Grown Read online

  Dedication

  “All water has a perfect memory and is forever

  trying to get back to where it was.”

  —Toni Morrison

  To the victims, to the survivors, to the bravehearted,

  to the girls who grew up too fast . . .

  we believe you.

  CONTENT WARNING:

  mentions of sexual abuse, rape, assault, child abuse, kidnapping, and addiction to opioids

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part One

  Chapter 1: Beet Juice

  Chapter 2: Swim Good

  Chapter 3: Caged Birds Must Sing

  Chapter 4: Heart Song

  Chapter 5: Bright Eyes

  Chapter 6: A Star is Born

  Chapter 7: Friends to the End

  Chapter 8: Will and Willow Meeting Notes

  Chapter 9: VIP Stands for . . .

  Chapter 10: Beach Bums

  Chapter 11: Shop Talk

  Chapter 12: A Whole New World

  Chapter 13: Biology

  Chapter 14: When Souls Collide

  Chapter 15: W&W Cluster

  Chapter 16: What’s Your Emergency?

  Chapter 17: Save Me

  Chapter 18: Lesson Plan

  Chapter 19: Cradle Robber

  Chapter 20: Your Eyes

  Chapter 21: 432,000

  Chapter 22: Feels Like Home

  Chapter 23: History

  Chapter 24: Swim Lessons

  Chapter 25: Youtube

  Chapter 26: Group Text

  Chapter 27: Homecoming Dance

  Chapter 28: Privacy

  Chapter 29: The Proposal

  Chapter 30: A Mother’s Grip

  Part Two

  Chapter 31: Beet Juice 2

  Chapter 32: On God

  Chapter 33: Once Upon a Dream

  Chapter 34: Melissa

  Chapter 35: TV Notes

  Chapter 36: Ice Bucket

  Chapter 37: Where Fairy Tales End

  Chapter 38: Witness Statement

  Chapter 39: Juice Box

  Chapter 40: Friction

  Chapter 41: Decline

  Chapter 42: Group Chat: Settlement

  Chapter 43: Candy

  Chapter 44: Grown

  Chapter 45: Connection

  Chapter 46: Glass Jar

  Chapter 47: Jellyfish

  Chapter 48: Ready Player One

  Chapter 49: Case File

  Chapter 50: Welfare Check

  Chapter 51: Follow the Rules

  Chapter 52: Two Minutes

  Chapter 53: Thin Walls

  Chapter 54: Sisters

  Chapter 55: Run

  Chapter 56: Get Help

  Part Three

  Chapter 57: Beet Juice 3

  Chapter 58: Sleeping Beauty

  Chapter 59: Barbershop Talk

  Chapter 60: School Daze

  Chapter 61: Shine Bright

  Chapter 62: Legalese

  Chapter 63: Road Trip

  Chapter 64: Group Chat

  Chapter 65: Sex Tape

  Chapter 66: Beet Juice 4

  Chapter 67: Interrogation #1

  Chapter 68: College Bound

  Chapter 69: W&W Meeting Minutes

  Chapter 70: Interrogation #2

  Chapter 71: Who is Gabriela?

  Chapter 72: How to Buy Back Your Life

  Part Four

  Chapter 73: Beet Juice 5

  Chapter 74: Peter Pan

  Chapter 75: Pictures Worth a Thousand Words

  Chapter 76: The Other Woman

  Chapter 77: The Real Hero

  Chapter 78: Press Conference

  Chapter 79: Funeral

  Chapter 80: There’s Only One Like It

  Chapter 81: Charged

  Chapter 82: A Visit

  Chapter 83: Family Over Everything

  Chapter 84: How to Watch the Sun Rise

  Chapter 85: Reunited

  Chapter 86: Group Chat

  Chapter 87: How to Gut a Fish

  Chapter 88: State Your Name for the Record

  Chapter 89: Princesses Must Save Themselves

  Chapter 90: The Truth

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Tiffany D. Jackson

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Beet Juice

  NOW

  When I awake, I am eye-level with a puddle of beet juice soaked into the carpet, soft fibers cushioning my cheek. The beet juice is dark, thin, dried sticky between my fingers.

