health? Use the questions that follow to think in detail about your life, your goals for the future, and what you’re willing to do to make this happen finally and forever.

1. Beyond losing weight, what do you most want to change about your life?

2. Are you willing to do whatever it takes to see certain areas of your life undergo radical change? If you’re not yet willing, what is holding you back?

3. When in your life have you felt the most hopeless? Are you now ready to move past those scars and never look back?

4. When you gained weight in the past, what factors caused you to lose your focus on health?

5. Identify three reasons or influences from the past that convinced you that you couldn’t achieve permanent life change. After considering these reasons, can you now admit they were merely excuses?

6. Think about the necessity of changing your mind before you attempt to change your body. Do you agree that lasting change begins on the inside? As you consider being the best you can be, are you ready to work from the inside out?

7. A total life change involves your mind, body, and spirit. Think about the spiritual aspect for a moment. Do you accept the role that faith plays in the process of changing your life for good?

8. When have you been held back by a fear of failure? Write down your biggest fears in this regard. As you face your fears, can you decide to let them go and give your all to permanent life change?

Week 1 Training Plan

The Perfect Body Type: Yours!

You Are Lovely Today

Scripture for the week: “I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.… When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body.”

—PSALM 139:14–16

Quote for the week: “Faith, as Paul saw it, was a living, flaming thing leading to surrender and obedience to the commandments of Christ.”

—A. W. TOZER

As you begin the journey to never say diet, remember that your value is based on who you are in Christ, not what the number on the scale says. God created everything about you, and He knows you better than you know yourself. He knows which foods are your weaknesses, and He is there whenever the temptation to overeat or consume unhealthy food seems overwhelming. The Lord knows the tears you have shed out of desperation. He was there to comfort you when it seemed like no one understood your pain. Trust me, on days when I feel the most flawed, I need the verses from Psalm 139 to remind me of what is true. The living God formed every part of my body, even the parts I would like to change. Although I used to struggle and fail in caring for my body, God always knew it best. When I finally cried out to my Creator and invited Him to help with the repair, I knew I could succeed. He wants you to succeed too. Start this week by thanking the Lord for the gifts of your life and your body. By focusing on making some improvements, you will ultimately be honoring Him more and more each day. Find a recent photo of yourself, or take one, and tape it in the space that follows. This picture will be a powerful reference for you in the coming weeks as you begin your transformation.

THE MIND FACTOR: CHANGE YOUR BRAIN

In Never Say Diet, I make a big deal about the Five Decisions—and for good reason. You will fail in this new attempt to change your life unless you first change your brain. To succeed, you need to be willing to do whatever it takes—unconditionally. I want to be your cheerleader and your friend. And for us to get going, you need to commit to the five Brain Change decisions found on pages 76–82 of Never Say Diet. Think about how each of the Five Decisions applies to your life. Also, try to memorize them. They will form the backbone you need to stand up to and overcome every area of weakness in your life. Create your personal surrender statement.

THE EXERCISE EQUATION: ARE YOU WILLING?

This week your first assignment is to start building a foundation of discipline. You will be successful over the next month if you show up for exercise thirty minutes a day, five days in a row, every week—no matter what. There are many choices for your cardiovascular exercise. Below is a list of suggestions. Even if your week gets hectic, finding the time to make this happen is imperative.

Cardio Exercise Suggestions

Basketball

Bike riding

Cross-country skiing machine

Dancing

Elliptical machine

Jogging/running

Kick boxing

Racquetball

Spinning class

Stair climber

Stair stepper

Stationary bike/recumbent bike

Step aerobics

Swimming

Tennis

Walking

How to Take Your Measurements

Taking your measurements at the beginning of each month is an important part of the process of losing weight. You will begin to see precisely where you are losing fat. As you start building more muscle, there will be months where your progress is more evident in your measurements than on the scale, because muscle is denser than fat. You will begin by taking six measurements. You should be able to do them by yourself, with the exception of your upper arm. (Ask a friend or your spouse to help you.) For instructions on taking accurate measurements, see pages 97–98 of Never Say Diet. Record your measurements below.

Bust: ______________

Chest: ______________

Waist: ______________

Hips: ______________

Thighs: ______________

Arms: ______________

Be sure that you consistently measure in the same spots each month. I also recommend taking your measurements before your workouts.

Weigh Yourself

Weigh yourself, and record your weight at the beginning of each week.

Week 1 starting weight: ________

WEEK 1 CARDIO TRAINING

Complete your cardio exercise five days in a row, for at least thirty minutes per day. In the space provided, write down the day, the date, the exercise you completed, and the duration of each exercise period. This serves as a reminder that you always found a way to get the exercise done, whether you felt like it or not.

Day 1 date/exercise/duration:

________________________________________________

How did it go?

________________________________________________

Day 2 date/exercise/duration:

________________________________________________

How did it go?

________________________________________________

Day 3 date/exercise/duration:

________________________________________________

How did it go?

________________________________________________

Day 4 date/exercise/duration:

________________________________________________

How did it go?

