After reading many great stories on NL, i decided to post my own.

N/B: This is not a product of my hardwork. All credit should go to the owner [Simone Elkeles]. Though you can thank me for typing sha.

Make una sidon quietly read this tori wey get oyibo setting. Since i won't stress my brain too much in forming the settings for this story and other things, there would be regular updates (make i get mb sha). Oya let's kick off.

#TheForsaken.

Typing...

Chapter 1. Brittany

Everyone knows I'm perfect. My life is perfect. My clothes are perfect. Even my family is perfect. And although it's a complete lie, I've worked my butt off to keep up the appearance that i have it all. The truth, if it were to come out, would destroy my entire picture-perfect image. Standing in front of my bathroom mirror while music blares from my speakers, I wipe away the third crooked line I've drawn beneath my eye. My hands are shaking, damn it! Starting senior year of high school and seeing my boyfriend after a summer apart shouldn't be so nerve-racking, but I've gotten off to a disastrous start.

First, my curling iron sent up smoke signals and died. Then, the button on my favourite shirt popped off. Now, my eyeliner decides it has a mind of it's own. If i had and choice in the matter, I'd stay in my comfy bed and eat warm chocolate chip cookies all day.

To be continued...

"Brit, come down", I faintly hear my mom yelling from the foyer. My first instinct is to ignore her, but that never gets me anything but arguements, headaches, and more yelling. "I'll be with you in a sec", I call down, hoping I can get this eyeliner to go on straight and be done with.

Finally getting it right, i toss the eyeliner tube on the counter, double and tripple check myself in the mirror, turn off my stereo and hurry down the hallway. My mom is standing at the bottom of our grand staircase, scanning my outfit. I straighten. I know I know. I'm eighteen and shouldn't care what my mom thinks. But you haven't lived in the Ellis house. My mom has anxiety. Not the type easilly controlled with little blue pills. And when my mom is stressed, everyone living with her suffers. I think that's why my dad goes to work before she get's up in the morning, so he dosen't have to deal with, well, her. "Hate the pants, love the belt," Mom says, pointing her index finger at each item.

Like the bra,Adore the trouser

Ehmjay:
Like the bra,Adore the trouser

Lol. Why you go come adore trouser pass bra?

Lemme charge and continue the hard work of typing.

taking pre-cautions

Ehmjay:
taking pre-cautions

Hehe. Issorite!

"And that noise you call music was giving me a headache. Thank goodness it's off." "Good morning to you, too, Mother," I say before walking down the stairs and giving her a peck on the cheek. The smell of my mom's strong perfume stings my nostrils the closer I get. She already looks like a million bucks in her Ralph Lauren Blue Label tennis dress. No one can point a finger ad criticize her outfit, that's for sure. "I brought your favourite muffin for the first day of school," Mom says, pulling out a bag from behind her back. "No, thanks," I say, looking around for my sister.

"Where's Shelley?" "In the kitchen." "Is her new caretaker here yet?" "Her name is Baghda, and no. She's coming in an hour." "Did you tell her wool irritates Shelley's skin? And that she pulls hair?" She's always let it be known in her nonverbal cues she gets irritated by the feeling of wool on her skin. Pulling hair is her new thing, and it has caused a few disasters. Disaster in my house are about as pretty as a car wreck,

so avoiding them is crucial. "Yes. And yes. I gave your sister an earful this morning, Brittany. If she keeps acting up, we'll find ourselves out of another caretaker." I walked into the kitchen, not wanting to hear my mother go on and on about her theories of why Shelley lashes out. Shelley is sitting at the table in her wheelchair, busily eating her specially blended food because, even at the age of twenty, my sister dosen't have the ability to chew and swallow like people without her physical limitations. As usual, the food has found its way onto her chin, lips, and cheeks. "Hey, Shell-bell," I say, leaning over her and wiping her face with a napkin. "It's the first day of school. Wish me luck." Shelley holds jerky arms out and gives me a lopsided smile. I love that smile. "You want to give me a hug?" I ask her, knowing she does. The doctor always tell us the more interaction Shelley gets, the better off she'll be. Shelley nods. I fold myself in her arms, careful to keep her arms away from my hair.

