Split Ends Read online

  An unforgettable Hollywood princess in a small

  southern town, Divine Matthews-Hardison lights up

  Jacquelin Thomas’s previous novels

  Simply Divine Divine Confidential Divine Secrets

  Divine Match-Up

  “There’s something compelling about Divine and her amusing take on life.”

  —Booklist

  “Funny, heartwarming, spiritually uplifting. . . . A page-turning story that’s sure to touch lives.”

  —ReShonda Tate Billingsley, bestselling

  author of the Good Girlz series

  “Down to earth and heavenly minded all at the same time. . . . It made me laugh and tear up.”

  —Nicole C. Mullen, Grammy-nominated

  and Dove Award–winning vocalist

  “A good dose of fashionista fun.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  More acclaim for the wonderful faith-based fiction of Jacquelin Thomas

  “Touching and refreshing.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Bravo! . . . Sizzles with the glamour of the entertainment industry and real people who struggle to find that precious balance between their drive for success and God’s plan for their lives.”

  —Victoria Christopher Murray, bestselling

  author of the Divas series

  “A fast-paced, engrossing love story . . . [with] Christian principles.”

  —School Library Journal

  Split Ends is also available as an eBook

  More Divine Books by Jacquelin Thomas

  It’s a Curl Thing

  Divine Match-Up

  Divine Secrets

  Divine Confidential

  Simply Divine

  Split Ends

  Jacquelin Thomas

  Gallery Books

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

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

  Copyright © 2010 by Jacquelin Thomas

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  First Gallery Books trade paperback edition March 2010

  GALLERY and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or [email protected].

  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

  Illustration from istockphoto.com

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Thomas, Jacquelin.

  Split ends / Jacquelin Thomas.—1st Gallery Books trade pbk. ed.

  p. cm.—(Divine and Friends series)

  Summary: Preferring homelessness to living with her irresponsible mother,

  teenaged Kylie runs away, takes a job at a hair salon, and learns to trust God.

  [1. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 2. Beauty shops—Fiction. 3. Homeless

  persons—Fiction. 4. Runaways—Fiction. 5. African Americans—Fiction.

  6. Christian life—Fiction. 7. Pacific Palisades (Los Angeles, Calif.)—Fiction.]

  I.Title.

  PZ7.T366932Sp 2009

  [Fic]—dc22

  2009006314

  ISBN 978-1-4165-9879-4

  ISBN 978-1-4391-1583-1 (ebook)

  To my children—

  I’m so blessed to have you in my life

  and it’s an honor to be your mom.

  Acknowledgments

  To my readers—thank you so much for the never ending support and your love for Divine and friends.

  Split Ends

  Chapter 1

  My worst nightmare has come true.

  Here I am, living on the streets, walking around looking all dirty and smelling like a polecat on moonshine as my grandma would say. Being homeless is one thing, but having to walk around stinky is just the worst thing ever.

  A week ago, I left the apartment I lived in with my mama. We were about to be evicted unless she could talk or sleep her way into another apartment. I hate thinking about my mom in this way, but truth is truth—that is what my Grandma Ellen used to say.

  To be honest, I miss my grandmother. We lived with her in Statesville, North Carolina, before my mama decided to up and move to Los Angeles after a man. This same man dumped her before we were even in town a whole day.

  Instead of going back home with our faces cracked, Mama decides that we’re gonna stay out here. She’s got this big idea that she can star in a music video or become an actress. All I can say is that it’s fixing to come up a bad cloud.

  My mama’s real pretty and she knows it. She’s young, only fourteen years older than I am, but since I didn’t ask to be here, she should at least try and act like a mom. I cannot stand her irresponsible ways, the way she dresses, parties, and steals. She needs to grow up and start acting like a normal parent.

  If Grandma Ellen hadn’t died six months ago, I would’ve gone back to North Carolina, but now I have nowhere else to go.

  Well, I could go back to the apartment, but I’m tired of living like that—having to move in the middle of the night because she’d rather look fly than pay the rent. It is so embarrassing to have to tell my teachers that the reason I couldn’t finish my homework or study for a test is that we didn’t have lights. That instead of paying the bill, my mama would go shopping.

