// For Colored Girls - Main Theme// Soundtrack (Has no correlation to the chapter)

// Derora Elainey Dedman P.O.V //

Why am I in this class? This is not what I want to do with my life. I don't know how to dance. I can't act either. So why am I stuck in the darkest corner of a fairly large studio with mirrors reflecting the image of a sore brown thumb sticking out in a sea of graceful, cabbage white butterflies? Oh right. All of the other credits that I've wanted have been filled to maximum capacity- despite the fact I was one of the first ones to hand in my schedule request. It was funny how all my other peers, who had the same interests as me, received those classes-though they turned them in hardly a couple of days before the deadline for schedule requests were due. Funny.

The bell finally rang. Rhythmic patterns sounded outside the door. Closer and closer they became; in an intimidating manner almost. My heartbeat sped up a little. Whoever was on the other side of the classroom, strode with authority and firmness.

The door's handle noisily turned. It seemed as if everyone was holding their breaths as if they awaited some sudden grand entry. Everyone watched in awe as a man wearing all black entered into the studio. A black t-shirt that was tucked immaculately into his trousers, adorned his lean, toned torso and broad shoulders. Firm looking biceps and forearms swayed at his sides gracefully. His trousers showed off his mile-long legs along with his entire physique. The physique of a dancer. The tight fabric of his pants did nothing to conceal his defined but male appropriate glutes. He was only a step or two above the definition of wiry.

He strutted to the other end of the studio with a gait so fluid, so natural, it appeared as if he was gliding. Eyes hungrily feasted and absorbed him in. Just like that, he had a handful of admirers dreamily taking in his every move. To nearly every student in his vicinity, it was as if time had frozen when he came to an abrupt halt in front of us.

"Sit."

This man was no joke. In world record, the whole class sat as he had instructed. In the slightest of movement, he tilted his head to stare down at us, assessing each of us individually. When his intense jade eyes swept over to me, I instantly glanced away. His eyebrows furrowed. Long fingers drifted up and adjusted the largely framed spectacles set on the bridge of his nose before moving a strand of long and lanky, tousled curls behind his ear that had escaped from his man bun.

For some reason, his eyes lingered for ten seconds too long, and the students were starting to notice. But then again, I was the only African-American girl in the class and I just happened to be sitting in the dustiest and darkest corner of the studio. Away from everyone else. Not obvious at all. As I expected, scowls were shot my way as soon as Mr. Intimidating eventually decided to remove his eyes from my location. Most were rolling their eyes and judging me just as quickly as most would in this small community. Five seconds total.

Mr. Intimidating inhaled in a way that indicated he was going to speak. His pink lips parted, and he spoke.

"Well, good morning students. I'm Mr. E. M. Styles or Mr. E. Styles or just Mr. E. As a lot of you may already know, I'm only one out of three triplets and it's important that we each go by our initials to reduce any possible confusion," he intoned. The rise and fall of his voice were pleasant to the ears even though the pitch of it barely rose or fell. His cadences were timed all most perfectly. The light rasp with his foreign accent-British maybe- only added more pleasantness to his speaking tone.

If I remember correctly, one of the Styles brothers is my math teacher. Great. The other Mr. Styles was the counselor here. I have a feeling my dad is going to be really confused when he reads my future report cards.

"Let's set some ground rules. I don't tolerate foolishness. Don't tell me what to do. When your name is etched into the label on the door outside of this studio, then you may give the orders. Never ever tell me you can't do what I ask of you unless with reasonable excuse-by the way, I absolutely loathe excuses. When I ask you to dance, you will dance. If I ask you to recite a script of my choosing, you will recite it. If you can sing and I ask you to show me what you're made of, you will sing for me. I expect nothing less than respect and your undivided attention. Always listen to and follow my instructions. I assure you if you do, we will avoid any possible hazards and mishaps. If you fail to meet my behavior standards, I will decide a punishment best fit for you at that precise moment. Any questions. No. Good. Roll call.”

I gulped. My plans to create as many excuses as possible to skirt around the inevitable prospect that I would be forced into the world of dancing and acting would be close to futile with a man like Mr. E.

When Mr. E strode over to the opposite end of the room, he resembled a male model on the runway with effortless elegance. He continued to stride towards the neatly organized desk that was situated-I almost choked on my breath- in a small office besides me. Green eyes bored into the side of my face, but my eyes never faltered from the exit on the far end of the studio. Mr. E. entered the office and returned a moment later with a roster in his massive hands. He then began calling out names.

My last name was Davis and he was currently in the c-section of last names.

"Derora Davis?" He finally called out.

"Here," I responded in a meek tone.

Mr. E's. eyes lifted from the roster to stare at me once again, and yet I still refused to hold eye contact.

"Now that I know your name, Ms. Davis, do you care to sit with the rest of the class, love," he said, pointing to the mass of students in front of him. All heads turned in my direction and I shunned each one's hard gaze. They were all probably confused by the pet name- for lack of a better term.

"I promise-well I don't think they'll bite, love. Right students?" He asked. His features were still set in an unwavering line, his tone nonchalant. His eyes burned into the side of my head.

No one answered. Whether due to the fact that they would actually bite me or that his question was more on the rhetorical side, I didn’t move.

"Suit yourself, then," he said, crossing his arms and resumed to calling roll.

After finishing, he went over basic procedures and school safety drills before announcing that regular class must commence at once the next day.

---

It was in the middle of the fourth period when I was called to the office to check out. My heavy backpack hit my scapula (wing bone) as I slung it over my shoulder. I wasn't expecting to be checked out so early on my first day back to school. All I knew was that the reason behind my early leave created a boiling pit of anxiety in my gut. Approaching the office, I heard a series of "calm down" through the door. Something was definitely wrong. Aunt Fifi was here.

"Where the hell is she?" Her heels paced eagerly across the office's white and black marble floor. "I know it don't take that damn-there you are!" She ran over to me, her eyes slightly puffy.

"Aunt Fifi...what's wrong?"

She swallowed and grabbed my arm, dragging me outside behind her until we were in a secluded area. When she dropped my arm, she did not turn around to face me. Hands trembling, breaths quivering, she leaned forward against the wall, her forehead pressing against it.

My hands tightened around the straps of my backpack as I gave her a moment to cool down.
Aunt Fifi's hands shook violently at her sides so she clasped them above her head.

"My lord," she whispered to herself, her voice breaking. I could hear her constant sniffles. Though the suspense was killing me, I did not bombard her with frantic questions.

Finally, she slowly pivoted on her heels, her eyes gradually trailing up to my eyes. She said, "Baby...I got somethin' to tell you...i-it's your daddy. He's-" she suddenly stopped. My ears picked up a repetitive sound. Footsteps. Closer and closer they became; in an intimidating manner almost. Oh, how already familiar those footsteps were to me. Those intimidating, yet graceful footsteps.

Notes