Full Figured 2:
Carl Weber Presents
By Alexis Nicole and Trista Russell
www.urbanbooks.net
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Smoke & Mirrors
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
I was born to be a star!
It didn’t take much for me to imagine myself standing center stage in the middle of Philips Arena. Or maybe the Staples Center in Los Angeles. Or even Madison Square Garden in New York! That would be sweet.
I could almost hear myself singing to sold-out crowds, with fans chanting my name: Simone! Simone! Simone!
Just the thought of that made me grin so wide my cheeks hurt.
So, if I was born to be rocking somebody’s stage, what was I doing here?
Not that I would ever ask that question out loud. Especially not to anyone here at Greater Faith Baptist Church. No, not a soul would ever hear those words come from my lips, ’cause I’d been raised right. I was a pastor’s kid and a daddy’s girl. That meant I always did the right thing, especially since I had to pick up the slack from my big sister, Skye. She never did anything right, at least, not in my daddy’s eyes. But I was different; I only spoke when I was spoken to, and when I did speak, I only said what everyone expected me to say. So, if I were to tell anyone that I was going to be a star, it would shake up the whole Greater Faith Baptist world.
But just because I didn’t say it, didn’t mean that it wasn’t true.
I was born to be a star!
I felt it the most every time I stood in this choir stand. Here in church, standing behind the organist, and in front of the musical director, singing was all I could think about. I mean, everyone in the choir always said I had the best voice, and though I didn’t have a lot of confidence in other areas, I knew that I could sing.
Sometimes, when I was in my dorm room by myself, I would turn up the music so loud the walls would shake, and I would singright along with my girl Yolanda, or Mary Mary. And, sometimes, I even rocked out with Beyonce and Rhianna. Now, it’s not like I want to brag, ’cause Daddy says that one who brags is full of pride. But though I understood what my dad meant, sometimes you just have to tell it. And when I sang with Yolanda or Mary Mary or Beyonce or Rhianna, I sounded dang good.
So, if I was so good, why was I here, singing backup for old Miss Maggie?
Okay, that’s a bit of an exaggeration–I wasn’t really her backup. Miss Maggie was singing the solo, and I was just one of the thirty-six people in the choir, singing behind her.
“This is my story . . .”
I tried not to do it. Tried not to roll my eyes as she held on to that note for as long as she could. In my head, I counted; she held it for five seconds, tops. Now, see, if that had been me, I would’ve rocked that note for at least double that time.
But no matter how long I could hold a note, or how wide my range was, I was gonna be backup for old Miss Maggie as long as my father was the pastor of Greater Faith.
It was kind of funny that I called Miss Maggie old, since I think she was just something like fifty-seven or fifty-eight; she was around my mom and dad’s age and they didn’t seem old. But me, Skye, and our girl, Chyanne, had been calling Miss Maggie old since we were little kids. And every time she sang these ancient Negro spirituals, she sounded even older to me.
“This is my song!”
This time, I couldn’t help it–I did roll my eyes, even though I tried to keep the smile on my face. But this was so tired, all of it: this song, the way we swayed, Miss Maggie. And I was tired too, of living this life when there was so much more that I wanted to do.
That’s when my eyes wandered into the congregation and I looked right into the faces of my two best friends. Chyanne was staring at me with her eyebrows raised so high, they were almost at the top of her forehead. I knew that look. That meant she was about to crack up at any moment. And sitting right next to her was Devin, already laughing, though he had his head down and his hand over his mouth, like he was trying to hide it.
Uh-oh. Chyanne must’ve seen the look on my face, and we’d been girls for so long, she knew what I was thinking. Or maybe it was Devin who was reading me. I hadn’t known Devin as long as Chyanne; Skye and I had known Chyanne since forever and I’d only met Devin in middle school. But that was ten years ago, so he knew what was up just by looking at me.
Well, if my friends had peeped what I was doing, then I needed to straighten up before my daddy or mother saw me. I made sure I didn’t turn to the right where my dad was sitting at the altar, dipping his head to the music, and smiling as if he was so proud of his choir. And I certainly didn’t look to the left and the first pew where my mom always sat, because if she saw me making faces at old Miss Maggie, my mother just might march right up into this choir stand and snatch me.
So I kept my eyes on Brother Steve, the choir director, and kept my mind away from my dreams.
I sure was glad when Miss Maggie hit that last note and we were finally able to take our seats. Folks were shouting, “Amen!” and “Hallelujah!” and “Thank you, Jesus!”
The smile was still on my face, but not because I was happy about our song or the congregants’ reactions; I was just glad that now, if I started daydreaming, no one would be able to see me.
The parishioners were still shouting and my dad sat back; he didn’t make a move, as if he wanted to give the folks time to get out all of their praise. I wiggled back in my seat and waited right along with him. One thing was for sure, I knew I would hear a good Word today. That was the thing about my daddy; I hardly ever got bored when he was preaching, because he had a voice that was made for singing. Just listening to him was amazing. And then, he always had a good Word. My dad could break it down so that even the young’uns–as he liked to call us–could understand what he was saying.
