Samaya's Summer: The Genesis Chronicles, #1

By Ms. Tery

Embark on a thrilling journey with basketball star Samaya Lewis, whose world takes an unexpected twist with one tiny mistake. From the courts to the quaint town of Willow Ridge, she faces a ninety-day, basketball-free exile that will change her life forever.

Determined to reclaim her destiny, Samaya dives into a summer of transformation. New friendships, a budding romance, and a fierce resolve to reinvent herself define her path. Yet, the idyllic atmosphere shatters when a sinister businessman descends upon Willow Ridge, unraveling the town's close bonds with threatening consequences.

A dark force looms as Samaya grapples with the choice between preserving her basketball stardom and repairing fractured relationships. Brace yourself for a rollercoaster of emotions as Samaya navigates a world where the stakes are high and the line between good and evil blurs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ms.Tery
• Release date: Jul 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201114428

Ms. Tery

Wife, mother, daughter, sister, storyteller & esoteric hermit. Working at the nexus of art and purpose to craft strong, authentic, characters and evocative experiences that endure.  I am a writer and this is my story.

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Ms. Tery

Samaya’s Summer

Book One of The Genesis Chronicles

Copyright © 2021 by Ms. Tery

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Ms. Tery asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Ms. Tery has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

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To my LML, thank you for believing in me and the girls.

Chapter 1

One-shot. The score was 17-16. The difference between a loss and a win. I dribbled the basketball and glared at the human pipe cleaner across from me. Never less than arrogant, the freshman with the scruffy fro and sparse goatee smirked. He didn’t mask his cockiness about guarding a girl. I shook my head. One season on the J.V. basketball team, and the boy thinks he’s ready for the league. I dribbled between my legs and dipped into a crouch. Desmond counted on me to win, and based on his yelps, he wasn’t escaping the guy everyone called Gun Show anytime soon.

Taking a hard step toward my opponent, I faked the dribble and pulled back into my original crouch. Faking left, then right, I spun left and made an explosive drive to his exposed right side. Bounding down the court, I drove the basketball straight to the net for a perfect layup.

As the last shot of the game sank into the net, Desmond pushed past the sulking Gun Show and swept me into with a whirling dervish of a hug. We whooped and hollered until our humiliated rivals slunk off the court. Only in the stillness of the evening did we notice that dusk had arrived. Gone was the heat of the day, the multitude of park pedestrians, and the cloudless sky that tempted us throughout the school day. In its place stretched the last of the sun’s pinkish rays as they dissolved into a mysterious violet speckled with flickering streetlights.

The universal sign of nightfall in the city, the streetlights also urged everyone under eighteen to get inside. Refusing to wind up casualties of dusk’s war against kids, Desmond and I snatched our bookbags off the ground and left for our respective homes. Tossing up the peace sign, I broke into a run. I could not be late. I had to beat the streetlight on Ellis Avenue to avoid arguing with my mother.

Tearing down Hyde Park Avenue, I took the corner of Hyde and Simpson on one foot, hopping to keep my pace. As I ran, I chanted my nightly mantra, Gotta get home; can’t be late. Careening down Simpson and crossing the street at Robinson, I cut through the Flores family’s backyard to reach 2619 Ellis Avenue before our streetlight flickered on. I grinned as I stepped quickly through the backdoor. Right on time.

Oomph! Just as I entered the house, I plowed into someone.

We lurched forward and crashed to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. A blob of something warm and thick formed a puddle on my favorite jersey. Upon seeing who I ran into, I whimpered. Mama had been carrying our dinner from the oven to the table. The two of us sat silently on the floor, and I avoided her gaze while I tried to come up with a decent excuse for knocking her down. Warm ketchup stained my jersey, and big chunks of beef, peppers, and onions sat on Mama’s lap.

I wiped my hands on my sweatpants and helped Mama up. Sorry, Mama.

Samaya Anne Lewis, Mama said through her teeth. I thought I told you to be home before that streetlight came on?

Pointing out that I had beaten the streetlight was useless, especially since my efforts to avoid yet another scolding resulted in me splattering dinner all over the floor, all over Mama, and all over my New York Liberty jersey. Instead, I braced myself for the pending lecture.