________________________________________________

Day 5 date/exercise/duration:

________________________________________________

How did it go?

________________________________________________

THE FOOD FACTOR: BREAKFAST IS

WHERE IT’S AT

This week you must place your nutritional focus on the most important meal of the day: breakfast. Plan to eat every day within two hours of waking up. Listed below are some fresh food ideas. Each one is about three hundred calories, which is perfect!

• Quaker Weight Control oatmeal, 1 tablespoon of raisins, cinnamon to taste, 2 slices of turkey bacon.

• One slice of whole-wheat toast, light spread of peanut butter (natural is best), and ½ grapefruit.

• Chocolate strawberry shake. Blend the following: 1 scoop chocolate protein powder, 10 small frozen strawberries, 1 packet sugar substitute, ½ cup low-fat milk, a few ice cubes.

• Egg white omelet. In a skillet with nonstick spray, cook veggies you like, 3 lightly beaten egg whites, and 1 tablespoon fat-free cheese. Accompany with half an English muffin with a dab of peanut butter.

Each of these breakfast meals provides a good balance of protein, carbs, and fat. This ensures your day gets off to a good start; it is igniting your source of energy. Find a few meals that you enjoy, and keep repeating them. This way you won’t stress out over deciding what to have.

Week 1 Breakfast Log

Using the space provided, record each day’s breakfast menu and the portions.

Day 1 date/time: ___________________________________ ________________________________________________

Day 2 date/time: ___________________________________

________________________________________________

Day 3 date/time: ___________________________________

________________________________________________

Day 4 date/time: ___________________________________

________________________________________________

Day 5 date/time: ___________________________________

________________________________________________

Day 6 date/time: ___________________________________

________________________________________________

Day 7 date/time: ___________________________________

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copyright 2010, Cindy (Cindy’s Love Of Books)
If you are reading this on a blog or website other than Cindy’s Love Of Books or via a feedreader, this content has been stolen and used without permission.

Darrin

I’m snatched from my sleep by voices.

They’re coming from the living room. The first voice is Shayna, my lover, although she likes to be called my girlfriend. She is not my girlfriend. Haven’t had one of those since high school.

The other voice is coming from the television. It’s way too loud, but not unfamiliar. I concentrate for a moment until familiarity becomes recognition. The voice belongs to that preacher Shayna likes to watch every Sunday morning.

Is it Sunday already?

I start a mental rewind in an attempt to recapture my weekend. Friday was standard. Edited a short story for a girl in my writer’s group. She’s entering a romance writer’s contest, and wanted my opinion.

I didn’t give it to her, because I’m possibly interested in sleeping with her. I told her that the uninspired farce was poetic prose. She won’t win the contest, but she won’t blame it on me. She’ll accuse the judges of being amateurs and then come cry on my shoulder. I’ll have tissues on hand – right along with the strawberries and champagne.

Also had lunch with Priscilla. My mother. The obligatory “good son” lunch that keeps me on the family payroll. I call her Priscilla behind her back, but never to her face. She’s petite, cultured and polished but not above going upside a brotha’s head.

We had the same conversation we have every week.

“Darrin, when are you coming to work for your father?”

“The day after never.”

“You always say that.”

“And I always mean it.”

I love my mother, but I hate this conversation.

My father, Mathis Bainbridge, wants me to work in an office at Bainbridge Transports, shuffling papers, giving orders, and hiring overqualified people at ridiculously insulting rates of pay. He calls his company the ‘family business’ but only one person in our three person familia is interested in shuttling elderly people to doctor’s appointments and on shopping trips.

It’s not Priscilla and it’s not me.

“You coming to church with me on Sunday?” Mother had also asked.

I’d let out a frustrated sigh. “I’ll see.”

My sporadic church attendance is Priscilla’s other favorite topic.

“Don’t you love Jesus?”

“Yes, Mother. I love Jesus.”

That wasn’t a lie. I do love Jesus. I just cannot say no to a woman who wants me to take her to bed and I have yet to hear a preacher tell me how.

Priscilla was extra irritated at our lunch date. She got borderline vulgar. “But you’re willing to go to hell over some girl’s dirty panties?”

I’d laughed then, and I’m still laughing. In Priscilla speak ‘dirty panties’ was tantamount to cursing me out.

I’d replied, “Mother, please watch your language.”

Saturday was worse. I’d spent the entire muggy and rainy afternoon at a 10K marathon to benefit cancer research. Put on a fake smile and interviewed the sweaty first-place winner, asking him questions that no one wanted answers to, all the while thinking to myself, ‘Why am I doing this?’

There was a time when I was excited to have comma writer after my name. You know, Darrin Bainbridge, writer. But the glamour that I’d envisioned has not yet materialized, and the less money I make with freelance journalism, the more my father threatens to chain me to a desk.

Then, when I should have been winding down for the weekend I blogged. Blogging is what narcissistic writers do when they don’t have a book deal. Yeah, I’m just a bit narcissistic. Besides, people like to read what I think about social injustice, celebrities and whatever else. Ten thousand hits a day on my blogsite can’t be wrong.