Finally, my dad stood and strolled toward the podium. Though my daddy was a preacher, and his daddy was a preacher, and his daddy was a preacher, my dad didn’t look anything like a pastor. Back in the day when Skye and I were growing up, we hated when our friends said Daddy looked like a movie star. I mean, it didn’t bother me now, but before, when I was little, I didn’t want my dad to look special. I just wanted him to look like a daddy.
I had to admit, as I watched him stroll with a swagger that all the guys in church tried to imitate, he did look a little like Idris Elba. But though he had the looks and the strut, my father was sold out for Christ. And he was one of those old-time preachers, seriously old school: girls should wear dresses, only men should preach, and the choir had to sing those tired songs with solos by old women.
Just thinking about how out-of-date my father was made me want to sigh.
“Good morning, saints!”
“Morning, Pastor,” rang through the sanctuary.
“You know, I just love that song,” he said, turning to look at us in the choir stand.
Okay, I was about to do it again. I was about to roll my eyes.
“Blessed assurance; I know that’s right, my father said. “That song is da bomb.” He chuckled, as if he’d just said something clever.
See what I
mean? Even my dad’s slang was old-fashioned. He didn’t even know people didn’t say “da bomb” anymore.
He kept on. “Y’all better recognize! There is power in the title of that song.”
“Preach, Pastor,” someone yelled out, though my father had just gotten started.
“We are blessed to have the assurances of God!” my father said, his voice starting to rise. “And here’s the thing: we had the assurances of God before, I said, before we were even born!” Now, his voice was booming, bouncing off the huge stainedglass windows. Sometimes when my dad preached, he could make those windows rattle. And he could rattle the people, too.
I looked into the sanctuary and almost shook my head. It didn’t take much from my father. He already had the members of Greater Faith going. They were twisting in their seats, lifting their hands, raising their Bibles. And he hadn’t said ten sentences.
“How blessed do you have to be to have the Lord’s assurances before you were born?” my father asked. “And if you don’t believe me, if you don’t know that you had His assurances while you were in your mama’s womb, let me show you the scripture. Turn to Jeremiah 1:4.”
I didn’t even wait for my dad to read the words out loud because that just took too long. There were folks who only opened their Bibles on Sundays, and they didn’t have any idea whether Jeremiah was in the Old or the New Testament. So sometimes, my father had to wait like, five minutes for everyone to get on the same page.
As soon as I got to the scripture, I read it for myself.
Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you, before you were born,
I set you apart.
Wow! I wondered what the Lord had set me apart to do.
“We were set apart for His blessings,” my father said after he read the scripture aloud, “for His assurances, for His grace, and His mercy. Y’all need to hear what I’m saying, saints.”
My dad had to pause as people jumped out of their seats and raised their hands and their voices. Most of the time, I couldn’t understand a thing these people were saying when they got all happy and holy. When we were kids, this was our favorite part of the service. Skye and I couldn’t wait for the old people to start dancing in the aisles and falling out at the altar. We used to crack up, but, now, it just annoyed me sometimes. I’m not saying that people shouldn’t get happy, I just couldn’t figure out why it was the same people, shouting the same words, and crying the same tears every Sunday.
“Y’all need to know that God wouldn’t have tried to know you if He didn’t have plans for you,” my father said, not letting up. “He wanted to know you because He knew what you would be. He knew how you were going to be as a child, and He knew what you were going to be when you grew up.”
Some folks laughed at that, but I didn’t. I had never thought of it that way, that God already knew the future. I mean, of course I knew that, but I’d never thought of it in terms of me. So, if God knew my future, if He knew what I was going to be when I grew up, I wondered if He thought that I could be a singer.
“So, here’s the thing, and y’all need to get these points. We are blessed to have God’s assurances. We were blessed before the beginning and we’ll be blessed after the end. And we are blessed all the days of our lives in between. No matter what it looks like or feels like, we have His assurances that He wants the best for us. He wants us to reach our goals and have our dreams, as long as they are inside of His will.”
Okay, this was deep, because if God wanted me to have my dream, then I was going to be a singer. But the problem was, that wasn’t the way it worked in the Davenport household. Where I lived, Reverend Davenport’s dreams were the only ones that counted. And he had always made it very clear what he wanted for me: to go to school and get good grades (which I did). Then, to go to Spelman and major in accounting, because, according to him, that was, practical degree (which I did). And now that I was a senior, he wanted me to graduate with honors (which I was going to do) and go to work for Ernst & Young, where I had interned every summer since my freshman year. That was the part that just made me sigh.
I really needed to stop thinking about this. Because even if my father were to miraculously one day say, “Simone, you should be a singer!” it would still never happen. No matter how good I sounded, no matter how much ambition I had, there was one thing that would always keep me back.
Looking down at the flowing choir robe, I remembered why I was always glad when we wore these on Sundays. Because not only was the golden satin so beautiful, but it hid most of my unflattering curves.