Mama crossed her arms and paced back and forth. Samaya, I just don’t know what to do with you.

I peeked at the doorway. Daddy took one look at the massacred meatloaf on the floor, along with the congealing ketchup and beef bits plastered to the cabinetry and Mama’s ruffled apron, and kept right on walking.

Honey, you’re fourteen years old and going to high school this fall. Don’t you think it’s about time you settled down a little? Mama stopped in front of me and waited for my reply.

I looked at my old black high-tops. Basketball was my life. I’d decided years ago that I wouldn’t stop until a university with a decent team recruited me, and from there I would work my way up from player to coach. When I tuned back into my lecture, we were at the part where Mama asked why I hadn’t become more interested in behaving maturely. I tilted my head to the side. Mama didn’t want me to be more mature; she wanted me to be like Sahara, my older sister.

Sahara and I were opposites. She had inherited Mama’s features; delicate hands, a tiny waist, and gentle curves that boys liked. Their hair flowed in silken waves of brown and smiles that dimmed the sun. The only traits we shared were blemish-free caramel skin and long hair, though my cornrows resembled licorice whips, not strands of honey. However, I had acquired one attribute Sahara didn’t have. Mama, her sister Cecelia, and all of my maternal relatives had unusual eyes for Black women. Aunt Cecelia’s eyes resembled the pale mountain springs while Mama’s were mossy blends of nutmeg and emerald. People often called mine hazel, though many considered them kaleidoscopic, constantly alternating between blue, green, brown, and gray. All my life, people had fussed over my eyes. So much so that kids in school called me cat eyes. Envious girls claimed I thought I was cute. Even my sister, whose eyes resembled smoky topaz, coveted my eyes, and she constantly begged for contacts.

As for my other features, I guess I took after Daddy. I was taller than my mother, sister, and aunt, and less slender. Sahara didn’t become shapely until junior high, but puberty was unkind to me. I had to wear a real bra in the fifth grade. Luckily, I played sports. At age seven, I played on three little league teams, and by ten, I was a serious ballplayer, all of which made up for my early curvature. Around the time I got the bra, I stopped dressing girly. My wardrobe consisted of gym shorts, sweatpants, t-shirts, and hoodies, which were great at covering up my muscular, albeit ample frame, and also meant I was ready if I spotted a game to get into after school.

By age eleven, sports became an obsession, a reason to avoid Mama’s attempts to bond. Instead of having heart-to-heart talks with Mama over mother-daughter mani-pedis, I sneaked out to shoot hoops with the neighborhood boys. That May, however, Mama ramped up her lectures on decreasing my interest in sports and improving my behavior.

Since suddenly squeezing my thickset form into Sahara’s bright, sparkly shirts and itty-bitty shorts wouldn’t solve my problems, I offered Mama an earnest apology. I hoped it would hold her off until my next indiscretion. However, I had tuned out at the wrong time because Mama’s following statement was not, Don’t let it happen again.

Samaya, Mama began with a tense sigh. Daddy and I have talked, and we think it’d be best if you got out of the city for a while and spent the summer with your Aunt Cece.

My jaw fell open.

Baby, it’s time you did something besides shoot hoops with the boys, Mama explained as she resumed pacing. I think you’ll enjoy the country, participating in the Sunday school picnics, dressing up, and staying up late to talk with Sahara and Aunt Cece. They’re not as bad as you think.

But, Mama, I’ve gotta practice. I’ll never make a college team if I don—

Don’t what? Mama fired back. "Run the streets with the boys ’til dark? Wear athletic gear 24-7? What am I doing to keep you from being a good basketball player?"

Well, arguing about it isn’t exactly helping, I mumbled.

Mama shot me her best don’t say a word if you know what’s good for you look. Samaya, we’ve always supported your dreams, but enough is enough. You can play ball and make curfew more than one night a month. And you are more than capable of behaving like a lady even when you’re playing sports. I’m not asking for too much.

