Booshzee Gal

By Shawn Hicks

Ambitious. Arrogant. Materialistic. And definitely, booshzee. These are just the polite phrases to describe Tamara, a model, dancer, and actress who aspires to have her name in bright lights, with fame and fortune following after. Not that she deserves it, for she will shamlessly manipulate anyone for whatever fancies her. Whether it's men for money, college schoolmates for term papers, and even her own admirers for perks and favors. For she is determined to let nothing stand in her way. Not her mother and her old island mentality, her fickle friends, nor even the menacing neighborhood criminal that is set in having her all to himself.

Tamara's adventures takes her from local dance competitions to being the star of a top rated reality show. But not without consequence, as her uninhibited thirst for success comes back to spiral her world out of control. From the likes of shady movie directors, underworld characters, and even a occult sex group run by the rich and powerful, all threatening not only her but those around her.
Come enter the world of Tamara Stokely, aka Booshzee Gal. No arrogance allowed. She has enough for everybody.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shawn Hicks
• Release date: Jan 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311313485

Shawn Hicks

Shawn Hicks is the C.E.O. and President of Brok'n English Publications, with the goal of providing a medium for telling his literary works. He received his A.A.S in Video Arts from Borough of Manhattan Community College, and he's currently recieving is B.A. from Brooklyn College for Television & Radio, and Film Studies. He currently lives in Brooklyn, New York. Along with publishing, BEP has created a subsidiary company called Brok'n TV, with the intention to develop and produce television and internet content.

Book preview

Brok’n English Publications

Booshzee Gal

By Shawn Hicks

This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, events, establishments, or locales are intended only to give this work a sense of authenticity within the confines of fiction, and is not within any actual or historical content or context. Other names, places, and incidents occurring in this work are solely the product of the author’s imagination. Therefore, any resemblance to real persons, events, establishments, and locales, past or present, living or dead, is purely coincidental and is not an actual or historical account of any involved.

Copyright © 2013 by Shawn Hicks

Published in 2014, by Brok’n English Publications

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews. For information about or of other matters address:

Brok’n English Publications, LLC

www.facebook/broknenglishpublications.com

[e-mail]

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013922516

PUBLISHER’S NOTE:

At the end of the novel, you will be given the opportunity to rate this book and share our thoughts from the e-reader platform where you purchased. If you believe your friends and fellow readers would get something out of this book, or if you feel strongly about the story to voice your opinion on it, I’d be honored if you post a review. From there your rating will be placed on the book’s purchasing page, and would be forever valued.

One love,

Shawn

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SCREAM 2 (On The Verge Of Being)

PREFACE

booshzee - [boo-zh-ee] adj

- A derivative from the French word bourgeoisie.

- A conceited, materialistic person, usually prescribed to a girl or a young woman.

- Someone haughtily practice the belief of being socially and economically superior to others.

One

She is not that cute.

She swears she is though.

I’ve seen her around the way before. She always act like she’s better than everybody.

Yeah, strutting like she don’t stink and got the super coochie. Plus I heard she mess with the guy that runs the tournament, and slept with some of the ballplayers on top of that. Dirty hoe.

Yo, whispers Brandi to me, You hear these girls slick talking you, Tamara? They act like they want a confrontation.

I just let out a smirk as I continue to get dressed into my outfit from behind my partition, separated from the other models as we’re all in a dressing room within the Flatbush/Ebbets Community Center.

That’s cool, Brandi, I say to her. Let them knock me if they want. It’s a part of the burden of me being fly.

A knock comes from the front door of the dressing room. A female enters, one of the coordinators of the show.

OK ladies, she says. Who’s ready? We have thirty minutes before the second half begins. It’ll be first come first serve.

I’m ready now, I say as I step from my partition.

Come on, she says as she waves me to her. You got one minute to be in front of everybody, then four minutes to change and be in your next outfit.

I whisper to Brandi, Watch my bag. I don’t trust these people around my stuff. From there I step out the dressing room, and walk down the hallway with the coordinator towards the gymnasium, ignoring the stares from the ballplayers, coaches, and sponsors hanging out during halftime. I know they approve, but I take a look in a full-length mirror on the wall to see for myself. My white and pink V-neck cheerleader top hugs my chest splendidly, stopping right at my flat stomach before continuing with the matching skirt. My waterproof makeup matches the outfit, and the auburn streaks in my hair add dark depth to the whole ensemble. I blow myself a kiss in the mirror, and smile.

Yeah, I’m a booshzee gal. I have a right to be.

Now let’s start the modeling competition, I hear the MC say on the mic, from inside the gymnasium. We received hundreds of requests from girls in the area on how to win the $300 prize and advance to the final round of our Power Up spokesmodel competition. Today we have six girls and you get to pick who is the best. Now here’s our first girl, Tamara.

