Please look out and spread the word about my new book. Also look out for special giveaways and discounted prices in the Summer.
Now without further adieu, The Preacher's Daughter.
Chapter 1
“May the Lord be with you,” my father said to crowd of no
more than 50 people. 54 if you count my mother, my two brothers and me. This
was a good Sunday morning turn out compared to the usual 12 faithful
churchgoers who haven’t given up on my father, Pastor Donald E. Carlisle. Our
church, Bible Baptist Church, had over 600 members 8 years ago, before
Deaconess Michelle Johnson filed a lawsuit against my father. Deaconess Johnson
was known to flirt and hit on every man, married or not, who would give her the
time of day. She wore these tight little pants suits that left nothing to the
imagination, squeezing her 5’ 6” 180 pound frame. She always wore her hair up
in a bun with one long curl hanging in front of her plump face. When in deep
conversation with the opposite sex she would twirl that one curl around her
finger so tight that over the years her hair started to recede.
Deaconess Johnson was the president of the trustee board
and often spent a lot of time alone with my father going over the church budget
and deposit slips. Rumors started to spread about the pastor and deaconess
Johnson having a secret affair. They both denied everything. I mean after all
why would the pastor, a holy man of God, cheat on the First Lady? That’s what
we all thought until one night after revival Mrs. Johnson claimed my father
touched her in the finance room and offered her money to sleep with him. Of
course there was no truth to that or so my father says but there was no
convincing the rest of the congregation. My mother, Patricia Carlisle was
devastated but stood by her man. Divorce was not an option, that’s what the
bible said. With half the congregation gone we had no choice but to downsize.
With all of the drama behind us, my father decided to
move forward with his ministry and purchased a small little black and white
church off Dyre Avenue in the Bronx that needed a lot of work. The Lord told
him that we needed to get out of Queens and start ministering to the people of
the Bronx. I doubt the Lord said all of that but we went along with his master
plan and relocated. To say I hated it would be an understatement. The dim
lighting and dingy stain glass windows in this new church creeped me out. This
church didn’t have pews like our last one, just those hard metal folding chairs
that gave you frost bite when you sit on them for too long in the winter. The
air conditioner didn’t work and the repair man had to come three times to fix
the leaky boiler. I remember my poor mother spending hours scrubbing the
windows and repainting and oiling those chairs but come Sunday morning the
chairs still squeaked and the “white” dove with the olive branch depicted on
the windows still looked like a pigeon with a Slim Jim in its mouth.
“And also with you,” the congregation replied as they
quickly scurried out of there trying to avoid being trapped into going to
service number three which was starting in thirty minutes. Yes that’s right, my
father has three services on Sunday and I’m forced to sit through all three.
Even when there’s only eight people in church, again four of which being my
mother, my siblings and myself, he still would hold service. To keep myself
awake I pretended to go to the bathroom and then quietly snuck off into my
father’s office to check my MySpace messages. Just like the rest of the church,
his office was dimly lit and smelled like he sprayed the walls with eight
bottles of cologne. Holding my nose I ran over to his computer and hit the
power button. With all the virus Spyware ads, pass code log on prompts and
daily scriptures that popped up on the screen it seemed like it took a whole
ten minutes for his Dell laptop to finally come to the home screen. I knew I
had to move fast before my mother came looking for me. I quickly typed in my
MySpace user and password and impatiently waited as my profile uploaded. Five
minutes later my message icon flashed and sure enough Michael Coleman, or Mike
as his friends called him, had responded to my message. I’ve had a crush on
this boy since the third grade, Mrs. Child’s class in P.S. 41, and now almost
seven years later I’ve finally got the guts to tell him, well sort of.
We were both in Ms. Smith’s homeroom class at Evander
Childs High School. The first day of class he walked in wearing a black and
blue Rocawear hoodie shirt with Ecko jeans, a pair of black and blue Air
Jordan’s sneakers and a diamond earring in his left ear. All eyes were on him
and they should be. I mean who could resist those hazel eyes, curly hair and
perfectly straight teeth thanks to the braces he wore in the 6th thru 8th
grade. Every girl in the room quickly moved their book bags off the seats next
to them they were reserving for their best friends to make room for him. My
heart stopped for a minute as he came right over and sat next to me.
Considering the fact I was the only one he knew in that class I shouldn’t have
been surprised. From all the eye rolling, teeth sucking and gasps heard around
the room, everyone else was surprised.
“What’s up Jess, how was your summer?” he said smiling,
flashing me those pearly whites. I swear my insides got all warm and tingly
just at the thought of him being so close to me.
“It was cool; I worked at my dad’s church.” I said
exaggerating the truth a little. I didn’t really work there; I was forced to go
and sure as hell didn’t get paid for it either.
“Oh that’s right, church girl working in a church. It
suits you.” He laughed “So how many Hail Mary’s did you do?”
He stopped laughing when he realized I didn’t join in
with him. “Calm down I’m just joking. Look my uncles a pastor so I know what it
feels like to spend every day in church.”
