My Personal Scrapbook

So my sister, if you don't know her, Ali_Gator, is an aspiring wall artist and I decided I didn't want to be her right hand woman. I tried to figure out a way to get noticed on here and decided since I'm not rich, and I can't show people my drawings, might as well use the only skill I have left: writing. I really love to write, and I've already put some of my work on a writing website, but these are just some stories I've...I guess overlooked. So comment if you would like to see more.

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When I was growing up, I lived in a sort of like trailer home in Miami. It was probably the worst area to live in, where I was.

You see, there are 8 areas in my city: Downtown, Uptown, the Academies, the Beaches, the Ghetto, Gardener Fields, Hicktown, and the Safe House.

Downtown had a bunch of shops. Nobody lived there, except for some as shop tenants.

Uptown was a relatively nice place. It had the biggest house in Miami, the Uptown Mayor's home. It was a melting pot of nice homes and moderate homes. It was the closest to the Swamps.

The Academies was probably the nicest place to live. This place was known for its large private and boarding schools. The Academies didn't have a lot of houses, but the ones they did have, including the Academies Mayor's, were very nice. It was abundant in good paying jobs.

The Beaches were, as the name implies, known for it's beaches. The Beaches were known for their huge beach houses. The Mayor even lived on his own sort of island.

Gardener Fields were owned by the Gardeners. I'll get to that later. It was mostly fields except for around five or six nice homes.

Hicktown was a nice-ish place when you judged it by its cover. Daytime, it was a nice, quiet neighborhood. But a nighttime, the clubs opened and the streets were crawling with prostitutes. There were such nice houses across from shabby motels were the prostitutes lived. The mayor was totally oblivious to them.

Nobody lived in the Safe House, or so they say. Anybody that needs to get away from anybody is escorted to the Safe House. It's really an old manufacturing site that closed down years ago.

And then there was the ghetto. A poor, barely thriving little place. It was mostly trailers and 1 story homes. The Mayor always lived in the nicest house there, a house that was slightly bigger and the only one with a real stone porch. There were the Shacks and the Trailer Park.

Anyway, my home was stacked on a bunch of other trailers. Our neighborhood, the ghetto, called it the Trailer Motel.

The higher up your trailer was, the nicer it was. This was because your floor number was the number of rooms you had. I recall a family of five living in one of the first floor trailers. I lived on the third floor from the bottom. That was pretty good, considering there were four floors and only one trailer on the fourth.

The person that lived in, what everyone called the Penthouse Trailer, was a nice elderly man who often let us kids come up and observe the view.

My best friend there (and anywhere, really) was named Benny Brown, but all the kids called him BonQuiQui. He lived on the same floor as I, but mine was just a tad nicer.

My trailer had three rooms, as did all the trailers on my floor. The bigger room was our makeshift living room and kitchen. The smaller room was our bedroom. I slept on a trundle bed that was stored underneath my parents' bed with my older brother. The other room was the bathroom.

The Penthouse Trailer had a very nice four rooms. It had a bedroom, a bathroom, a living room, and a kitchen. It was the nicest house I was ever exposed to, except one.

There were a lot of pros when it came to living in the Trailer Motel. First, the view from outside was beautiful. Also, Ono Burgers was just a quick walk away. But for me, the house across the road completed it all.

The Gardener Estate was the largest house I'd ever known. It was 5 stories tall, not including the basement and the attic. It had a inground pool and a nice set of swings to accompany it. The wrought iron gates that guarded it from the outside world were curled on the top, like a real castle. But the best part was the people that lived there.

The Gardeners, as the name implied, were farmers that owned lots of the fields. To those children, chores were more like getting the crops or feeding the chickens rather than making beds and washing dishes. The family consisted of a boy my brother's age, a mother, a father, a baby girl, two dogs, a cat, a lot of other animals, and a girl my age.

The girl's name was Niana, and she was as beautiful as a night sky. She had dark red hair that was cut into a bob for ease. Her eyes were tabby cat gray. She was popular, smart, athletic, funny, and genuinely nice to everyone. Niana was beautiful, inside and out.

Still, Niana looked nothing like her family. Her parents and siblings all had brown hair and brown eyes. She wasn't adopted, or a daughter of her mom and another man, or her father and another woman. Just different. She hated everyone thinking she was her older brother's girlfriend.