  Damn, I have to pee.

  I roll over, spine unforgiving, and struggle to my feet, knees wobbling, pain shooting stars through my skull. Out of the one eye that isn’t swollen, everything is a bright blur. The blinding sun shines through dozens of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. My jaw is an unhinged door. I lick blood off my bottom lip, relish the metal taste and take in the room.

  There’s blood everywhere.

  No, not blood. Beet juice. Or maybe cranberry. Thinned barbecue sauce. But no, not blood. Blood means more than I can comprehend.

  The beet-juice stains are all around his penthouse—on the cream sofa, the satin curtains, the ivory dining table, splatters on the ceiling . . . I even managed to spill some beet juice down my tank top and jeans. A hectic painting on what was once a pure white canvas.

  A breeze glides up my bald head, the tips of my ears icy as I’m attacked by shivers. It’s not the beet juice or my position on the floor that unnerves me; it’s the silence. No music, no television, no voices . . . damn, I’m a mess and he’s going to be so mad when he sees all these stains. The thought of his inevitable reaction produces more terror than the blood surrounding me.

  Sorry, not blood. Beet juice.

  I step over Melissa, cast aside like a dead dog, wrapping arms around myself. Where are my shoes? I didn’t walk in here barefoot.

  Wait . . . why am I still here? Didn’t I leave last night?

  A bloody handprint glides across the wall toward the bedroom, the door wide open.

  Korey is slumped facedown, hanging off the bed . . . body covered in beet juice. Flaming words are stuck in my esophagus, but my body is frozen, rooted to the floor. If I move . . . if he catches me . . . he’ll kill me.

  Three pounds on the front door. A voice booms.

  “Police! Open up!”

  Piss runs down my leg, soaking my sock.

  Chapter 2

  Swim Good

  THEN

  In my past life, I was a mermaid.

  I lived deep in the ocean, swimming free, eating crustaceans, and singing five-octave ballads. My notes caused ripples in the sea—whales, turtles, and seahorses alike gathered for my daily concerts.

  But on land, I struggle to breathe. Humans don’t understand my pescatarian diet, and singing is a concept, not an aspiration.

  Sitting a few feet away from a near-Olympic-size racing pool, I warm up my quads. Pool water is nothing but fake water. Swimming in it feels unnatural. But it’s the closest substitute I can manage to find.

  Whitney Houston hums through my headphones: “Where Do Broken Hearts Go.”

  The stretching playlist has some of my favorite classics—Mariah Carey, Aretha Franklin, Diana Ross, Chaka Khan, Nina Simone. Wish I could hook it up to a waterproof speaker and drop it into the pool. Synchronized swimmers listen to music underwater all the time. Maybe I should try out next year. Be a tour de force—an underwater ballerina who can sing.

  Arms extended up with a graceful bow, I stretch and hum and stretch and hum . . .


  “All right, Enchanted. Would you just sing already!”

  Mackenzie Miller stuffs her long blond hair into a swim cap.

  “Huh?”

  “Go ahead, sing,” she says, her pink lips in a sly smirk. “You know you want to.”

  “Might as well,” Hannah Tavano says next to her, slipping out of her track pants. “You’re humming loud enough.”

  The entire swim team nods in agreement.

  “Well, I’m always willing to give the people what they want,” I say, stripping out of my sweats. I step to the edge of the pool, grabbing hold of my invisible mic.

  “Where do broken hearts go?

  Can they find their way home?

  Back to the open arms

  of a love that’s waiting there.”

  The thing about singing near the pool is the acoustics. My voice carries, notes bouncing off the tiles, the dome roof, then skipping across the water like a pebble before boomeranging back. Every word pulses and echoes through my bloodstream, but then the song ends. The adrenaline leaves me breathless.

  Applause shakes me out of a trance, and I glimpse down at my fans, a group of eight pale faces in matching navy swimsuits.

  “Wow. It’s like . . . you can really sing,” Hannah says in disbelief. “You sound just like Beyoncé!”

