Free Can't Stop the Shine by Joyce E. Davis

well, Mari thought.
    â€œThe Wright Touch?” Mari exclaimed. “You’re like Roxanne Wright of the Wright Touch? My girls wear your makeup, but it sure doesn’t look like that on them. Your makeup is great. Asha, why didn’t you ever tell me?”
    â€œBaby, you never told your friend about the Wright Touch?” said Roxie, furrowing her brows. “I thought I asked you to tell all your friends.”
    â€œMy mama owns the Wright Touch line, Mari,” said Asha. “You know, the kind all the celebrities wear.”
    â€œThat is really cool, Roxie,” said Mari.
    â€œThank you, Mari. Now what do you think about my idea to approach Alicia Keys and Fantasia? I like to get the opinions of my target market.”
    â€œI think it’s a great idea. I really like Alicia Keys. She has really cool style. My girls like Fantasia. They’re both really pretty and talented,” offered Mari.
    â€œGeez…Ma, this is why I don’t like to tell a whole lot of people what you do,” said Asha.
    â€œWhy? Why not?” asked Roxie.
    â€œBecause everybody gets all crazy about it, excited and asking me for products and stuff. You know how it is when I tell somebody.”
    â€œAnd you know I don’t mind giving your friends product either. I wanna know what they think. Stop being so silly,” said Roxie. “Mari, I’m going to hook you and your friends up when we get home. So what are you, a lip gloss girl?”
    â€œOh my gosh. How did you know?” asked Mari.
    â€œThat’s my business, baby—Roxie is always Wright, right?” Roxie smiled, looking at Asha.
    â€œRight,” replied Asha.
    Asha groaned as they turned onto the long winding driveway to the Wrights’ house.
    â€œWow, you’ve got a really nice crib. It is so big. You must have twenty-five rooms,” said Mari to Asha.
    â€œAbout that,” answered Asha nonchalantly. As Roxie parked, she sang the lyrics to one of the most played songs on the radio, “Game Boy” by Ace, a rapper from Decatur, an Atlanta suburb.
    Getting out of the car, Mari and Roxanne joined in for the chorus.
    As they were all dancing up the walkway, Mari nearly tripped looking at her surroundings.
    â€œYour lawn is really nice, too,” she said. “Is that what you call a yard this big? A lawn?”
    â€œThank you, Mari,” said Roxie. “We have a gardener who comes in once a week to maintain it. Can you imagine Asha out here pulling weeds?”
    â€œVery funny, Mama. C’mon, Mari. I’ll show you around,” said Asha, sauntering past dozens of sculpted bushes and shrubberies on the massive landscaped and manicured front lawn.
    As soon as she entered the front entryway, Mari knew she was in a home that was different from hers. Everything seemed like it was in its right place. African art and artistic photos graced the walls and bookshelves, the rooms were spacious, and there were hardly any doors downstairs—Mari just turned a corner and she was in a different room. There were rounded adobe-styled entryways, and she could tell that Roxie or a wacky interior decorator had gone a little hog wild in the Southwestern motif.
    The colors were coral and teal, and there were occasional reds, greens and yellows. Everything complemented everything else—the intricately handwoven rugs, the hardwood floors and the seat cushions in the wood lounger, the maple dining room set complete with an ornate set of china in a regal marble cabinet and the kitchen bar that was complemented with comfy colorful bar chairs.
    â€œI’ll be down in a few minutes, ladies. Asha, fix Mari something to drink and show her where we kick it,” Roxie shouted from the top of a wide spiral wooden staircase in the back of the kitchen.
    â€œYour house is great,” Mari said to Asha.
    â€œOkay, you’ve said that,” Asha reminded her. Mari immediately missed Roxie’s