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Warning: This memoir series contains themes of physical, sexual, domestic, and verbal abuse, including instances of rape and child abuse. Reader discretion is advised.
This is book 2 in the series.
Excerpt:
Trazoli's enthusiasm barely registered with me as she excitedly declared, "We're going to pretend we are backup dancers for DeBarge."
I groaned in response, "Really? You woke me up for that? You know I don't know how to dance!"
Ignoring my protests, she switched on her boombox, filling the air with DeBarge's "Rhythm of the Night" as we stepped out onto the front sidewalk. Trazoli was dressed in black leggings, a white button-up shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and a white tank top peeking out from underneath.
Like me, she was also barefoot, with a white bandana adorning her medium-length hair and a pair of small white earrings glinting in her ears. I will never forget how we looked that day.
Undeterred, Trazoli urged, "Come on, Tasha Marie, let's practice in the street."
I observed from the safety of the sidewalk as Trazoli boldly pranced across the sparsely busy street. She seemed to have lost her mind, expecting me to join her in the middle of the road for a dance session. While she reveled in the infectious beats of the song, I couldn't muster up the same enthusiasm.
With energy undiminished, she danced vigorously to the song twice before finally darting over to grab my hands and drag me onto the street. I resigned myself to her infectious madness as she restarted the song on the cassette player of the boombox.
Before I knew it, I found myself transformed into a pretend backup dancer for DeBarge. Trazoli chuckled, teasing, "You were right, you can't dance a lick, but we're having fun; come on, Tasha Marie! Hit it!"
This is book 2 in the series.
Excerpt:
Trazoli's enthusiasm barely registered with me as she excitedly declared, "We're going to pretend we are backup dancers for DeBarge."
I groaned in response, "Really? You woke me up for that? You know I don't know how to dance!"
Ignoring my protests, she switched on her boombox, filling the air with DeBarge's "Rhythm of the Night" as we stepped out onto the front sidewalk. Trazoli was dressed in black leggings, a white button-up shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and a white tank top peeking out from underneath.
Like me, she was also barefoot, with a white bandana adorning her medium-length hair and a pair of small white earrings glinting in her ears. I will never forget how we looked that day.
Undeterred, Trazoli urged, "Come on, Tasha Marie, let's practice in the street."
I observed from the safety of the sidewalk as Trazoli boldly pranced across the sparsely busy street. She seemed to have lost her mind, expecting me to join her in the middle of the road for a dance session. While she reveled in the infectious beats of the song, I couldn't muster up the same enthusiasm.
With energy undiminished, she danced vigorously to the song twice before finally darting over to grab my hands and drag me onto the street. I resigned myself to her infectious madness as she restarted the song on the cassette player of the boombox.
Before I knew it, I found myself transformed into a pretend backup dancer for DeBarge. Trazoli chuckled, teasing, "You were right, you can't dance a lick, but we're having fun; come on, Tasha Marie! Hit it!"
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