OK, says the coordinator to me, you can go.

I step inside, with a hand on my hip to accentuate my walk. The gym is official size, with stands on each side of the basketball court, and packed with patrons and a few videographers to record the action. The men in the stands go crazy when they see how I’m rocking the white and pink. When I’m further inside the gym, I let loose my model strut, switching my movements to go with the dancehall reggae song the DJ plays.

Oh my God, I hear from the stands as they cheer for me.

I need me some of that, goes another.

I’m ready to vote right now, I hear another. Don’t even waste your time with the others.

I circle the court before I walk to its center, and to tease them a little, I place my index finger in my mouth, bite lightly, and do the Sidong Pon It Dance, popping my butt up and down several times, making it wiggle like Jell-O.

Aww, yeah, amps the MC, as the crowd goes nuts like my ass is a fix to their love jones. Tamara ain’t playin’ with y’all. She’s starting off strong. Y’all want to vote for her, don’t you?

Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, one minute. From there, I saunter out of the gym. Once back in the hallway, I race to the dressing room. It’s even more intense in there now, as some of the girls get ready to try to top what I laid out on the crowd. Some even screwface me like they’re ready to fight. I wish they would. After the show, though.

I take the bag from Brandi and get behind my partition to change. I peel off the cheerleader outfit, and pull into a silver halter one-piece bathing suit, with matching high heals. I lightly reapply my make up, and then push my tits high for better cleavage. I step out from the partition.

The dressing room goes quiet, as the other girls gawk at me like the rookies they are.

Bitch, one of them says to me. It ain’t that serious for all that. This is just some neighborhood talent show.

It’s always serious, I reply, before walking out the dressing room. Likewise, everyone in the hallway turns to me with stunned silence, allowing my heels to click on the floor and echo with authority. Even the female coordinator’s eyes bug out when she sees me. I step back into the gym.

The stands go into a lustful ruckus as I strut back to center court. Even a few dollars are tossed towards me from the crowd. Then, I stop and do a short jump in the air, before landing on the floor with my legs open to a perfect 180° split. I bounce up and down while keeping my legs in the split, my thighs smacking the hardwood like a leather belt on a bad kid’s ass. I close my eyes, run my hands through my hair, and bite my bottom lip like I’m in love from riding one big galactic dick.

The sounds are deafening, as cheers and applause for me travel throughout the gym. After about a minute, I simply get up and leave. Ignoring the pleas for more, and the scowls from the runner-ups that know they can’t beat that.

Like I said, it’s always serious.

During the second half, as the people in the gym focus on the game, I’m back in the hallway with a photographer, who takes pictures of me while I hold up my $300 check.

Smile wide, he says as he aims his camera at me, and hold up the check next to your face.

I do what he says and watch the sunspots from the flash on his camera dance and linger in front of my eyes.

Ok, girly, he then says, you’re good.

Do you know if Donnell is around? I ask him.

I think he’s outside, getting everything ready for the block party.

After every game, the Power Up Streetball Tournament throws a block party for the neighborhood, but if I know Donnell, it’s all a part of his hustle. Between ticket sales, the sponsors, selling spots to the vendors outside, and taking a cut from their profits, he’ll probably cake about $20,000 from it all by the end of the day. My boy could always plant a money tree.

I head back to the dressing room to change into my street clothes. I have a banging white DKNY T-shirt with matching jeans and sneakers I’m craving to put back on. In the dressing room, all of the losers are gone, but Brandi is gone too. That’s when I see on the floor my things. My bag has been ripped open, with my cheerleading outfit and my accessories shredded, broken, and destroyed. Even my street clothes had been tag with lipstick, with the words "Stuck up bitch!" written on my T-shirt.

I kick my bag across the room in anger and let out a growl, clenching my teeth. Where the hell is Brandi? She was supposed to watch my bag. And if I see any of those violating bitches outside….

I pick up my things and head to the women’s bathroom. I turn my T-shirt inside out, where it is clean on the other side. I scrub the filth off my jeans and sneakers with napkins, soap, and water, before changing into them. I wash my face and put my hair in a ponytail. Then I check myself in the mirror. Impeccable. I put the rest of my clothes in my bag and leave the community center.

Once outside, I see some of Donnell’s staff set things up for the block party. I look around for him, when I notice one of his partners, looking at a clipboard. I recognize her picture from one of the tournament fliers.

Khadijha, right? I say when I go to her, I’m Tamara Stokely, Donnell’s friend. Is he around?

Her dark and acne ridden face tightens up when hearing my name, and her sun dried reddish braids rattles when she cocks her head and looks at me.

Tamara, she says sternly. I know who you are.

I immediately don’t like her attitude, but I‘ll keep it cool for now. Is Donnell around?

He went off on a quick errand. He’ll be back shortly.

Can you tell him that someone went into my bag when I was on performing and destroyed my stuff?