I started to do something when I was ten. Ten years old meant girls had cooties, and sports were suddenly the only thing that mattered. But also, in the Trailer Motel, you could climb up to the Spot.

The Spot was simply a fenceless area, really the roof of my house. Although it was my house, ten was the minimum age. You would go up to the Penthouse's balcony and jump off onto the Spot. From there I often watched Niana. I had a clear view of her house. Her family was very eco-friendly, so they left all their curtains drawn. It was great.

One day I recall being in the Spot and being busted for spying on Niana. BonQuiQui had teased me about liking Niana. Although I denied it, it was hard to lie to my best friend. BonQuiQui let the matter drop and left me alone.

Finally after about four years of staring at Niana, she came up to me in school one day. I was pretty popular, but she was like the ruler of the school. She actually was student body president. She told me that she thought I was handsome. I was taken aback. She invited my over to her house, and we talked for a while, sharing interests and things of that matter. A couple weeks later, I took her out on a date.

During the date, we discussed more personal things. Niana revealed that she had always been watching me in the Spot. I chuckled and fessed up too. We shared a laugh about this.

Niana and I shared lots of memorable moments together. We had our first and our first "real" kisses together. But she was still the most amazing girl I ever met.

Then when I turned 17, everything just went downhill. My parents divorced, my brother enlisted in the army, and BonQuiQui died in a car crash. Now almost broke, my mother and I moved to the Under Bridge, an area for homeless. But the worst part is yet to come.

It was like I had dropped everything that once mattered like a hot rock. Everything that was relevant went down the drain. I left my mother to herself, I dropped out of school, but I also broke up with Niana.

It wasn't direct or heartfelt. I simply moved away. I went far, far away from Miami seeking fame and fortune. I never received any further education other than junior year. I was just another drop in the sea.

10 years later, I returned to Miami having learned that becoming famous or rich isn't as easy at it seems. I reunited with my brother. He was a member of one of the most ruthless gangs in Miami. He decided to take me under his wing. I was an intern.

But I can remember so clearly returning to Miami and going to the Trailer Motel. It was almost no longer working. The same man lived up in the Penthouse Trailer. He refused to leave. No one lived in any of the other trailers. My mother had moved to a small cottage still in the ghetto with her new husband.

The old man, Mr. Jambers, was now about 80. He was still thriving at his age. I asked him if I could go to the Spot. He smiled and nodded.

Eagerly, I stood atop my old home's roof. It was the same it had always been: wind in your face, sun beaming, and the clouds a puffy white. But I knew immediately something was wrong.

The Gardeners were gone.

I angrily looked around, and spotted a woman maybe my age on the phone, but not talking. I nearly flew off the Spot and ran to her.

As I approached her, I realized she was Charmanique Lange. Everyone called her Candy. Candy Lange. She had dirty blonde hair with dark blue highlights, dark blue eyes, and 5 earrings per ear.

"Candy!!!" I screamed to my childhood friend. She didn't turn around at first, maybe because she forgot her ghetto name, but the next few times she whipped around.

"Nate," she nodded curtly to me when I managed to catch up with her. Now she was different. She had cut her hair up to her chin and dyed it brown. Her piercings were gone. A crisp white blouse replaced her usual slouchy tee, and long black pencil skirt took place of a short-short skirt.

"Hey, what about my ghetto name?" I asked her. "NayNay?"

She pressed her lips together into a thin line. "My, my, Nate. You haven't changed at bit." I couldn't tell whether that was a bad thing or a good thing.

"So Candy-" began.

"Nate, please call me Charlotte, or just Char if it kills you. I've become more than just a ghetto chic."

"What?"

"I'm not trying to be a stripper, Nate. I've changed."

"I can confirm that."

"I suggest you do the same."

I was taken aback. Here was a girl who smoked at 13, got high every night, and never went a day without swearing. Here was the girl that dreamed of being a porn actress or something like that. Here was the same girl, telling me to forget about the ghetto and become "civilized."

"Never mind," I said, agitated. "Where are the Gardeners?"

She raised her eyebrows and smirked. "The Gardeners?"

"Yeah. What happened to them?"

She brushed a piece of lint off her blouse. "Robert and Rachel (the parents) moved to a smaller house in Miami. Still pretty nice, though. They still own their fields and their old house. Roger (the oldest boy) got a job in Cali and moved there with his wife. Rayna (the baby of the family) still lives with Robert and Rachel and is in high school."