That actually made me smile a little, knowing that
someone as popular as Mike was also into church. It was weird to me because I also
attended church but was never a part of the “cool” crowd. As strange as it may
sound, my parents forbid it. They would always say “Jesus wasn’t popular. He
did his own thing and people came to him. Live holy and people will flock to
you.” That may have been true during the biblical times but now in 2005 it
didn’t work out so much for me. The kids usually tease me calling me “Church
Girl” and “Holy Roller” and made fun of how I dressed. Everyday my mother would
make me wear these hideous skirts that stopped mid-calf, a button up or high
collar shirt that didn’t have a designer label stitched on it and my hair
pulled back in a ponytail. I also wore my mother’s old wide framed glasses that
didn’t really help gain me any cool points, just more jokes at my expense.
When I entered high school I begged my parents for
contacts or at least some name brand glasses but being the high and mighty
Christians they were, they denied my request. “Jesus didn’t wear contact” they
would say. He didn’t wear glasses either I thought to myself but dare not say
out loud or else my mother’s backhand would come flying across my face. My
mother was known to discipline her children in public. I remember when I was
eight years old the choir director finally gave me my first lead song. I was
soo excited that I stayed up the night before my big performance practicing my
solo in the basement. To say I was tired the next morning would be an
understatement. I tried my best to keep my eyes open during service but the
Sandman got the best of me and I fell asleep right before the choir got up to
sing. Waking up just in time, I walked over to the microphone and accidentally
yawned loudly as the organist started to play His Eye is on the Sparrow. Right after our musical selection, my
mother signaled for me to come down from the pulpit. I thought she was going to
tell me how good I did or even give me a hug. As soon as I got next to her she
patted the pew, motioning for me to sit down. Out of nowhere she plucked me right
in my mouth. I swear the whole church must’ve heard it. A few people mumbled
and some even praised her saying “That’s what she gets for sleeping in church.”
Now fast forwarding, my parents still believed in “Spare the Rod, Spoil the
Child.” At the age of 16 back talking them would still get you smacked.
As the school year went on Mike and myself got closer,
but not the closeness I hoped. During lunch and in the halls between classes he
would give me a quick wink or the infamous one handed hug, you know, the same
hug you give the old deaconess that smells like Ben gay cream and pocket mints.
I would always blush and feel special during our brief encounters until I look
over his shoulder and notice one of the cheerleaders or whichever girl was in
rotation at that time waiting in the stairwell for him. Although we had each other’s
numbers Mark never called me and I never called him. I’ve picked up the phone
many times and dialed the first couple digits of his number then fear took over
and I hung up.
One night I
searched his name on MySpace after hearing him talking to Carl in homeroom
about it and sent him a friend request. That was a Friday night. I waited all
weekend and still no acceptance from him. My nerves got the best of me so
Monday morning before school I logged on with the intentions of deleting my
request and there it was: Michael M-Dog Coleman has accepted your request. From
that moment on I was hooked. Every day after school I would run to the family
room before my parents got home from work, log on to my page and “cyber stalk”
Mike. It became an obsession, I couldn’t control myself. I wanted to see who he
hung out with, who he was dating, how he spent his weekends and anything else I
could dig up on him. The night before Valentine’s Day I followed my usual
routine: dinner, shower, meet in my parent’s room for our nightly prayers then
detour past my bedroom and head downstairs to the family room to stalk Mike’s
page. I was dying to see who would be his valentine. My heart dropped when I
logged on and saw he had another woman as his profile picture. Tears began to
flood my eyes; an uncontrollable stream burned my face as I jump up from the
computer and screamed to the top of my lungs “Mommy! Mommy!”
I knew the woman in the picture very well; she was a
member at my father’s church in Queens, Mrs. Coleman. My mother, followed by my
father and brothers Anthony and James came stumbling down the stairs. “What’s
the matter Jess? And why are you still up, its way past your bedtime?”
“Look” I said barely above a whisper as I pointed to the
computer screen.
My parents read what I was too scared to say out loud “RIP mommy, you fought a good fight. God
gained another angel tonight. Keep my spot in heaven warm for me. Love always
your son, Mark.” My mother’s
began to blink more than normal, fighting back tears. After a long moment of
silence my father finally spoke
“Mrs. Coleman fought cervical cancer for many many years.
I hate to see her go but I’m relieved that she’s with the Father now, pain
free. We’re going to the hospital, Jess keep an eye on your brothers.” I nodded my head, logged off and as soon as I
heard the car pull out the driveway I ran to my room and cried myself to sleep.