Dang it. My heart plummeted into the soles of my sneakers. I wanted to rebel… refuse to cooperate, but that wouldn’t work. Talking back and making a scene hadn’t worked for Sahara. Her latest grounding didn’t have a designated end date, and given Mama’s ultra-soft voice and gentle disposition, when pushed, she could put the fear of God in men twice her size.

Look, sweetheart, you’ll love Willow Ridge. You and Sahara just need to get out of the city for a while. Try some different things. It’ll be fun.

Well, how long do we have to stay? I hope it won’t be the entire summer. I can survive anything for a week or two…

For the entire summer, you are not to look at, think about, or even fantasize about basketball. If you do, you won’t see a ball again until I’m dead and gone.

Mama!

My mother stopped pacing and whirled around as if I had cursed her. I refuse to have a daughter who doesn’t know how to do anything except play ball. There are far more important things in this life.

Like what? What else did I need to know? The last time I checked, good grades plus exceptional ballhandling equaled a college scholarship. I absently picked at the drying ketchup on my jersey. My grades were flawless. Straight As meant academic eligibility for sports. And as the number twelve seed in the state’s list of top female basketball players, I had already played on the all-city girls’ basketball team two years in a row. What was I missing?

Honey, I know you love basketball, Mama said, collapsing onto the nearest chair. And I love watching you play, but you’re growing up. It’s time you started thinking about things other than basketball and running the streets.

I sighed. Mama had put her foot down. Another word and she would start asking the Lord to give her the strength not to knock me onto the floor. She said that prayer a lot in the past month. Rather than waste my time and increase my risk of bodily harm, I apologized again and shuffled upstairs.

Wonder if the teen queen knows about our trip to the country? Before I could duck into my room across the hall, Sahara’s neon yellow door flew open, and she greeted me in all of her teenage glory, which included leopard print leggings and a black cropped top.

At fifteen, Sahara’s long hair and light eyes worked the boys into a frenzy wherever she went. Their obsession fed the beast the same way tourists fed sharks. As I edged toward my room, Sahara strutted into the hallway to harass me.

Why the long face, Samaya? Sahara asked with the bat of her lashes. Someone mistake you for a boy again at the courts tonight?

Better to be mistaken for a boy than an escapee from the city zoo.

My sister and I used to be close, but in junior high, Sahara joined the popular girls, and I lagged, focusing on sports. Since then, Sahara had done everything possible to make me regret my decision, including teasing me and trying to goad me into becoming more fashionable and socially acceptable.

Undeterred, Sahara grinned like a gator at an unsuspecting tourist. Aww, I’ll let you have that one, especially since in two weeks we will be in the charming town of Willow Ridge with our aunt the beautician, staying in her exquisite home and enjoying all the free hairstyles, cosmetics, and clothes a girl could want. Sahara smirked. "Oh, wait, that’ll be me. You’ll be there pretending to be the son Mama never wanted."

High-pitched giggles filled the hallway, and my brows dropped into an intense scowl. She’s grounded… she can’t have company… I glanced past Sahara into her room as the giggles continued. The weird O-shaped light she used when recording hair and makeup tutorials shone by the window, and a trashy rap song blared in the background.

Are you live-streaming this?

Sahara smirked. I can’t deny my followers their nightly entertainment. Besides, the public has the right to know you’re a reject.

Keep filming me, and your next tutorial’s going to be on ways to cover a black eye.

Try me, Sahara scoffed. This’ll turn into a pay-per-view fight. And it won’t be for the culture.

With over two thousand followers and verified status on IG, a live brawl with my internet celebrity sister was the last thing either of us needed before our banishment to the country. A guttural moan escaped my person. If I hit her, Mama will turn into the judge, jury, and executioner. Not only would she murder us and blame it on some far-fetched disease from a lost episode of House, but she would also bury us in the backyard and eulogize us with a clean conscience because our bad behavior drove her to do it.

For Mama’s sake, I stomped across the hall to my room and slammed the door shut as Sahara basked in her cleverness. Tossing my dirty clothes around my room, I changed into clean sweats. Stupid streetlight. Now I’ll miss basketball at the Y and the games in the park. I darted into the hallway and grabbed the phone, calling the only sympathetic person I