And therein lay the problem. While I may have had the voice that could match anyone on the Billboard Top Ten, I had a figure that leaned more toward sumo wrestling. Oh, yeah, I could have been a gospel singer, because it seemed like no one cared about your size in that genre. But though I loved the Lord and had mad respect for the artists who brought glory to God that way, that’s not what I wanted. I wanted to be on the other side of soul. My heart’s desire was to be an R&B artist.
But the thing was, with singers like Beyoncé and Rhianna and Ciara leading the way, there just didn’t seem to be room in R&B for a big girl like me.
Chapter 2
“Girl, I thought you were going to open up a can of whup-upside-the-head on old Miss Maggie!”
“Would you be quiet?” I couldn’t believe how loud Devin was talking. He was supposed to be whispering, but the alcove of the church was small, and I was scared that everybody was going to hear him.
But even though I was trying to quiet Devin down, I had to work hard not to laugh. Not that I ever wanted to hurt old Miss Maggie, but “whup-upside-the-head”? That was some funny stuff.
“What are you young’uns over here laughing about?” In the small space, my father’s voice was as strong as thunder. He sounded so serious, I wondered if he’d heard what Devin had said. I was almost scared to turn around and look at him. Even though I was twenty-two and living on my own (well, I was living in a dorm), my folks did not play. They didn’t care how old I was; as long as they were paying the bills, they were in charge.
I held my breath and turned around. My parents were standing right there, shoulder-to-shoulder, smiling.
Whew! “We weren’t laughing about anything,” I rushed to say, ’cause I didn’t want Devin explaining a thing. Over the years, he’d gotten us into enough trouble just by opening his mouth.
My father raised his left eyebrow like he always did when he didn’t believe a word I said. “Well, it sure seems silly to me, standing around, laughing at nothing.”
Chyanne came to the rescue. “You know how we are, Reverend Davenport.”
I knew my father loved me and Skye, but there was no doubt that he loved Chyanne too. I guessed it was because her father died when she was just seven, in a really bad car accident. Chyanne had been in the car too, but she had been safe in the back seat when only the front of the car had been crushed.
I was only four when that happened, but I remembered some of it. And ever since then, Chyanne was the third Davenport sister. That meant with my parents she was treated the same way as me and Skye–with the good stuff and the bad.
Though, sometimes, it felt like Chyanne got a little more of the good stuff. Sometimes, my parents would cut Chyanne a little more slack, but that didn’t bother me or Skye. The three of us just learned to use it to our advantage. That meant that whenever we wanted something, Chyanne was our spokesperson. Or when we were about to get in big trouble, we put Chyanne out in front.
Like now. All she had to say was that it was nothing, and my father just smiled and forgot all about it.
“So, what are you young people going to do for the rest of the day?” my mother asked.
My eyes got a little wide. I’d told her yesterday that we were going to have lunch with Skye; I couldn’t figure out why she was bringing this up in front of my dad.
“Uh,” I said, hoping Chyanne would pipe in with something. But just when I needed her the most, her mouth was clo
sed tight. And, for once, so was Devin’s. So I was on my own. With a breath I said, “We’re meeting up with . . . Skye.”
I spoke to my mother, but I looked at my dad. And the big old smile he’d just had was gone now. His eyes got small, he shifted his feet, and then he pressed his hands together in front of his face like he was about to pray.
“Well,” he said, “give us a call when you get back to the dorm.” He kissed my cheek and then walked away.
My mother looked at me with sad eyes, like she was sorry that she’d forgotten and had asked that question. She kissed me too. “Tell Skye that I love her and to call me.”
My best friends and I watched my parents walk toward the back of the church, where I knew my father would pack up, then lock up the church. We stood there for a little while, and then Chyanne, Devin, and I looked at each other.
“Boy, this is some mess,” Devin said.
Chyanne shook her head. “I know, I can’t believe it’s still going on.”
“Neither can I. And it puts so much on me, being in the middle like this.”
“We’re in the middle with you, girl,” Devin said all sadly. But in the next second, his eyes were bright and his smile was back and wide. “Being in the middle takes a lot of energy. So you heifers better come on so that I can get something to eat.”
Chapter 3
My sister loved all the upscale places in the ATL and, today, Skye had chosen Shout for us to meet. Of course, by the time Chyanne, Devin, and I walked in, my always-on-time big sister was there.
“Hey!” She waved us over to a table for four. It was situated right in the center of the room, so that we could see everyone coming and going.
By the time I got over to Skye, I was grinning. Two weeks had passed since I’d last seen my sister. Over the last couple of weekends I’d had to do things with my parents. And anywhere my parents (or, should I just say, my dad) were, Skye wasn’t.
“Girl, you look fresh!” I said, standing back after I hugged her. My sister, the fashionista, was wearing a strapless gray dress with a double bodice. The light wool fabric stopped right at her knees, and though the dress was sexy, it was conservative at the same time. Her black ankle-strapped four-inch heels made the whole thing trés chic.
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