The thing I love about blogging is that I’m anonymous. Like, last week I wrote a piece on Jesse Jackson and how he’s more of a threat to African American progress than the KKK. Then, I chilled with him at a networking function the same night. No harm, no foul.

Since I can no longer drown out the television or Shayna’s ‘Hallelujahs’, I open my eyes and concede to starting the day. I stretch, take a deep breath, and grin at the memory of last night. Shayna’s perfume lingers in the air. A fruity Victoria’s Secret fragrance purchased by me for my benefit, but disguised as a spur-of-the-moment romantic and thoughtful gift. Yeah…I don’t do those. But Shayna was pleased. So pleased that she stayed the night in my den of iniquity and is now watching church on television instead of getting her shout on in a pew.

I jump out of the bed in one motion, landing on the ice cold ceramic tiles. My pedicured toes curl from the drastic temperature change. Yes, a brotha likes his feet smooth. Hands too. What?

My apartment is slamming, and the furniture baller style – especially for someone with such a low income. If it wasn’t for the deep pockets of my parents, blogging and freelance writing would pretty much have me living in semi-poverty. But my mother makes sure that I have the best of the best, and a monthly allowance. I keep thinking that at twenty-eight, I might be too old for a $6000 a month allowance. I’d be satisfied with less, but I’m not turning anything down. Priscilla’s generosity (behind my father’s back, of course) allows me to pursue my dreams, whatever they might be.

I pull on a pair of silk boxer shorts and walk up the hallway to the living room. Silently, I observe Shayna. She is rocking back and forth on the couch, her hands wrapped around her own torso. Embracing herself.

“You better preach, preacher!” she shouts at the face on the screen.

I mimic her movements and hug myself too, but not because I feel the love. It’s freezing in here. Shayna likes to turn the thermostat on sixty no matter what the temperature is outside. Freon laced air rushes out of every vent.

“If you got breath in your lungs and strength in your body, you need to shout Hallelujah!” shouts the preacher.

“Hallelujah!Hallelujah!Hallelujah!Hallelujah!” Shayna’s four-alarm Hallelujah sounds like one word.

I am amazed. How can Shayna feel so worshipful this morning when she just rolled out of my bed a few hours ago?

I’m curious. “Do you send this guy money? He’s in Atlanta, right?”

Shayna looks up from the program and smiles seductively. Can she be any more blasphemous?

“Yes, Freedom of Life is in Atlanta and yes I do send in my tithe and offering on the regular. I’m a partner.” She motions for me to come join her on the couch. I don’t.

“About how many members do you think he has?” I ask as the television camera pans to what looks like the crowd at a Destiny’s Child concert.

“The sanctuary holds ten thousand,” she declares proudly as if it was her own accomplishment, “but there are about twenty thousand members and partners worldwide.”

I’m in writer mode now. I can feel the wheels in my mind spinning. Probably something scandalous going on in a church that size. Pastor either skimming money off the top or sleeping with half the choir. Maybe blogging about a dirty Pastor will attract some sponsors. Exposing rich Black men pays well, and if he’s truly grimy I won’t have a problem spending the money.

Shayna asks suspiciously, “Since when did you get interested in church?”

“Since just now. I could feel the spirit oozing into the bedroom and I had to come investigate.”

“I know you better than that. What’s the real?”

Shayna doesn’t know me at all, but she thinks she does. She assumes that we have a deep bond just because we’ve shared bodily fluids. There is more to me than my sex drive, but she’ll never know that. She’s not the wife type.

I humor her and reply, “Well, I just think that there has got to be a story here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, this guy can’t be more than forty five,” I’m half-explaining, half-forming the story in my mind. “And he’s got twenty thousand offering paying members? I bet he’s living large.”

Shayna frowns. “What’s your point?”

“You don’t think there’s anything wrong with that?”

“Uh, no. Your daddy lives large.”

I chuckle with disbelief. Didn’t know she was one of those people. The ones who try to compare pastoring a church to running a business.

Just for the fun of it, I quip, “Jesus preached for free.”

“He didn’t have a car note,” she shoots right back.

“Okay, I see this might be hitting a little close to home, but I bet if I go down there to Atlanta I can dig up a juicy story.”

The thought became even more appealing as I put words to it. Atlanta is uncharted territory for me. Fresh stories, different scenery and untapped women. The more I wrap my arms around the notion, the more it turns into a need.

I need to get my butt down to Atlanta and break this story wide open. Blogging on location. Most definitely liking the sound of that.

Shayna leans over the back of the couch pointing her polished fingernail at me for emphasis. “Whatever. Bishop Kumal Prentiss is a man of God and he preaches the Word.”

“Kumal Prentiss? That sounds like a hustler’s name. And what do you know about the Word?”

“I grew up in church sweetie. I’m not a heathen like you.”

“You’re not the only one who was raised in church.”