  Just two weeks ago, I had to go down to the jail with her because she was caught shoplifting some skimpy lingerie.

  She got mad at me because I wouldn’t let her pass that stuff to me. I am not a thief, so I left the store and waited for her outside. Just as she strolled out as if she owned the place, we got hauled back into the store by an undercover detective. I just wanted to die right there on the spot.

  It was a blessing that Mama didn’t have to spend the night in jail. One of her old boyfriends came and paid her bail. I had to place several calls before one would even agree to help us.

  I couldn’t take no more of the drama, so that’s why I ran away. If Mama ends up in jail, then I would have to go to foster care, and if we get evicted, which I’m sure we will, I’ll be where I am now.

  Homeless.

  A dirty braid falls across my cheek as I lower my face on the approach of a passerby. I don’t like looking into their faces and seeing the varying looks of pity or disgust.

  I glance across the street at the hair salon watching the woman who I assume is the owner take a carton of supplies out of her car. I heard that she lets the homeless come in and wash up from time to time before the salon opens or in the evenings after it closes.

  Not many people like me come by much—mostly because of where the shop’s located, and the fact that she has a police officer hanging around in the evenings.

  Even from where I stand across the street, I can tell this isn’t your regular, everyday beauty shop. It’s fancy and, from the cars that the clients drive, very expensive.

  Yesterday, I ventured closer to steal a peek inside. There were six stations with black granite countertops, and huge mirrors covered red walls. All of the hairdressers wore
black with red aprons and their hairstyles on point.

  I got here early this morning in hopes of seeing if she would let me come in to get a good shower and maybe get my hair washed and conditioned.

  The thought makes me wrinkle my nose. I can’t deny that I could use some deodorant. I haven’t had a bath in a week. The June heat is hotter than a frying pan popping grease all over the place. Soon I won’t be able to stand myself.

  I swallow my pride and hold my breath as I rummage through the crumpled, grease-stained fast-food wrappers, coffee cups, and unrecognizable stuff, looking for cans in the trash area situated behind the restaurant located across from the Crowning Glory Hair Salon.

  I back away from the trash, gasping for a whiff of fresh air. I fight the urge to throw up by reminding myself that I need enough cans to recycle and get bus fare. When I’m done, I’m going to find the nearest public bathroom to wash my hands.

  I glance over my shoulder in time to see a girl around my age walk out of the Crowning Glory salon. She stops just outside the shop and watches me for a moment.

  I am so embarrassed right now that I wish the ground would open up and swallow me. She’s already seen me picking through the trash, so there is no point in running off. Instead, I pretend that I’m not aware she’s staring me down. I hope that she’ll have the good sense to just move on, but she doesn’t. She walks to the end of the sidewalk as if waiting for the traffic light to change.

  When it does, she comes across the street.

  I look down at my stained T-shirt and torn blue jeans, a contrast to her starched and pressed denim, her eye-popping pink shirt and matching bangles. She has her chin-length hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  My stomach does a nervous flip when I realize that she is coming in my direction. A wave of apprehension washes over me and for an instant, I consider taking off running. For some reason, though, I can’t make my feet move.

  I sure hope that she is not a whack job or anything. She might be the type who can’t stand homeless people. I’m feeling lower than a snake in snowshoes. The last thing I need is a beat-down from a complete stranger. She might think I’ve been trying to case the shop or something.

  I look up, meeting her gaze. I know one thing. If she comes here trying to get in my face, I’ll get with her, no problem.

  She looks uncomfortable so I speak first. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” she responds, eyeing me from head to toe. “I’m Rhyann. I saw you hanging around the shop yesterday and I want to give you this,” she states, holding out five or six dollar bills and a five.

  I hate the look of pity I see in her eyes. I survey her nice jeans and silk shirt. Her sandals are fierce. I don’t even own a pair other than my four-dollar flip-flops. When I left home, I only took what I could fit in my backpack. Right now, she is eyeing my raggedy Converse sneakers.

  “I know that it’s not much, but it’ll get you something to eat,” she tells me.