When i straighten, my mom gasps. It sounds to me like a referee's whistle, halting my life. "Brit, you can't go to school like that." "Like what" She shakes her head and sighs in fustration. "Look at your shirt." Glancing down, I see a large wet spot on the front of my white Calvin Klein shirt. Oops. Shelley's drool. One look at my sister's drawn face tells me what she can't easily put into words. Shelley is sorry. Shelley didn't mean to mess up my outfit. "It's no biggie," I tell her, although in the back of my mind I know it screws up my "perfect" look. Frowning, my mom wets a paper towel at the sink and dabs at the spot. It makes me feel like a two-year-old.

"Go upstairs and change." "Mom it was just peaches," I say, treading carefully so this doesn't turn into a full-blown yelling match. The last thing I want to do is make my sister feel bad. "Peaches stain. You don't want people thinking you don't care about your appearance." "Fine." I wish this was one of my mom's good days, the days she doesn't bug me about stuff.

Mehn my hand aff pain me to be typing o. Make una wait maka use Aboniki Balm massage am small... Btw, where una run go hide na? Make una come start to dey comment before....Maka first hold myself.

Still on LowKey.
#TheForsaken.

Nice opening and ur description is Shelly is good. Does she have autism

SUCCESSUCHE:
Nice opening and ur description is Shelly is good. Does she have autism

Something of that nature.

I give my sister a kiss on the top of her head, making sure she dosen't think her drool bothered me in the least. "I'll see ya after school," I say, attempting to keep the morning cheerful. "To finish our checker tournament." I run back up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. When I get to my bedroom, I check my watch. Oh, no. It's ten after seven. My bestfriend, Sierra, is gonna freek out if I'm late picking her up. Grabbing a light blue scarf out of my closet, I pray it'll work. Maybe nobody will notice the drool spot if I tie it just right.

When I come back down the stairs, my mother is standing in the foyer, scanning my appearance again. "Love the scarf." Phew. As I pass her, she shoves the muffin into my hand. "Eat it on the way." I take the muffin. Walking to my car, I absently bite into it. Unfortunately it isn't blueberry, my favourite. It's banana nut, and the banana are overdone. It reminds me of myself- Seemingly perfect on the outside, but the inside is all mush.

CHAPTER 2 Alex

"Get up, Alex." I scowl at my little brother and bury my head under my pillow. Since I share a room with my eleven- and fifteen-year-old brothers, there's no escape except the little privacy a lone pillow can give. "Leave me alone, Luis," I say roughly through the pillow. "No estes chingando." "I'm not fuckin' with you. Mama told me to wake you so you won't be late for school." Senior year. I should be proud I'll be the first family member in the Fuentes household to graduate high school. But after graduation, real life will start. College is just a dream. Senior year for me is like a retirement party for a sixty-five-year-old. You know you can do more, but everyone expects you to quit. "I'm all dressed in my new clothes," Luis's proud but muffled voice comes through the pillow. "The nenas won't be able to resist this Latino stud." "Good for you," I mumble. "Mama said I should pour this pitcher of water on you if you don't get up."

Was privacy too much to ask for? I take my pillow and chuck it across the room. It's a direct hit. The water splashes all over him. "Culero!" he screams at me. "These are the only new clothes I got." A fit of laughter is coming through the bedroom door. Carlos, my other brother, is laughing like a frickin' hyena. That is, until Luis jumps him. I watch the fight spiral out of control as my younger brothers punch and kick each other. They're good fighters, I think proudly as I watch them duke it out. But as the oldest male in the house, it's my duty to break it up. I grab the collar of Garlos's shirt but trip on Luis's leg and land on the floor with them. Before I can regain my balance, icy cold water is poured on my back. Turning quickly, I catch mi'ama dousing us all, a bucket poised in her fist above us while she's wearing her work uniform. She works as a checker for the local grocery store a couple blocks from our house.