  The other teammates nod in agreement.

  My heart deflates a bit. I love Beyoncé, but they use that comparison because that’s the only black singer they know.

  “Ladies,” a voice shouts behind us. Coach Wilson leans against the doorframe of her office, pushing her red glasses back up her thin nose.

  “If you’re done with your concert, can you kindly get your butts in the water? Now! Ten laps. Let’s go!”

  The whistle blows and I dive in, slipping under the surface like sliding into a freshly made bed.

  In the lanes to the right and left of me, Mackenzie and Hannah practice their breaststroke. My goggles are tight, but on purpose. I hate when chlorine slips through the crevices and I end up with red eyes like I’ve been smoking a blunt. Not that I’d know what that’s like. But being one of ten black students in the entire school . . . the stupid assumption would be too easy.

  After a warm-up, coach talks us through a few practice drills.

  I hit the wall at the end of the pool on my last lap and power back. On land, Coach Wilson clicks her stopwatch, her face unreadable.

  “Few seconds off. Not bad. Could be better.”

  I sniff, wiping my face dry. “You are full of compliments.”

  “Compliments don’t help you improve,” she chuckles. “All right, ladies! Showers. Then class. And I better not hear about any of you being late to homeroom. Jones, a word?”

  Dripping wet, I skip into her office. “Yes, Coach?”

  She tips her glasses. “You’re spilling out of your uniform there.”

  I give myself a once-over. “I . . . am?”

  “Butts and boobs need to be fully covered. Might be time to move up a size.”

  The locker room smells of chlorine and musty wet socks as a blow-dryer churns in the background. Glad I don’t have problems like long hair to deal with anymore. In and out the shower, I can be ready for school in less than ten minutes.

  Parkwood High School is the only private one in the county that doesn’t have a strict dress code, but the student handbook specifically says no hats, no short skirts, no “distracting” hairstyles.

  Yeah, I can read between the words unsaid there too.

  I solved that problem by shaving off my locs. But somehow, my presence is still distracting.

  At the mirror, I glide a hand over my baldy, the short hair prickling my fingertips. The cutest shirt I own looks plain in the dingy locker-room light. I didn’t want to do too much . . . it would set off alarms and I’m already nervous enough about today as it is. Maybe later, with Gab’s gold hoops and some bright pink lipstick, I’ll look . . . hot.

  Hot? This is going to be a disaster.

  Mackenzie slams her locker shut with a smirk. “Kyle Bacon.”

  I press my lips together to compose myself before feigning ignorance. “Who?”

  “Kyle Bacon? He’s a senior. Tall . . . um, dark eyes . . .”

  Black, I want to say, help fill in the blank she’s trying to avoid.

  “What about him?” I sigh, knowing where this is going.

  “Well . . . he doesn’t have a date to the dance. You should go with him.”

  “Why? I don’t even know him.”

  “You can get to know each other. Like a blind date.”

  “I’m not taking a blind date to homecoming.”

  “Come on! You’ll look so good together in pictures.”

  “How do you know?”

  Mackenzie’s cheeks burn pink, her freckles on fire.

  “Just . . . well, he’s cute! And you’re, like, really pretty.”

  I snort. “I can’t believe you’re quoting Mean Girls right now.”

  “All I’m saying is, you need a date. He’s available. It’s not like you’re strangers. He saw you at the talent showcase last year. Actually, everyone saw you at the talent showcase, but he remembers you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah! I mean, he liked the video I posted.” She pulls out her phone and scrolls through Instagram, turning up the sound. There I am, singing Aretha’s “Ain’t No Way.” Bet seventy-five percent of my classmates had never even heard of the song before.

  I swallow back the memory. The last thing I need today is a reminder of the stage fright that hit me minutes beforehand. But like Gab says . . . wasn’t ready then, but I’m ready now.

  I shrug. “Well. Maybe. Since we’ll look good together and all.”

  “Cool! Study sesh after school? If I fail bio, my mom will kill me. Or take my phone. I don’t know which is worse.”