I looked at her skeptically. "That's all?"

"That's all."

"What about Niana?"

Old feelings flickered behind Charmanique (or Charlotte's) eyes: hatred, disgust, anger.

"What about her?" she gritted through her teeth.

"Where is she?"

Then, a tall brown-haired man came rushing out of a car. "Charlotte!" he cried. "I have been awaiting your return."

"Thank you, John," she replied. "Please go get Tallia and Kallia."

He looked at me for a second and then he went into his car and drove away.

"Who are John, Tallia, and Kallia?" I asked.

"My husband, and my twin 3 year olds," she said quickly.

"Oh, cause I-"

"Do you wanna know about Niana?" she said impatiently. "Or are you just gonna stay here and ask me about my personal life?"

I said nothing.

"Niana is in Miami," she simply said, and stomped off into a taxi.

She was gone before I could say a word.

I haven't seen or heard anything from Charmanique since. Others living in Under Bridge told me she now lived in the Academies.

I came to know that my parents were now the Mayors of the Ghetto. But even them wouldn't tell me anything about Leana. I needed to know.

 

Present Day, 1 year later.

I woke up to the sound of something being built. Under Bridge was an open place. You could hear everything.

I vowed to myself: Today I would find Niana, no matter what it took.

I walked through Downtown to Neeyah, the fortune teller.

"Ahh balahee she-li khabaro vlinksh," she chanted.

"Um, Neeyah?" I said cautiously.

"Ray no she lo khraba nokpi hgabi," she replied. "You need me to seek anything in your path of life?"

"No, just were Niana Gardener lives."

"Oh, that's easy," she said, sitting down in front of me.

"So...?" I coaxed.

"She's happily married with 12 kids to the Mayor of Uptown," she said simply.

Then, something inside of me broke. "What?" I managed to croak.

"Mrs. Hampton, everyone calls her," Neeyah continued. "Six girls, 3, 8, 10, 10, 12, and 14. Six boys, 4, 7, 9, 12, 13, and 14."

"What?!" I said, louder now.

"Such nice children," she said. "Those twin girls are the cutest!"

I jumped up and ran out the door.

I don't remember how long I cried after that. I cried, screamed, punched, and even killed some. But my whole world changed when met someone.

I had been sent on a mission by my brother to steal a motorcycle from the Beaches, our next place of interest. But as I walked onto the Mayor's yard, I saw a girl.

She looked nothing of Niana. She had long, straight, dirty blonde hair in a ponytail and piercing green eyes. She looked at me doubtfully, with sort of pity in her eyes.

"Gang mission?" she said, trying to sound uninterested.

"How'd you know?" I replied.

"I live in the Mayor's house. It's not exactly a rare target," she said. "Now who are you?"

"I'll tell you if you tell me first."

She paused. "I'm Lexi Emerson, twin sister of Aria Fuller, daughter of Henry and Carlotta Emerson, sister in law of Nicholas Fuller, aunt of many Fullers, and best friend of Mercedes Walsh.

I recognized many names there. Aria Fuller was the Mayor of the Beaches, and really pretty. She had also really long hair, but it was very blonde and blown straight. Her eyes wete blue. Mercedes Walsh was the sister of the mayor of the Academies. She had darker hair than Aria but lighter than Lexi. Her eyes were a light brown.

"I'm Nathaniel Rathmore. My parents are Shanelle and Dominic Rathmore. My brother is Raniel Rathmore."

Lexi looked at me still, but the pity was replaced by curiosity. "Your parents are the Mayors of the Ghetto, right?"

I nodded. "Sadly."

"And your brother...is the rival gang leader of Nick's brother!"

"What?" I asked. I still didn't really know any gang members.

"Nick's brother is Garrett Fuller."

"Oh," I said. Garrett and my brother weren't exactly on the best of terms.

"You can take the bike if you want," she snarled.

"Actually," I said. "I don't think I am."

"Oh really?" she spat. "Like I haven't heard THAT one before!"

Lexi was rather different than Niana. She had an attitude of a true beach girl. She seemed like the type who never cried, spoke her mind, and could slap anyone silly.

"Okay," I said. "Believe what you want."

I walked away from the beach, narrowly missing bullets until I got back to my territory.