Dior's Discovery: Secret Weapon

By Melissa Redding

From debut author, Melissa Redding comes

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melissa Redding
• Release date: Jun 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9780998563701

Book preview

DIOR’S DISCOVERY: SECRET WEAPON

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is strictly coincidental.

DIOR’S DISCOVERY: SECRET WEAPON © 2019 Melissa Redding

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be recorded, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher.

ISBN: 978-0-9985637-0-1

Published by Melissa Redding

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition June 2020

Cover Design & Illustrations: Nino Galenzoga

Interior Layout by: Make Your Mark Publishing Solutions

Editing: Make Your Mark Publishing Solutions

Contents

Dedication

Dior Dawson

Worst Day Ever

Decisions

Dior’s Discovery

Big, Big Trouble

Secret Weapon

Oh No

Believe

Suddenly

Goal Crushin’

Falling

The Glow Up

Answered Prayers

Gifted

Secret Weapon Journal

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

Dedication

To my daughter, Dior. Curious and confident, you are both precious and perfect in your own way. Life is full of difficult decisions and wonderful discoveries. Always remember to use your secret weapon of prayer as you continue to flourish through life.

Secret Weapon

I am fearfully and wonderfully made…

Psalm 139:14

… and so are you.

Dior Dawson

"T hree, two, one! Ready or not, here I come!"

Leaning against the oak tree, Dior uncovered her eyes and glanced around the playground. Dior Dawson didn’t have to look for long to find Michael. He always hid behind the same wooden park bench near the trashcans. Dior crept over, pretending not to see him. She sat on the bench, folding her hands behind her head.

Gotcha! She swung her arms behind the bench and laughed as she whacked him upside the head. You’re it! She dashed away in the other direction.

Michael was from the neighborhood. He was short, pudgy, and a few months younger than her. That’s not fair! he shouted back, trying to catch up.

Dior kept running. She ran so fast that the autumn wind whistled past her ears and so far that she could barely hear Michael whining.

What a baby! she thought. He knows the rules of the game. Dior ran all the way to the basketball court. Grasping the steel, chain-link fence to brace her, she rested her head on the gate and looked up toward the trees. Sunrays gleamed upon her warm caramel complexion as the afternoon breeze blew through her crinkled curls.

The leaves had just begun to change color in New York City. Shades of beautiful burnt orange and a brownish gold covered the branches. As Dior started to catch her breath, a droplet of rain fell onto her nose from the partly cloudy sky. Michael jogged toward her as she wiped the raindrop away.

Aww, man! Dior mumbled. Not rain!

Dior loved hanging out in the park, and playing tag was her favorite game. She was fast, and not just fast for a girl. More like Olympian Gabby Douglas fast. Dior always outran all the kids in the park, which made playing tag even more fun.

You cheated, he snarled between deep gasps. You can’t hide over here. This isn’t even a part of the park.

Yes, it is, Dior argued. It’s not my fault you can’t catch me. She giggled.

Well, I don’t wanna play anymore, Michael grumbled with his arms crossed above his round belly.

Duh! We can’t play anymore because it’s about to rain. But I’ll be back to beat you again tomorrow, she said and giggled at Michael’s disappointment. Michael scowled.

Dior! her mother called, waving to her from a distance. Let’s go!

See ya! Dior said as she waved goodbye to Michael before racing back over to her mother. She grabbed her jean jacket, slipped into it then flipped up her collar, tucking as much of her shoulder-length curls in as possible, protecting them from the misty air, which always made her hair go poof.

When Dior and her mother got upstairs, Dior went to her room, dropped her backpack on the floor, kicked her sneakers off, and plopped down onto her bed. Outside the window, the rain pelted down and she was relieved that they had arrived home just in time.

Dior, please start on your homework, her mother called from the kitchen.

Okay, Dior replied. I’m just looking for a pencil.

Looking for a pencil was usually code for, I am not ready to start my homework yet, but since Dior couldn’t say that out loud, she just stalled by pretending to search for a pencil.

Dior gazed outside her window. From her tenth-floor apartment, the people looked like ants scurrying about trying to escape the rain.

I wish I could escape all this homework, Dior thought. School just started, and I already have so much homework. She sighed.

As she unzipped her backpack and reached down inside, feeling around for something to write with, Dior heard the front door slam.

I’m home! her father called from the living room. Dior jumped out of bed and rushed down the hall. Leaping into her father’s arms, she nearly knocked him over. With a chuckle, her father hugged her back just as tightly.

Daddy, I outran Michael on the playground again, today, Dior boasted as she pulled away gently from her father’s embrace."

I knew you would, baby girl. You’ve always been as fast as a rocket. Her father smiled.

So, how was your day, Daddy? Dior asked. He always told the most hilarious stories.

It was great, baby girl. How was yours?

Daddy, I am not a baby. I will be twelve years old soon. In three months, to be exact. And that means I’ve been on this earth for more than a decade. So I’m practically a grown-up!

Alright, alright. Her father laughed. He took off his hat and locked the door behind him. Don’t get carried away. I know you’re a big girl now, growing into a beautiful young lady. But you will always be my baby girl, he said, smiling.

Dior couldn’t wait to tell her father all about her day.

Daddy, did you know that—

Is that you, John? her mother questioned from the kitchen.

Yeah! Sorry I’m late. There was a delay on the train.

It’s fine. I’ve had a busy day, too, her mom said, rushing back into the kitchen after a long sigh. You two should wash up quickly. We’re having baked fish tonight, and it’s almost ready. Dior, let’s move quickly. I need you to help set the table.

Yuck! Not baked fish again, Dior complained. Dior hated baked fish because it smelled fishy and tasted like mush. But mostly because it stunk.

Dior usually loved to help in the kitchen, unless it meant washing dishes. That’s what the dishwasher was for, in her opinion. Besides, all that cleaning always made the glitter on her nail polish fade.

Dior, her mother repeated. Let’s go! The food is going to get cold, and I don’t like serving cold food!

Dior took a deep breath and picked up the plates as she walked over to the dining room table. She sat in the same corner spot every night. It was her favorite seat since it was closest to the window and across from her father. She enjoyed watching her father make funny faces as he told them stories. He always added a silly ending, which Dior knew probably wasn’t true, but it still made her laugh right out of her seat. The corner seat was also perfect for sneaking crumbs to her dog, Jackson.

Her father was a high school science teacher in the borough of Brooklyn, just one town over. He also coached their basketball team after school. Her mother worked part-time as a beautician at a local hair salon. Whenever Dior was on a break from school, she’d go to work with her mother. The owner of the salon was a short, old lady named Ms. Gomez. She had red hair and always smelled like peppermints. Ms. Gomez loved to dance in the middle of the shop. She’d say, Bright colors and music help to chase the bad times away. Ms. Gomez had a Hispanic accent and occasionally mixed up a few words, but she always made Dior feel welcome. She