  I slip on my book bag. “Um, nah. I got something to do.”

  Despite Coach’s lateness warning, I wait until the coast is clear before popping out of my hiding spot, sneakers squeaking against the wet tile. I pull back the curtains and set up my phone. Ten-minute vocal warm-up video on YouTube.

  “La la la la la la la la laaaaaaa.”

  Pool acoustics are great, but showers are really where it’s at! The only sound booth I’ve ever known.

  I rehearse my song for later over and over. It has to be perfect, flawless.

  Who knows when I’ll have this chance again.

  Chapter 3

  Caged Birds Must Sing

  Mom is predictably twenty minutes late for pickup. Daddy says LaToya Jones will be late to her own funeral. It’s why he refused to have a traditional wedding and went straight to the courthouse a few months before I came into this world.

  So I’m used to working in my songbook on the outside steps of school, waiting for her arrival . . .

  In your heart, it’s a start.

  And we can’t grow when we’re this far apart.

  Let’s take it to another level

  I’ll be a sunrise in your meadow . . .

  Two honks snap me out of a groove. Beep! Beep!

  “Heyyyy, Chanty!” Mom says, still in her hospital scrubs, her brown locs tied up into a neat bun. “Sorry I’m late. Where’s your sister?”

  “Here I am,” Shea says, skipping behind me as we climb into the truck. “Bye, Becky. Bye, Anna. Bye, Lindsey!”

  “Bye, Shea Shea,” a group of her fellow freshmen sing with a wave.

  Shea bounces into the middle of the back seat, her little chocolate face nudging Mom’s forearm. “Mom, can I go over Lindsey Gray’s house this weekend?”

  “Chores first, white girls second. Buckle up!”

  “Mom,” she groans. “The window is open. People can hear you.”

  Mom rolls up the window as we drive off, Shea babbling about her day. She’s adjusted well to high school, easier to do with an established group of friends from middle school rather than as a transfer student like me, fitting in like a lit
tle brown chameleon in every circle. I’m the blowfish out of water next to my little sister.

  “Don’t forget to fold the laundry. And take the salmon out the freezer,” Mom says as we drop Shea off at home.

  “I won’t! Geez!”

  “Don’t let the twins pick all the veggies off their slices,” I remind her. “And Destiny likes her pizza cut into squares or she won’t eat it. Also new Love and Hip Hop tonight!”

  “I know, Chanty, I know,” she laughs. “Becky and I are gonna watch it together on FaceTime.”

  Mom backs out the driveway. “OK, you got the address to this swim meet?”

  “Yup,” I say, nervously typing it into the GPS.

  Mom frowns. “Oh. It’s in Manhattan?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “Dang. Didn’t think it was going to be all the way in the city. And so late on a school night!”

  “Bigger pool, I guess.” I try to make my lies sound believable, smooth as untouched water.

  “OK. But text Daddy and tell him we’ll be home late.”

  On the way, Mom conducts the home orchestra from her speakerphone.

  “Shea, what temp is that oven on? You put it up too high and the pizza’s gonna burn. And did you take out fish like I told you?”

  “Yes, Mom!” Shea sighs. “Geez!”

  It’s rare that Shea watches the Littles alone. I still consider her one of them.

  “Daddy’s picking up baby girl from day care before his shift. Where’s the twins?”

  “They’re Kung Fu Panda-ing in the living room.”

  “Hi, Mommy!” they scream in the background.

  “Hi, babies! How are my munchkins? What’s the best thing that happened to you today?”

  Mom is always multitasking, her mind working like several browser tabs opened at once. She gives Shea her last set of directions before hanging up.

  “So what is this? A special meet or something?”

  “Um, yes. Coach recommended me. College recruiters are going to be there and everything.”

  “Really?” She brightens, a grin growing across her face, and presses the gas a little harder. I turn up the volume on 107.5 WBLS, an oldies R&B station. Whitney Houston’s “Saving All My Love for You” plays, and I hum along.

  It’s good practice.

  “I don’t understand how she got the times mixed up.” Mom huffs as we scuffle across campus.