I’d had so much church growing up, that if church was food I could feed every one of those starving Ethiopian children who convince me every week to be their sponsor. If church was talent, I’d be singing like R. Kelly and dancing like Usher. If church was candy…let’s just say I went to a lot of church.

Every Sunday Priscilla dragged me, unwillingly, into the huge stone building. Me always screaming, “But Daddy doesn’t have to go!” Her always replying, “Daddy’s going to hell.” She’d give me money for my Sunday school offering and send me on my way.

I went through a phase where I enjoyed the services. I was thirteen and my first crush, Alexandra, was fifteen and fully developed. I joined the junior ushers, youth choir and youth department trying to get at that girl.

Then one Sunday morning, old Pastor Davis preached on lust and hell fire. He’d said that if we didn’t repent of our lusts and get baptized, then we’d spend an eternity fighting fire. Since I had been drooling over Alexandra and her tight sweater for the entire service, I was terrified. Walked down that center aisle out of fear while Priscilla shouted, stomped and danced. Went down a dry devil, came up a wet devil.

At age sixteen, I just got tired of pretending that I could walk the narrow road. I prayed about it. Told God that I would come to church when I knew I could live right.

Priscilla wasn’t having it. I think she literally had a nervous breakdown when I told her I wasn’t going back to church. She cried for days; walked around praying out loud, lifting God up and putting the devil under her feet.

I didn’t budge. And for the first time ever, my father defended me. He’d stopped Priscilla dead in her tracks.

He’d said, “Priscilla, you will not make my son go to church if he doesn’t want to. Church is for women anyway, it’s about time he found a more productive way of spending his time.”

The memory brings a smile to my face, makes me want to taunt Shayna about her hypocrisy. “And since you know so much about the Word, what does it say about fornication?”

She must be done talking to me, because she turns back to Bishop Prentiss who has worked his congregation into a frenzy. Had to give it to him. The man had skills.

“You want something to eat?” I ask Shayna, ignoring her attitude.

Her face softens. “You know I do.”

In minutes I’ve prepared a small breakfast feast. French toast on fresh French bread and garnished with powdered sugar, strawberries and carmelized bananas and a three cheese omelet, browned to perfection.

I can cook my butt off.

I arrange everything on the china my mother bought me for a housewarming gift. For me, it’s not just the taste of the food, it’s the look of it. Presentation is everything. I can make a grill cheesed sandwich look like a gourmet entrée.

Shayna’s smile returns as she approaches the table. She tosses her red curls out of her honey colored face as she sashays barefoot over to the table. She looks as delicious as the breakfast wearing her baby t-shirt and boy shorts. I feel a hunger starting inside me that has nothing to do with breakfast food.

Shayna’s a cute girl, not stunning, but standing there at my kitchen table, with her disheveled sexiness, she’s irresistible. But then again, I have the same motto about women that I have about food. Presentation is everything.

“Why can’t you be like the average guy and put everything on paper plates? This looks better than at the restaurant.”

“For one, I’m not the average guy and two you wouldn’t be so sprung if I was.”

Shayna sits down and takes a bite before responding. Closes her eyes and chews slowly. I love the way she savors my culinary creations. She sounds just like a baby relishing the first sips of a warm bottle.

“Is that good?” It’s real hard to hide the cockiness in my tone.

“You already know it is!” she exclaims, smacking her lips thoughtfully. “What is it that I taste? There’s a different flavor in this.”

Her observation fills me with pleasure. “Oh, you’ve been around me much too long if you are noticing flavor nuances. I’m proud.”

She licks her fingers, one at a time. “Mmm-hmm. Maybe I have been around you too long, but baby I am not sprung.”

This woman is hilarious. Shayna is not only sprung; she’s ‘in love’. I’m flattered, even if I don’t feel the same way. She’s been hinting that she wants to move in with me, but that is not going to happen. Rule number one of my cardinal rules is: never turn a bed mate into a roommate.

“Okay, you’re not sprung. I believe you. That’s actually a good thing, because then you won’t miss me when I go to Atlanta.”

“So you’re serious about this?”

I fold my arms across my chest and nod my head emphatically. “It is my duty as a journalist to expose the charlatans and inform the people.”

“You better be careful. The bible says ‘touch not my anointed and do my prophets no harm’.”

“Look at you quoting scriptures. I’m impressed. And don’t worry about me. If your precious pastor is everything that he says he is then he has nothing to worry about.”

copyright 2010, Cindy (Cindy’s Love Of Books)
If you are reading this on a blog or website other than Cindy’s Love Of Books or via a feedreader, this content has been stolen and used without permission.

Gymnasium

Camp Lejeune, North Carolina

1203 Hours

“Did you come here to play basketball or wage war?”

Shelton McHenry, gunnery sergeant in the United States Marine Corps, shook the sweat out of his eyes and ignored the question. After long minutes of hard exertion, his breath echoed inside his head and chest. His throat burned. Despite the air-conditioning, the gym felt hot. He put his hands on his head and sucked in a deep breath of air. It didn’t help. He still felt mean.

