Free Live and Learn by Niobia Bryant

unemployed wanderers. The dealers. The addicts. The criminals. The projects.
    Unfortunately, I seemed to shift from one foster home to the next in nothing but those bad areas. I always felt like I did not belong. The gritty urban environment did not suit me. I never liked playing in illegally opened fire hydrants on hot summer days, or sitting on the stoop, or playing kickball in the street.
    When I was a little girl, I used to dream that my parents were rich and living large somewhere grand like Beverly Hills or the Hamptons. I swore that I had been stolen from them and that they were looking for me so that I could return to the wonderfully rich life I deserved.
    I got older and the dream faded with age.
    Suddenly the phone interrupted my thoughts, and I was glad for the diversion. No need dwelling on a past I could not change. The future? Well, the future was all in my hands.
    I picked up my cordless phone. “Hello?”
    “Cristal?”
    “Dom?” I set my precious Waterford crystal goblet on the windowsill.
    “Yeah, this me. You got a dude there?”
    “No. It is just me, myself, and I. Why?” I asked, straining to hear her clearly on her cell phone.
    “Me, Alizé, and Moët are on our way up there.”
    I loved my girls, but the only thing on my schedule for the night was maxing and relaxing. I wanted to focus on my strategy for sexy Sahad since I “accidentally” opened the package from Tiffany’s and discovered it was just one of those trendy I.D. bracelets for Tyrea.
    Not a ring.
    “Something wrong?” I asked.
    “You not gone believe this bullshit.”
    “What?” Goose bumps raced across my body in a rush.
    “Guess who’s knocked up.”
    I could tell that Dom had a cigarette in her mouth, but I could also hear her anger. “Who?”
    “Be there in five.”
    The line disconnected, and she left me in suspense.
    Pregnant? Who? Alizé? Moët? Oh, God, not Dom?
    Grabbing my goblet, I walked over to the bar and poured myself another full glass of wine. I finished it in one gulp.
     
    Three minutes seemed like an eternity when you were staring at a Fact Plus pregnancy test stick. All four of us were in my bathroom…watching and waiting. Would the pink line appear in the result window?
    “Ain’t this ’bout a bitch,” Dom said for the tenth time from her spot on the edge of the tub.
    Me? Well, I was busy praying, “Please, Lord, do not let it show,” and cursing, “Do not show, you son of a bitch,” and warning, “You better not show.”
    All to myself, of course.
    The timer I used for my facials went “ding.”
    All my praying, cursing, and warning did not work. There was that damn pink line coming in big, bold, and bad as hell.

10
Moët
    One Month Later
    T he day I killed my unborn child, a huge part of me died. I regretted my decision even as I lay on that table. For days afterward nightmares filled with graphic images of what I had done chased me from my sleep.
    Thirty days later and it still hurt like a sharp blade through my heart to even think about it.
    What’s thirty days anyway?
    I knew I should pray for forgiveness, but I had no faith. My ties to the church and God were as visible as a strand of hair. Living under my parents’ roof, I pretended to listen, pretended to care, but I felt too numb inside.
    I knew all the commandments. I studied the Bible and sang the hymns, but I didn’t believe anymore. Somewhere along the line I learned to lie and deceive about my faith and blind trust in the Word, the church, and its ministers.
    Religion was such a huge part of my life. What choice did I have? None at all. Maybe that was the whole point: I never had a choice.
    I had to go to church.
    I had to be Pentecostal.
    I had to be on the usher board.
    I had to go to every church event in a twenty-mile radius.
    I had to smother my own creativity and wear “appropriate clothes.”
    I knew my resentment was bred from my lack of freedom. A religion that centered around the lies and manipulations of a