Who went into your bag?

I don’t know. What I do know is that I have about $600 worth of clothes here that ain’t worth anything now. So he has to pay me back.

Did you leave your bag with security?

I shouldn’t have to. I left my stuff in the dressing room when I was modeling. Someone from your staff should’ve kept an eye on it.

We’re not responsible for your merchandise if it’s not left with security. That’s your property and you have to watch it.

So much for me keeping it cool. I sneer at her and suck my teeth. I’ll just talk to Donnell myself. I don’t need to be bothered with you. You’re not in my league anyway.

Excuse me? goes Khadijha. I have a MBA from Columbia. What your little ghetto ass got?

Excuse you. I got two fists to crack a knot on your head. So you better watch your tone to me, you dirty Q-Tip looking motherfu….

Ladies, ladies, I then hear directed toward us. I turn to see 6’3" of fine black muscle, like chiseled out of chocolate marble. He’s wearing black D&G glasses with matching polo shirt, khaki shorts, and sneakers. Even the twinkle in his eye accessorizes his look well.

Hi, D, I say timidly.

What y’all wrangled up for? Donnell says to me and Khadijha. Y’all making my show look hood.

You better tell this little girl who I am, goes Khadijha, as she points to me. She’s very disrespectful and is trying to extort money for her Goodwill clothes.

I do not wear Goodwill clothes. And don’t point the finger you pop yourself with at me.

Alright, alright, goes Donnell, stepping in between us. Khadijha, go back inside and see if the interns are in position for the clean up. I’ll be there in a minute.

This hoodrat heifer….

Khadijha. Just do it!

Khadijha grows silent, then leans in to Donnell and plants a kiss on his cheek. OK, baby. I’ll do what you say. She then cuts her eyes at me before walking away.

And you, Donnell says to me, what are you starting now?

Donnell, you let her kiss you on the cheek like that? Please don’t tell me you’re with that. She looks like she’s dripping with the clap.

Never you mind who I’m with. I’m not with you, and that’s important. Now what do you want?

Damn, even after all these years, he’s still mad at me. Best I focus on the matter at hand. Someone broke into my bag and tore up my clothes. I need to be reimbursed.

Did you leave your bag with security?

Yeah I did, I lie, and when I went back to get the bag he was gone, and my bag was torn into.

What the security guard’s name? I’ll double check with him.

I don’t take their names. He had on a black jacket like all the other guards here. It could be one of your interns wanting to smell my panties, for all I know.

Tamara, I don’t have time for all this….

Just reimburse me then. They were about $1000 worth of clothes.

What? Get out of here!

Donnell, you know my taste and what I like. Do you know how much a DKNY T-shirt cost from the boutiques?

Donnell huffs, like he always do when he is aggravated with me. That just means he loves me. I’ll give you $400. And mostly it’s for you to leave me alone.

$400? Man, you know how much real DKNY sneakers cost?

$400, he states more sternly, or it’ll be nothing and I tell you to suck my dick.

I fold my arms across my chest. Fine. Gimee $400.

Donnell goes into his pocket, and pulls out a fat knot of bills; no singles in that either, only hundreds.

I don’t know why I let you in the competition, Donnell says as he pulls off four bills. I should’ve known better. You’re nothing but a pain in my ass. Always have been.

Well, get use to this pain in the ass, I say as I take the money. Because I won the competition and going to the finals rounds. I’m about to be Ms. Power Up.

Figures, as he shakes his head. Anything else?

I put the money in my pocket. Yeah. When we’re gonna’ go out again?

Uh, never.

Why not? I’m better than that AIDS rat who just kissed you. How about you let me get you back on your swag, and put a real wifey by your side?

Tamara, says Donnell, looking dead in my eyes. "I will never, never, never, never, and I mean never, mess with you again. Do you hear me?’

I lean in close to Donnell, our lips fractions of an inch away from each other. But you my boo, D. And you don’t have to threaten me to suck your dick. I’ll do it anyway.

Donnell backs up, looking slightly stunned. He then recovers, and shoots me a mean look.

You and your damn games. He then turns and walks towards the community center.

I stand there as I watch him leave. Ummph, he’s just as fine leaving as he is coming. Plus he got cred both in the streets and in the boardroom, and he would never hit me, no matter how much I push his buttons. Where else are you gonna’ find a man like that? That’s that hoe that was in the cheerleader’s suit, I then hear murmur about me from one of Donnell’s staff, as they prepare for the block party.

Ain’t that Blanco’s old girl? The one he went to jail for?

Yeah. She loves bodies to her name. She probably won’t be happy ‘til someone is shot ‘cuz of her.

I suck my teeth in response and head home. Along the way, I go into my pocket and pull out my check, and my folded money. Today was a lot of work for $700. And as for the bodies comment, what fine ass doesn’t want a man to kill for her?