There was no other word for it. He wanted the workout provided by the game, but he wanted it for the physical confrontation rather than the exercise. He had hoped it would burn through the restless anger that rattled within him.

Normally when he got like this, he tried to stay away from other people. He would gather up Max, the black Labrador retriever that was his military canine partner, and go for a run along a secluded beach until he exhausted the emotion. Sometimes it took hours.

That anger had been part of him since he was a kid. He had never truly understood it, but he’d learned to master it—for the most part—a long time ago. But now and again, there were bad days when it got away from him. Usually those bad days were holidays.

Today was Father’s Day. It was the worst of all of them. Even Christmas, a time when families got together, wasn’t as bad as Father’s Day. During the heady rush of Christmas—muted by the sheer effort and logistics of getting from one place to another after another, of making sure presents for his brother’s kids were intact and wrapped and not forgotten, of preparing and consuming the endless supply of food—he could concentrate on something other than his father.

But not today. Never on Father’s Day.

The anger was bad enough, but the thing that totally wrecked him and kicked his butt was the guilt. Even though he didn’t know what to do, there was no escaping the fact that he should be doing something. He was supposed to be back home.

Usually he was stationed somewhere and could escape the guilt by making a quick phone call, offering up an apology, and losing himself back in the field. But after taking the MOS change to Naval Criminal Investigative Service, he was free on weekends unless the team was working a hot case.

At present, there were no hot cases on the horizon. There wasn’t even follow-up to anything else they’d been working on. He’d had no excuse for not going. Don, his brother, had called a few days ago to find out if Shel was coming. Shel had told him no but had offered no reason. Don had been kind enough not to ask why. So Shel was stuck with the anger, guilt, and frustration.

“You hearing me, gunney?”

Shel restrained the anger a step before it got loose. Over on the sidelines of the gym, Max gave a tentative bark. The Labrador paced uneasily, and Shel knew the dog sensed his mood.

Dial it down, he told himself. Just finish up here. Be glad you’re able to work through it.

He just wished it helped more.

“Yeah,” Shel said. “I hear you.”

“Good. ’Cause for a second there I thought you’d checked out on me.” Remy Gautreau mopped his face with his shirt.

He was young and black, hard-bodied but lean, where Shel looked like he’d been put together with four-by-fours. Gang tattoos in blue ink showed on Remy’s chest and abdomen when he’d lifted his shirt. Shel had noticed the tattoos before, but he hadn’t asked about them. Even after working together for more than a year, it wasn’t something soldiers talked about.

Before he’d entered the Navy and trained as a Navy SEAL, Remy Gautreau had been someone else. Most enlisted had. Then whatever branch of military service they signed on for changed them into someone else. The past was shed as easily as a snake lost its skin. Men and women were given a different present for that time and usually ended up with a different future than they would have had.

But they don’t take away the past, do they? Shel asked himself. They just pretend it never happened.

“Where you been?” Remy asked.

“Right here.” Shel broke eye contact with the other man. He could lie out in the field when it was necessary, but he had trouble lying to friends. “Playing center.”

Remy was part of the NCIS team that Shel was currently assigned to. His rank was chief petty officer. He wore bright orange knee-length basketball shorts and a white Tar Heels basketball jersey. Shel wore Marine-issue black shorts and a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves hacked off. Both men bore bullet and knife scars from previous battles.

The other group of players stood at their end of the basketball court. Other groups of men were waiting their turn.

Shel and Remy were playing iron man pickup basketball. The winning team got to stay on the court, but they had to keep winning. While they were getting more tired, each successive team rested up. Evading fatigue, learning to play four hard and let the fifth man rest on his feet, was a big part of staying on top. It was a lot like playing chess.

“You’ve been here,” Remy agreed in a soft voice. “But this ain’t where your head’s been. You just been visiting this game.”

“Guy’s good, Remy. I’m doing my best.”

The other team’s center was Del Greene, a giant at six feet eight inches tall—four inches taller than Shel. But he was more slender than Shel, turned better in the tight corners, and could get up higher on the boards. Rebounding the ball after each shot was an immense struggle, but once in position Shel was hard to move. He’d come down with his fair share of rebounds.

Basketball wasn’t Shel’s game. He’d played it all through high school, but football was his chosen gladiator’s field in the world of sports. He had played linebacker and had been offered a full-ride scholarship to a dozen different colleges. He had opted for the Marines instead. Anything to shake the dust of his father’s cattle ranch from his boots. None of the colleges had been far enough away for what he had wanted at the time. After all those years of misunderstandings on the ranch, Shel had just wanted to be gone.

“You’re doing great against that guy,” Remy said. “Better than I thought you would. He’s a better basketball player, but you’re a better thinker. You’re shutting him down. Which is part of the problem. You’re taking his game away from him and it’s making him mad. Problem is, you got no finesse. He’s wearing you like a cheap shirt. If we had a referee for this game, you’d already have been tossed for personal fouls.”