Yes I was hurt by the sudden news of Mrs. Coleman’s death but I was more hurt
that my Mark was in so much pain. Mark didn’t come to school for the rest of
the week. After the funeral he stayed home for another week. I volunteered to
bring his homework to him so he wouldn’t fall behind and often sent him
inspirational messages through MySpace. Even after he returned to class I
continued sending him messages and helped him with class assignments, anything
to get closer to him. A couple weeks later I was following my usual nightly
routine, checking MySpace but this time when I logged on I damn near choked on
the gum I was chewing, I had a message from Mark! After all this time he
actually wrote me back:
Jessica I just
wanted to let you know that I’ve received and read every message you’ve sent
me. They’ve been a big help with deal with my mother’s death. Sometimes when I
start doubting God I just read your messages and the pain in my heart lightens
up a little. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Thanks for being a
great friend! If there's anything you ever need don’t hesitate to ask.
- Mark
And that was the start of our cyber fling. Mark would
message me sweet little Good Morning / Good Night messages but in school he
wouldn’t pay me any attention. I started saving up my allowance and brought a
tight pair of jeans and a low cut shirt that showed my 34 C cup cleavage. I stuck
them in my book bag and changed my clothes in the bushes around the corner from
the school. Determined to get Mark’s attention in person I strutted past him in
homeroom, chest out and head held high but all I got from him was “Nice
shirt!”After two weeks of changing my clothes Mark still seemed uninterested
although it did get the attention of a few boys here and there. The school year
was coming to an end and I was desperate to get Mark’s attention. I just wanted
him to say everything that he messages me on MySpace in person. I want him to
proclaim his love to me. I want to make every girl that’s ever called me
“Church girl, gospel geek or Jesus junkie” envious and die with jealousy every
time they see me and Mark walking down the hall holding hands together. I want
him to be my first. After sitting up all night dreaming about how my first time
with Mark would be I couldn’t take it anymore. I tip toed past my parent’s
room, down into the family room and logged on my MySpace page. I clicked on
Mark’s page and my hands suddenly got all sweaty. Come on Jess it’s now or
never. He might be feeling the same way and is just too scared to say it. I
took a deep breath and without thinking just let my fingers do the typing.
My father’s laptop seemed to be moving at the speed of
dust. I felt a panic attack coming on as I waited for Mark’s reply to upload on
the tiny screen. What if he turns me down? What if I just ruined our
friendship? Just then I heard someone walk past the office door. I quickly
closed the computer and saw my 10 year old pain in the ass brother, James
running toward me.
“Oooooooowwwwww, I’m gonna tell dad your playing on his
computer!”
“I’m not playing on his computer, I’m…..umm…. making up
the schedule for next week’s bible seminar.” I said knowing he didn’t believe
me, hell I didn’t even believe myself.
“Well hurry up! It’s not fair, you get to hide in here
and miss service while me and Ant are out there bored to death.”
“Yea, yea, yea now get out!” As he turns to walk away I
quickly opened the computer. Damn! This dumb computer went on sleep mode!
“Oh yea, mommy’s
looking for you” James shouts from in the hallway. Great, she’ll probably come
back looking for me in the next five minutes. I have to move quick. The
computer finally decided to awake from its beauty sleep. I clicked on my new
messages and held my breath as I read Mark’s reply:
Umm, wow! I
really don’t know what to say. I love you Jess just never knew how to say it,
especially now without sounding too vulnerable. But are you sure this is what
you want? I’m not shooting you down, just making sure you know what you’re
getting into. You only get one chance to be a virgin and if you want me to be
the one you share your first time with then ok.
I love you J,
- Mark
The biggest grin crept across my face. I was on freakin’
cloud nine. I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. All my insecurities went
out the window. I felt beautiful. I was beautiful and more importantly I was in
love and Mark was too. “Get ready girls,
daddy’s gonna enjoy rubbin’ on you two,” I said grabbing my breast and
lightly squeezing them. I spun around quickly in my father’s chair still
grinning from ear to ear when suddenly the smile vanished and I felt something
knock the wind right out of my chest. I hit the ground and when I looked up I
saw my mother reading not only Mark’s message but the original one I sent him.
My ears started to ring, my chest started closing up on me. I couldn’t breathe. The room began to spin. My eyes got heavier and heavier. Then I blacked out.
It took me a minute to figure out where I was. I
definitely wasn’t in my father’s office anymore. Fear flooded my heart as I
recalled the last thing I could remember: my mother sucker punching and
slapping me before I hit the ground. Then I remembered why she hit me in the
first place, Mark’s message. I felt along the sides of the wall for a light
switch and turned it on realizing I was in my room. I caught a glimpse of my
reflection in the mirror. My left eye almost swollen shut and I had a small cut
on my left ear. It was Monday morning and I knew I wasn’t going to school
looking like this. I laid back down on my bed and cuddled up with my pillow and
cried. I went to grab tissue to wipe my eyes and I noticed a small green, white
and yellow pamphlet on my night stand where my box of tissues use to be. I
wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt and opened the pamphlet. A note fell
out that said:
Welcome to your
new school, your new home, Saint Francis Academy. Your stuff is already
packed, you leave on Wednesday.
Also, we
deactivated your MySpace account and disconnected your phone.
-Love Mom and
Dad
“FUCK!!!!!!!!!”
- Look out for The Preacher's Daughter, coming Summer 2014
