Her powerful and provocative artistry fails to capture the hearts of those who don't quite understand her message. Often overlooked in the art world, Beyoncé has struggled for years to gain the respect of her peers. That all changes when she meets A...
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now playing: "Climax" by Slum Village
(a/n: long chapter)
Beyoncé
"Noooo, BB! You wan give her hypertension? Add another egg 'fore you ruin the whole ting."
Burnt toast.
Hot oil popping like a string of firecrackers.
Oddly shaped pancakes.
The start of a hearty, wholesome breakfast.
A person only has one first impression, my mother told me, so I had to make it count. I already assumed she had an entire checklist in her head of how she expected me to present myself for my potential future husband and his in-laws—no room for error, not a hair out of place, and with a personality so alluring that I was guaranteed a perfect match within a year.
I hadn't the slightest clue what a future husband would look like. Who my perfect match could be.
Would he have a dragon tattoo on his face, or maybe a purple Mohawk? Perhaps he'd be a reclusive tech billionaire and would propose on the back of a flying hovercraft?
Who knew. But with any possible choice, Mama would've had her way anyway; I wouldn't put it past her to conduct a background check and draft a four-year plan to ensure our union.
My parents had set a precedent for me, marrying one another on the week after they graduated from Fisk. If Mama's visions of grandeur for my future husband were anything like hers for me, then she had no intention of finding someone who would bring my joy, let alone love. It would be about pomp and circumstance and social standing. That was her fate.
A good girl doesn't question fate, and I would definitely not be breaking that trend.
But fate, as it turns out, is a twisted playwright, scripting scenes that defy our neatly laid plans. I learned that the hard way, at the debutante ball—a night that was supposed to be the apex of grace and new beginnings.
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The music and laughter of the ball seemed to echo faintly in the back of my mind. I could still feel the heavy silk of my gown, the bounciness of my pressed hair after it was taken down from its roller curls, the tightness of the curls that were then pinned up, and the way my smile had to be stitched as permanently as the pearls around my neck.
Lyndall was there, the boy who had been seamlessly woven into the fabric of my life by threads I hadn't seen being spun.
His parents had taken a liking to me from the moment I'd stepped inside their home for the first time with a basket of soft, melt-in-your-mouth muffins and my AP Physics textbook in hand. Tutoring sessions turned into family dinners. Family dinners turned into homecoming and prom. And prom was the equivalent of a royal proclamation in Mama's eyes. She couldn't have been prouder of her little girl who was following in her footsteps.