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t play like a homecoming queen himself.” Shel wiped his mouth on his shirt. The material came away bloody. He had caught an elbow in the face last time that had split the inside of his cheek. “He’s not afraid of dishing it out.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t say that fool didn’t have it coming, but I am saying that this isn’t the time or the place for a grudge match.” Remy wiped his face with his shirt again. “The last thing we need is for Will to have to come down and get us out of the hoosegow over a basketball game. He’s already stressed over Father’s Day because he’s having to share his time with his kids’ new stepfather.”

Shel knew United States Navy Commander Will Coburn to be a fine man and officer. He had followed Will into several firefights during their years together on the NCIS team.

The marriage of Will’s ex-wife was only months old. Everyone on the team knew that Will had taken the marriage in stride as best as he could, but the change was still a lot to deal with. Having his kids involved only made things worse. Before, Father’s Day and Mother’s Day had been mutually exclusive. This year the kids’ mother had insisted that the day be shared between households.

One of the other players stepped forward. “Are we going to play ball? Or are you two just going to stand over there and hold hands?”

Shel felt that old smile—the one that didn’t belong and didn’t reflect anything that was going on inside him—curve his lips. That smile had gotten him into a lot of trouble with his daddy and had been a definite warning to his brother, Don.

The other team didn’t have a clue.

“The way you guys are playing,” Shel said as he stepped toward the other team, “I think we’ve got time to do both.”

Behind him, Shel heard Remy curse.

* * *

1229 Hours

At the offensive goal, Shel worked hard to break free of the other player’s defense. But every move he made, every step he took, Greene was on top of him. Shel knew basketball, but the other guy knew it better.

A small Hispanic guy named Melendez played point guard for Shel and Remy’s team. He flipped the ball around the perimeter with quick, short passes back and forth to the wings. Unable to get a shot off, Remy and the other wing kept passing the ball back.

Shel knew they wanted to get the ball inside to him if they could. They needed the basket to tie up the game. They were too tired to go back down the court and end up two buckets behind.

Melendez snuck a quick pass by the guard and got the ball to Shel. With a fast spin, Shel turned and tried to put the ball up. But as soon as it left his fingers, Greene slapped the shot away. Thankfully Melendez managed to recover the loose ball.

“Don’t you try to bring that trash in here,” Greene taunted. “This is my house. Nobody comes into my house.” Sweat dappled his dark features and his mocking smile showed white and clean. “You may be big, gunney, but you ain’t big enough. You hear what I’m saying?”

Shel tried to ignore the mocking voice and the fact that Greene was now bumping up against him even harder than before. The man wasn’t just taunting anymore. He was going for an all-out assault.

Melendez caught a screen from Remy and rolled out with the basketball before the other defensive player could pick him up. One of the key elements to their whole game was the fact that most of them had played ball before. Greene was a good player—maybe even a great player—but one man didn’t make a team. Special forces training taught a man that.

Free and open, Melendez put up a twenty-foot jump shot. Shel rolled around Greene to get the inside position for the rebound. Greene had gone up in an effort to deflect the basketball. He was out of position when he came back down.

Shel timed his jump as the basketball ran around the ring and fell off. He went up and intercepted the ball cleanly. He was trying to bring the ball in close when Greene stepped around him and punched the basketball with a closed fist.

The blow knocked the ball back into Shel’s face. It slammed against his nose and teeth hard enough to snap his head back. He tasted blood immediately and his eyes watered. The sudden onslaught of pain chipped away at the control that Shel had maintained. He turned instantly, and Greene stood ready and waiting. Two of the guys on his team fell in behind him.

“You don’t want none of this,” Greene crowed. “I promise you don’t want none of this.” He had his hands raised in front of him and stood in what Shel recognized as a martial arts stance.

Shel wasn’t big on martial arts. Most of his hand-to-hand combat ability had been picked up in the field and from men he had sparred with to increase his knowledge.

“You’re a big man,” Greene snarled, “but I’m badder.”

Despite the tension that had suddenly filled the gymnasium and the odds against him, Shel grinned. This was more along the lines of what he needed. He took a step forward.

Remy darted between them and put his hands up. “That’s it. Game’s over. We’re done here.”

“Then who wins the game?” another man asked.

“We win the game,” one of the men on Shel’s team said.

“Your big man fouled intentionally,” Melendez said. “That’s a forfeit in my book.”

“Good thing you ain’t keepin’ the book,” Greene said. He never broke eye contact with Shel. “Is that how you gonna call it, dawg? Gonna curl up like a little girl and cry? Or are you gonna man up and play ball?”

Remy turned to face the heckler. “Back off, clown. You don’t even know the trouble you’re trying to buy into.”

Greene was faster than Shel expected even after playing against the man. Before Remy could raise his hands to defend himself, Greene hit him in the face.

Driven by the blow, Remy staggered backward.

Copyright © 2008 by Mel Odom. All rights reserved

copyright 2010, Cindy (Cindy’s Love Of Books)
If you are reading this on a blog or website other than Cindy’s Love Of Books or via a feedreader, this content has been stolen and used without permission.

BE CAREFUL WHAT you wish for.