Like I said, it’s always serious.

Two

Girl, I hear as soon as I walk in my apartment, from a voice with a Caribbean accent, You know Ah called you? You prancing so much in these streets to forgot who raised you?

Eh? I reply as I look at my mother, whose consistent scowl on her face makes her look years older than she already is. What’s that?

You heard me. Ah call you three times this morning. You ignoring me, ent?

I did ignore her, because I knew she was calling for money. Muddah, Ah no have meh phone pon me. Some drevait went in meh bag during the show and stole meh things.

Eh? Ah thought this girl Brandi were with you? She no mind your things?

She gwaan somewhere. Ah hope she have meh phone with her. But all of meh things was vandalized. I then show her my bag as proof.

What about the money you get from the show?

Time to lie. It was only $50, muddah.

You said $300 from the show you was to get.

If Ah were to win Ah get that. But Ah nuh win.

What about this back rent, girl? Ah can’t keep waitin the landlord with some pay later shit.

Ah got $50. I then poke out my lip, to look innocent. Besides, we don’t have any back rent. I checked with the landlord beforehand. She’s just trying to work me.

What you need to get is get a rel job, she says, as she goes into the kitchen, opens the refrigerator and pulls out a beer. Stead of tryin be some saga gal actress. You just have that blah yangkey woman look, that’s all.

Blah? Don’t make me tell who out of us is the better looking one. Why don’t you ask meh faddah for the money?

Her scowl grows deeper. Dat muddascunt? When cock gi teet before Ah ask him for anything. Ah been better to never know that piss tail burrokeet.

Well, Ah talk to the landlord Monday and see if we can get more time. Maybe he’ll hear me.

Nah, goes my mother suddenly, no need for that. Ah handle it. You just move your ass to some work before next month, and shub off this acting thing you trying.

I then head into my bedroom, close its door, and turn around to mouth a big silent ‘fuck you’ towards her. Now call it disrespectful, but I can’t stand her. Y’see, my mother is from Trinidad, so she has an old island mentality. She doesn’t like Americans, particularly Black Americans. You should hear some of the things she says about the very people who have her skin color. Yet she kisses the white man’s butt to almost no end, saying they’re more focused and are the only ones who value a good education and raise their children and treat women correctly. I guess she doesn’t know there are buttholes of every color. But that’s racism for ya’. Also, she doesn’t like me because I look and remind her of my father, who she blames for how her life has turned. Not to say she doesn’t have a point somewhat, but it ain’t like she’s blameless, either. Anyway, meh done with that duncy head. I don’t got time for the hate, no matter who it’s from. I gotta’ do me, y’know?

Thirty minutes later, after a shower and a fresh set of clothes, I’m back out in the streets, to my bank to deposit the $700. It’s better I put this all in and not tempt myself with any cash, especially on a Saturday night. Whether I go out or stay home, I’m not paying for nothing. That’s what men are for.

After dropping my money off and walking from the bank, I hear someone call out to me. "TAMARA! ¿QUE PASA, MAMI?"

Now anyone who’s anyone knows I do not like being called out like some stunt, so I look around to see who has the nerve. Of course. I should’ve known.

What you want? I reply some attitude, folding my arms across my chest.

You know what I want. Or I should say, who I want. Come here.

I should walk away, but this really isn’t the guy to play out in public. So I walk over to where the latest Cadillac CTS is parked, where the driver inside smiles at me while having a toothpick in his mouth.

What’s up, baby? Says Blanco. What I told you about you walking when you always have a seat next to me in my ride?

I twist my mouth at Blanco, as his ghostly looking face and grey eyes try to entice me from inside the whip. Y’see, Blanco is Puerto Rican and an albino, hence the nickname. He runs corners and hustles along my area, so any level of ugliness that may come from him looking like a sheet of loose leaf paper, he makes up with funds in his pocket.

When you got the ride? I say to him.

This morning. Paid in cash. I’ll probably get tired of this in a few months though and get something else.

You paid in cash? The IRS will wanna’ know where your money came from.

It’s not in my name, but that’s all you need to know. How was your little runway show?

How you knew about that?

"I got people everywhere, mami. They told me you did a little something for your ex man’s tournament."

Well, I’m just getting some work in to build up that resume.

Now if you would’ve stayed with me you would’ve been with those big companies like Maybelline or Revlon by now, instead of slumming for that bitch’s sideshow.

Blanco always been jealous of Donnell, so any chance he sees to knock him, he’ll take it, especially since he knows it’ll bother me in him doing it. I’ll just change the subject. I know you’re heading somewhere to show off your car. Where to?

Atlantic City. A few crews gonna’ ball up in the casino a little. I would invite you, but I don’t want to get you smacked up by some of my other hoes.

"Me getting smacked up, that will be the day. Besides, I promised myself never