It doesn't pay a whole heck of a lot, but we don't need much. "Get up," she orders, her fiery attitude out in full force. "Shit, Ma," Carlos says, standing. Mi'amd takes what's left in her bucket, sticks her fingers in the icy water, and flicks the liquid in Carlos's face. Luis laughs and before he knows it, he gets flicked with water as well. Will they ever learn? "Any more attitude, Luis?" she asks. "No, ma'am," Luis says, standing as straight as a soldier. "You have any more filthy words to come out of that boca of yours, Carlos?" She dips her hand in the water as a warning. "No, ma'am," echoes soldier number two. "And what about you, Alejandro?" Her eyes narrow into slits as she focuses on me. "What? I was tryin' to break it up," I say innocently, giving her my you-can't-resist-me smile. 7 She flicks water in my face. "That's for not breaking it up sooner. Now get dressed, all of you, and come eat breakfast before school." So much for my you-can't-resist-me smile. "You know you love us," I call after her as she leaves our room. After a quick shower, I walk back to my bedroom with a towel wrapped around my waist. I catch sight of Luis with one of my bandannas on his head and my gut tightens. I yank it off him. "Don't ever touch this, Luis." "Why not?" he asks, his deep brown eyes all innocent. To Luis, it's a bandanna. To me, it's a symbol of what is and will never be. How the hell am I supposed to explain it to an eleven-year-old kid? He knows what I am. It's no secret the bandanna has the Latino Blood colors on it. Payback and revenge got me in and now there's no way out. But I'll die before I let one of my brothers get sucked in. I ball the bandanna in my fist. "Luis, don't touch my shit. Especially my Blood stuff." "I like red and black." That's the last thing I need to hear. "If I ever catch you wearin' it again, you'll be sportin' black and blue," I tell him. "Got it, little brother?" He shrugs. "Yeah. I got it." As he leaves the room with a spring in his step, I wonder if he really does get it. I stop myself from thinking too hard about it as I grab a black T-shirt from my dresser and pull on worn, faded jeans. When I tie my bandanna around my head, I hear mi'ama's voice bellowing from the kitchen. "Alejandro, come eat before the food gets cold. De prisa, hurry up." "I'm comin'," I call back. I'll never understand why food is such an important part of her life. 8 My brothers are already busy chowing down on their breakfast when I enter the kitchen. I open the refrigerator and scan its contents. "Sit down." "Ma, I'll just grab--" "You'll grab nothing, Alejandro. Sit. We're a family and we're going to eat like one." I sigh, close the refrigerator door, and sit beside Carlos. Sometimes being a member of a close family has its disadvantages. Mi'ama places a heaping plate of huevos and tortillas in front of me. "Why can't you call me Alex?" I ask, my head down while I stare at the food in front of me. "If I wanted to call you Alex, I wouldn't have bothered to name you Alejandro. Don't you like your given name?" My muscles tense. I was named after a father who is no longer alive, leaving me the responsibility of being the designated man of the house. Alejandro, Alejandro Jr., Junior . . . it's all the same to me. "Would it matter?" I mumble as I pick up a tortilla. I look up, trying to gauge her reaction. Her back is to me as she cleans dishes in the sink. "No." "Alex wants to pretend he's white," Carlos chimes in. "You can change your name, bro, but nobody'd mistake you for anythin' other than Mexicano." "Carlos, collate la boca," I warn. I don't want to be white. I just don't want to be associated with my father. "Por favor, you two," our mother pleads. "Enough fighting for one day." "Mojado," Carlos sings, egging me on by calling me a wetback.

