2011 is The Year of the Manuscript! I've been courting this character, CeCe, for more than a decade now (I know!) and finally got the momentum, time and headspace to finish her story. I'm five chapters away from finishing, so thought I'd share excerpts along the way as I edit. Here's the first two pages of Chapter One:
CeCe mumbled a tight-lipped thank you to the tall woman who had stooped down to help her from the concrete. CeCe had crashed down on all of them when she tripped and fell through the accordion fold of the transit bus door. Unlike her sneakers, these stiff, black pumps were not familiar with the grip and lurch of a halting city bus. CeCe and her tennis shoes had grown up on these transit buses. The new, grown up heels mocked her stride and her balance, catapulting her into the cluster of strangers waiting to board.
Once on her feet, CeCe pretended to examine her ankle, not making eye contact with the tall woman or the others beginning to board. The bus hydraulics sighed, lifting its new load and pulling away from the curb. CeCe relaxed the faux intensity of her self-examination. She wasn’t physically hurt. No scrapes, no strains, no embedded bits of glass. The inventoried assaults to her ego, however, tallied high: she’d fallen from a city bus; plowed down a small crowd of commuters; earned a smear of someone’s chocolate bar across her white blouse; and her black dress pants had a skid of dirt and debris stretching from her cuff to her hip. She’d have to wash them again already.
CeCe suddenly pulsed with the realization that someone might be watching her, laughing at her fall. She dashed a glance over each shoulder and pointed herself toward Carpenter Street. As her steps carried her away from the bustle of Kennedy Boulevard and into the quiet of this residential nook, she fell into a normal gait. The late summer sun coiled itself around her arms, pulling her along. CeCe allowed her nerves to be lulled by these buoyant neighborhood sounds. There were no blaring horns here, no grumbling buses, no breaking glass, no choirs of cursing teenagers. Just a few passing minivans, skipped jump ropes, an occasional car stereo and barking dog, and plenty of rustling leaves.
Except for the debris of sidewalk and snacks clinging to her clothes, CeCe could’ve fit right in on these blocks of upwardly mobile Blacks. She'd always liked to imagine herself in one of these houses, borrowing video tapes from one of these neighbors, babysitting for these families, carrying a macaroni salad to one of the annual block parties.
CeCe imagined herself having friends here, too. She’d sometimes see girls from her school in front of these addresses, climbing into sedans, peeking into mailboxes, tugging at leashes. CeCe didn’t speak to them as they stood in their driveways, just as she didn’t speak to them standing around in the hallways at school. CeCe was not a beautiful girl, but always felt that she was attractive enough. She had pecan colored skin with occasional acne blemishes, a puckered small mouth that she kept coated with plum colored lip gloss and dark lashes so thick and heavy they curled in on themselves.
Instead wielding her beauty, CeCe had spent her high school years becoming deliberately invisible. She hadn't gone the extreme of becoming the unkempt recluse. CeCe liked to her jeans fitted and her shirts colorful, like them. She kept her sneakers clean and her earrings big and liked to wrestle her thick hair into glistening, neat asymmetrical styles.
Unlike them, however, CeCe questioned the surety of every life step and, unlike them, figured she'd learned her lessons against hoping for happiness.
CeCe mumbled a tight-lipped thank you to the tall woman who had stooped down to help her from the concrete. CeCe had crashed down on all of them when she tripped and fell through the accordion fold of the transit bus door. Unlike her sneakers, these stiff, black pumps were not familiar with the grip and lurch of a halting city bus. CeCe and her tennis shoes had grown up on these transit buses. The new, grown up heels mocked her stride and her balance, catapulting her into the cluster of strangers waiting to board.
Once on her feet, CeCe pretended to examine her ankle, not making eye contact with the tall woman or the others beginning to board. The bus hydraulics sighed, lifting its new load and pulling away from the curb. CeCe relaxed the faux intensity of her self-examination. She wasn’t physically hurt. No scrapes, no strains, no embedded bits of glass. The inventoried assaults to her ego, however, tallied high: she’d fallen from a city bus; plowed down a small crowd of commuters; earned a smear of someone’s chocolate bar across her white blouse; and her black dress pants had a skid of dirt and debris stretching from her cuff to her hip. She’d have to wash them again already.
CeCe suddenly pulsed with the realization that someone might be watching her, laughing at her fall. She dashed a glance over each shoulder and pointed herself toward Carpenter Street. As her steps carried her away from the bustle of Kennedy Boulevard and into the quiet of this residential nook, she fell into a normal gait. The late summer sun coiled itself around her arms, pulling her along. CeCe allowed her nerves to be lulled by these buoyant neighborhood sounds. There were no blaring horns here, no grumbling buses, no breaking glass, no choirs of cursing teenagers. Just a few passing minivans, skipped jump ropes, an occasional car stereo and barking dog, and plenty of rustling leaves.
Except for the debris of sidewalk and snacks clinging to her clothes, CeCe could’ve fit right in on these blocks of upwardly mobile Blacks. She'd always liked to imagine herself in one of these houses, borrowing video tapes from one of these neighbors, babysitting for these families, carrying a macaroni salad to one of the annual block parties.
CeCe imagined herself having friends here, too. She’d sometimes see girls from her school in front of these addresses, climbing into sedans, peeking into mailboxes, tugging at leashes. CeCe didn’t speak to them as they stood in their driveways, just as she didn’t speak to them standing around in the hallways at school. CeCe was not a beautiful girl, but always felt that she was attractive enough. She had pecan colored skin with occasional acne blemishes, a puckered small mouth that she kept coated with plum colored lip gloss and dark lashes so thick and heavy they curled in on themselves.
Instead wielding her beauty, CeCe had spent her high school years becoming deliberately invisible. She hadn't gone the extreme of becoming the unkempt recluse. CeCe liked to her jeans fitted and her shirts colorful, like them. She kept her sneakers clean and her earrings big and liked to wrestle her thick hair into glistening, neat asymmetrical styles.
Unlike them, however, CeCe questioned the surety of every life step and, unlike them, figured she'd learned her lessons against hoping for happiness.
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