I used to think that was the dumbest saying ever. I mean, when you wish for something, by definition it’s wonderful, right? Like a new dress for a party. Or a roommate as cool as Gillian Chang or Lissa Mansfield. Or a guy noticing you after six months of being invisible. Before last term, of course I wanted those wishes to come true.

I should have been more careful.

Let me back up a little. My name is Carolina Isabella Aragon Velasquez . . . but that doesn’t fit on school admission forms, so when I started first grade, it got shortened up to Carolina Aragon—Carly to my friends. Up until I was a sophomore, I lived with my mother and father, my older sister Alana and little brother Antony in a huge house in Monte Sereno, just south of Silicon Valley. Papa’s company invented some kind of security software for stock exchanges, and he and everyone who worked for him got rich.

Then came Black Thursday and the stock market crash, and suddenly my mom was leaving him and going to live with her parents in Veracruz, Mexico, to be an artist and find herself. Alana finished college and moved to Austin, Texas, where we have lots of relatives. Antony, Papa, and I moved to a condo about the size of our old living room, and since Papa spends so much time on the road, where I’ve found myself since September is boarding school.

The spring term started in April, and as I got out of the limo Papa sends me back to Spencer Academy in every Sunday night—even though I’m perfectly capable of taking the train—I couldn’t help but feel a little bubble of optimism deep inside. Call me corny, but the news that Vanessa Talbot and Brett Loyola had broken up just before spring break had made the last ten days the happiest I’d had since my parents split up. Even flying to Veracruz, courtesy of Papa’s frequent flyer miles, and being introduced to my mother’s boyfriend hadn’t put a dent in it.

Ugh. Okay, I lied. So not going there.

Thinking about Brett now. Dark, romantic eyes. Curly dark hair, cut short because he’s the captain of the rowing team. Broad shoulders. Fabulous clothes he wears as if he doesn’t care where he got them.

Oh, yeah. Much better.

Lost in happy plans for how I’d finally get his attention (I was signing up to be a chem tutor first thing because, let’s face it, he needs me), I pushed open the door to my room and staggered in with my duffel bags.

My hands loosened and I dropped everything with a thud.

There were Vuitton suitcases all over the room. Enough for an entire family. In fact, the trunk was so big you could put a family in it—the kids, at least.

“Close the door, why don’t you?” said a bored British voice, with a barely noticeable roll on the r. A girl stepped out from behind the wardrobe door.

Red hair in an explosion of curls.

Fishnet stockings to here and glossy Louboutin ankle boots.

Blue eyes that grabbed you and made you wonder why she was so . . . not interested in whether you took another breath.

Ever.

How come no one had told me I was getting a roommate? And who could have prepared me for this, anyway?

“Who are you?”

“Mac,” she said, returning to the depths of the wardrobe. Most people would have said, “What’s your name?” back. She didn’t.

“I’m Carly.” Did I feel lame or what?

She looked around the door. “Pleasure. Looks like we’re to be roommates.” Then she went back to hanging things up.

There was no point in restating the obvious. I gathered my scattered brains and tried to remember what Mama had taught me that a good hostess was supposed to do. “Did someone show you where the dining room is? Supper is between five and six-thirty, and I usually—”

“Carrie. I expected my own room,” she said, as if I hadn’t been talking. “Whom do I speak to?”

“It’s Carly. And Ms. Tobin’s the dorm mistress for this floor.”

“Fine. What were you saying about tea?”

I took a breath and remembered that one of us was what my brother calls couth. As opposed to un. “You’re welcome to come with me and my friends if you want.”

Pop! went the latches on the trunk. She threw up the lid and looked at me over the top of it, her reddish eyebrows lifting in amusement.

“Thanks so much. But I’ll pass.”

Okay, even I have my limits. I picked up my duffel, dropped it on the end of my bed, and left her to it. Maybe by the time I got back from tea—er, supper—she’d have convinced Ms. Tobin to give her a room in another dorm.

The way things looked, this chica would probably demand the headmistress’s suite.

* * *

“What a mo guai nuer,” Gillian said over her tortellini and asparagus. “I can’t believe she snubbed you like that.”

“You of all people,” Lissa agreed, “who wouldn’t hurt someone’s feelings for anything.”

“I wanted to—if I could have come up with something scathing.” Lissa looked surprised, as if I’d shocked her. Well, I may not put my feelings out there for everyone to see, like Gillian does, but I’m still entitled to have them. “But you know how you freeze when you realize you’ve just been cut off at the knees?”

“What happened to your knees?” Jeremy Clay put his plate of linguine down and slid in next to Gillian. They traded a smile that made me feel sort of hollow inside—not the way I’d felt after Mac’s little setdown, but . . . like I was missing out on something. Like they had a secret and weren’t telling.

You know what? Feeling sorry for yourself is not the way to start off a term. I smiled at Jeremy. “Nothing. How was your break? Did you get up to New York the way you guys had planned?”

He glanced at Gillian. “Yeah, I did.”