I've had enough of Carlos's mouth; he's gone too far. I stand, my chair scraping the floor. Carlos follows and steps in front of me, 9 closing the space between us. He knows I could kick his ass. His overblown ego is gonna get him in trouble with the wrong person one of these days. "Carlos, sit down," mi'ama orders. "Dirty beaner," Carlos drawls at me in a fake deep accent. "Better yet, es un Ganguero." "Carlos!" mi'ama reprimands sharply as she comes forward, but I get in between them and grab my brother's collar. "Yeah, that's all anyone will ever think of me," I tell him. "But you keep talkin' trash and they'll think that of you, too." "Brother, they'll think that of me anyway. Whether I want them to or not." I release him. "You're wrong, Carlos. You can do better, be better." "Than you?" "Yeah, better than me and you know it," I say. "Now apologize to mi'ama for talkin' smack in front of her." One look in my eyes and Carlos knows I'm not kidding around. "Sorry, Ma," he says, then sits back down. I don't miss his glare, though, as his ego got knocked down a peg. Mi'amd turns and opens the fridge, trying to hide her tears. Damn it, she's worried about Carlos. He's a sophomore and the next two years are either going to make him or break him. I pull on my black leather jacket, needing to get out of here. I give mi'ama a peck on the cheek with an apology for ruining her breakfast, then walk outside wondering how I'm going to keep Carlos and Luis away from my path while steering them toward a better one. Oh, the fucking irony of it all. On the street, guys in the same color bandannas flag the Latino Blood signal: right hand tapping twice on their left arm while their ring 10 finger is bent. My veins fire up as I flag right back before straddling my motorcycle. They want a toughasnails gang member, they got one. I put on a hell of a show to the outside world; sometimes I even surprise myself. "Alex, wait up," a familiar female voice calls out. Carmen Sanchez, my neighbor and ex-girlfriend, runs up to me. "Hey, Carmen," I mutter. "How about giving me a ride to school?" Her short black skirt shows off her incredible legs, and her shirt is tight, accentuating her small but perky chichis. Once I would have done anything for her, but that was before I caught her in another guy's bed over the summer. Or car, as it was. "Come on, Alex. I promise not to bite . . . unless you want me to." Carmen is my Latino Blood home girl. Whether we're a couple or not, we still have each other's backs. It's the code we live by. "Get on," I say. Carmen hops on my motorcycle and deliberately places her hands on my thighs while pressing against my backside. It doesn't have the effect she was probably hoping for. What does she think, that I'll forget the past? No way. My history defines who I am. I try to focus on starting my senior year at Fairfield, the here and now. It's damn difficult because, unfortunately, after graduation my future will likely be as screwed up as my past.

CHAPTER 3 Brittany

"My hair gets all frizzy in this car, Sierra. Every time I put the top down, my hair looks like I've walked through a tornado," I say to my best friend as I drive on Vine Street toward Fairfield High in my new silver convertible. "Outward appearances mean everything." My parents taught me the motto that rules my life. It's the sole reason I didn't comment about the BMW when my dad gave me the extravagant birthday present two weeks ago. "We live a half hour from the Windy City," Sierra says, holding her hand in the wind as we drive. "Chicago isn't exactly known for its calm weather. Besides, you look like a blond, Grecian goddess with wild hair, Brit. You're just nervous about seeing Colin again." My gaze wanders to the heart-shaped picture of me and Colin taped to my dashboard. "A summer apart changes people." "Distance makes the heart grow fonder," Sierra throws back. "You're the captain of the pom squad and he's captain of the varsity football team.

You two have to date or the solar system would go out of alignment. Collins called a few times during the summer from his family's cabin, where he was hanging out with his buddies, but I don't know where our relationship stands now. He just got back last night. "I love those jeans," Sierra says, eyeing my faded Brazilian pants. "I'll be borrowing them before you know it." "My mom hates them," I tell her, smoothing my hair at a stoplight, trying to tame my blond frizzies. "She says it looks like I got them at a used clothing store." "Did you tell her vintage is in?"

"Yeah, like she'd even listen. She was hardly paying attention when I asked her about the new caretaker." No one understands what it's like at my house. Luckily, I have Sierra. She might not understand, but she knows enough to listen and keep my home life confidential. Besides Colin, Sierra is the only one who's met my sister. Sierra flips open my CD case. "What happened to the last caretaker?" "Shelley pulled a chunk of her hair out." "Ouch." I drive into the high school parking lot with my mind more on my sister than on the road. My wheels screech to a stop when I almost hit a guy and girl on a motorcycle. I thought it was an empty parking space. "Watch it, bitch," Carmen Sanchez, the girl on the back of the motorcycle, says as she flips me the finger. She obviously missed the Road Rage lecture in Driver's Ed. "Sorry," I say loudly so I can be heard over the roar of the motorcycle. "It didn't look like anyone was in this spot." Then I realize whose motorcycle I almost hit. The driver turns 13 around. Angry dark eyes. Red and black bandanna. I sink down into the driver's seat as far as I can. "Oh, shit. It's Alex Fuentes," I say, wincing. "Jesus, Brit," Sierra says, her voice low. "I'd like to live to see graduation. Get outta here before he decides to kill us both." Alex is staring at me with his devil eyes while putting the kickstand down on his motorcycle. Is he going to confront me? I search for reverse, frantically moving the stick back and forth. Of course it's no surprise my dad bought me a car with a stick shift without taking the time to teach me how to master driving the thing. Alex takes a step toward my car. My instincts tell me to abandon the car and flee, as if I was stuck on railroad tracks with a train heading straight for me. I glance at Sierra, who's desperately searching through her purse for something. Is she kidding me? "I can't get this damn car in reverse. I need help. What are you looking for?" I ask. "Like . . . nothing. I'm trying not to make eye contact with those Latino Bloods. Get a move on, will ya?" Sierra responds through gritted teeth. "Besides, I only know how to drive an automatic." Finally grinding into reverse, my wheels screech loud and hard as I maneuver backward and search for another parking spot. After parking in the west lot, far from a certain gang member with a reputation that could scare off even the toughest Fairfield football players, Sierra and I walk up the front steps of Fairfield High. Unfortunately, Alex Fuentes and the rest of his gang friends are hanging by the front doors.

More!! More!!

JulietFab2:
More!! More!!

I would've loved to oblige ma'am, but I'm broke (money dey strike for my area). Next week would be fruitful God's willing.

#FadesOut

M luving up

"Walk right past them," Sierra mutters. "Whatever you do, don't look in their eyes." It's pretty hard not to when Alex Fuentes steps right in front of me and blocks my path.

What's that prayer you're supposed to say right before you know you're going to die? "You're a lousy driver," Alex says with his slight Latino accent and full-blown I-AM-THE-MAN stance. The guy might look like an Abercrombie model with his ripped bod and flawless face, but his picture is more likely to be taken for a mug shot. The kids from the north side don't really mix with kids from the south side. It's not that we think we're better than them, we're just different. We've grown up in the same town, but on totally opposite sides. We live in big houses on Lake Michigan and they live next to the train tracks. We look, talk, act, and dress different.


I'm not saying it's good or bad; it's just the way it is in Fairfield. And, to be honest, most of the south side girls treat me like Carmen Sanchez does . . . they hate me because of who I am. Or, rather, who they think I am. Alex's gaze slowly moves down my body, traveling the length of me before moving back up. It's not the first time a guy has checked me out, it's just that I never had a guy like Alex do it so blatantly . . . and so up-close. I can feel my face getting hot. "Next time, watch where you're goin'," he says, his voice cool and controlled. He's trying to bully me. He's a pro at this. I won't let him get to me and win his little game of intimidation, even if my stomach feels like I'm doing one hundred cartwheels in a row. I square my shoulders and sneer at him, the same sneer I use to push people away. "Thanks for the tip." "If you ever need a real man to teach you how to drive, I can give you lessons." Catcalls and whistles from his buddies set my blood boiling.