Argh. Men. Never ask them a yes/no question. “And? Did you have fun? Shani said she had a blast after the initial shock.”

Gillian grinned at me. “That’s a nice way of saying that my grandmother scared the stilettos off her. At first. But then Nai-Nai realized Shani could eat anyone under the table, even my brothers, no matter what she put in front of her, so after that they were best friends.”

“My grandmother’s like that, too,” I said, nodding in sympathy. “She thinks I’m too thin, so she’s always making pots of mole and stuff. Little does she know.”

It’s a fact that I have way too much junk in my trunk. Part of the reason my focus is in history, with as many fashion design electives as I can get away with, is that when I make my own clothes, I can drape and cut to accentuate the positive and make people forget that big old negative following me around.

“You aren’t too thin or too fat.” Lissa is a perfect four. She’s also the most loyal friend in the world. “You’re just right. If I had your curves, I’d be a happy woman.”

Time to change the subject. The last thing I wanted to do was talk about my body in front of a guy, even if he belonged to someone else. “So, did you guys get to see Pride and Prejudice—The Musical? Shani said you were bribing someone to get tickets.”

“Close,” Gillian said. “My mom is on the orchestra’s board, so we got seats in the first circle. You’d have loved it. Costume heaven.”

“I would have.” I sighed. “Why did I have to go to Veracruz for spring break? How come I couldn’t have gone to New York, too?”

I hoped I sounded rhetorical. The truth was, there wasn’t any money for trips to New York to see the hottest musical on Broadway with my friends. Or for the clothes to wear once I got there—unless I made them myself.

“That’s it, then.” Gillian waved a grape tomato on the end of her fork. “Next break, you and Lissa are coming to see me. Not in the summer—no one in their right mind stays in the city in July. But at Christmas.”

“Maybe we’ll go to Veracruz,” Lissa suggested. “Or you guys can come to Santa Barbara and I’ll teach you to surf.”

“That sounds perfect,” I said. Either of Lissa’s options wouldn’t cost very much. New York, on the other hand, would. “I like warm places for my winter holidays.”

“Good point,” Gillian conceded. “So do I.”

“Notice how getting through the last term of junior year isn’t even on your radar?” Jeremy asked no one in particular. “It’s all about vacations with you guys.”

“Vacations are our reward,” Gillian informed him. “You have to have something to get you through finals.”

“Right, like you have to worry,” he scoffed, bumping shoulders with her in a chummy way.

“She does,” Lissa said. “She has to get me through finals.”

While everyone laughed, I got up and walked over to the dessert bar. Crème brulée, berry parfaits, and German chocolate cake. You know you’re depressed when even Dining Services’ crème brulée—which puts a dreamy look in the eyes of just about everyone who goes here—doesn’t get you excited.

I had to snap out of it. Thinking about all the things I didn’t have and all the things I couldn’t do would get me precisely nowhere. I had to focus on the good things.

My friends.

How lucky I was to have won the scholarship that got me into Spencer.

And how much luckier I was that in two terms, no one had figured out I was a scholarship kid. Okay, so Gillian is a scholarship kid, too, but her dad is the president of a multinational bank. She thinks it’s funny that he made her practice the piano so hard all those years, and that’s what finally got her away from him. Who is my father? No one. Just a hardworking guy. He was so proud of me when that acceptance letter came that I didn’t have the heart to tell him there was more to succeeding here than filling a minority quota and getting good grades.

Stop it. Just because you can’t flit off to New York to catch a show or order up the latest designs from Fashion Week doesn’t mean your life is trash. Get ahold of your sense of proportion.

I took a berry parfait—blueberries have lots of antioxidants—and turned back to the table just as the dining room doors opened. They seemed to pause in their arc, giving my new roommate plenty of time to stroll through before they practically genuflected closed behind her. She’d changed out of the fishnets into heels and a black sweater tossed over a simple leaf-green dress that absolutely screamed Paris—Rue Cambon, to be exact. Number 31, to be even more exact. Chanel Couture.

My knees nearly buckled with envy.

“Is that Carly’s roommate?” I heard Lissa ask.

Mac seemed completely unaware that everyone in the dining room was watching her as she floated across the floor like a runway model, collected a plate of Portobello mushroom ravioli and salad, and sat at the empty table next to the big window that faced out onto the quad.

Lissa was still gazing at her, puzzled. “I know I’ve seen her before.”

I hardly heard her.

Because not only had the redhead cut into line ahead of Vanessa Talbot, Dani Lavigne, and Emily Overton, she’d also invaded their prime real estate. No one sat at that table unless they’d sacrificed a freshman at midnight, or whatever it was that people had to do to be friends with them.

When Vanessa turned with her plate, I swear I could hear the collective intake of breath as her gaze locked on the stunning interloper sitting with her back to the window, calmly cutting her ravioli with the edge of her fork.

“Uh oh,” Gillian murmured. “Let the games begin.”

© 2008 by Shelley Adina.

Used by permission of the author and Hachette Book Group USA.

copyright 2010, Cindy (Cindy’s Love Of Books)
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