  I smile and she smiles back.

  “Thank you,” I say, taking the money out of her hand. “I appreciate it. Oh, my name is Kylie.”

  “Do you have somewhere to stay?” Rhyann asks me.

  I nod. “If I leave now, I can get a bed at the mission.”

  I can tell she doesn’t like the sound of that. “Stay safe,” she replies. “I hear it can get pretty bad out there.”

  “Thank you, Rhyann.” I point across the street. “You work there?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Your boss—she’ll wash my hair?” I ask. “I heard that she lets people like me come to the shop to get cleaned up.”

  Rhyann nods. “Miss Marilee is a really nice person. She’ll wash your hair for free. Why don’t you come to the shop with me right now?”

  I hadn’t expected to do it right now. I summon up the courage to walk across the street with her so that I can ask about getting my braids washed and do a lil’ bit of cleaning up, but just as I make it to the curb, a Mercedes pulls up and parks. A woman gets out and walks into the shop.

  I’m not about to go strutting in there looking and smelling like I do with one of her clients present, so I tell Rhyann, “I’ll come back another day. Maybe tomorrow morning.”

  She looks at me. “You’re sure?”

  “Uh-huh. She’s got a shop full of clients, and I don’t want to go in there like this,” I say quietly.

  She sees that I’m embarrassed. “Okay, but I’m going to let Miss Marilee know to expect you, Kylie.”

  “I’d appreciate that. Thanks Rhyann.”

  “Hopefully, I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m not working until eleven o’clock.”

  I watch Rhyann until she enters the shop. I can’t believe how nice she’s been to me. Deep down, I look forward to seeing her again. I hope that maybe we could become friends. I haven’t really made any since we arrived in California, mostly because we moved around so much.

  My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t had anything to eat since the cheese and crackers I ate last night.

  “Get a job,” a man mutters as he brushes by me.

  His words sting my already rock-bottom ego.

  “I would if I could,” I whisper. “It’s not like I want to be out here, but I’m only sixteen.”

  People like him don’t really see me—they just see someone who lives on the streets. I am a teenager just like any other teen. I worry about stuff like school, peer pressure, and boys, so I’m not so different.

  The only difference between me and other teens is that I am no longer in school and I don’t have a place to live. I never stayed in the same one the entire school year because of moving from place to place. I always feel like I am missing or leaving something behind because of all of the moving I have had to do.

  At least I have enough money for bus fare. I’ll take the bus downtown to Fifth Street, where the Safe Harbor Mission is located in the heart of skid row. I heard some other homeless teens talking about it last night.

  I hated sleeping in that abandoned building, even though it was a group of us together. I met them my first night away from home, and when they invited me to hang with them, I agreed because I was too afraid to sleep on the streets alone.

  Some of them left this morning to try to steal some food. That is not what I am into so I decided not to go with them. One of the girls has a drug problem and she is thinking about prostituting her body to make money. I definitely don’t want to do that, so I said my good-byes and headed off in a different direction.

  I break into a sprint down the sidewalk. It’s hotter than a two-dollar pistol, as Grandma Ellen used to say. And I’m sweating bullets.

  The first bus that comes, I say to the driver, “I need to get to the Safe Harbor Mission. Is this the right bus?”

  He nods sourly.

  I give him the money, then walk all the way to the back and sit down, hanging my head low. I hope I don’t offend anyone with my smell. The stench from the trash mingled with my perspiration is a stinky combination.

  During the ride, I try to wrap my head around the idea of Rhyann being so nice to me. She doesn’t know me or anything, but she still gave me ten dollars. I haven’t met many people like her. Then my thoughts drift. I pray that I’ll be able to get into Safe Harbor or one of the other shelters. I don’t want to have to stay on the streets another night. I heard about this homeless man who was burned alive.

  My chest tightens at the thought. I close my eyes and count slowly, waiting for the terrified moment to pass.

  I don’t know what’s going on with me, but sometimes I feel like my breath is getting cut off. I think it comes from being scared and stressed out from worrying about my mama and the crazy stuff she does.

  The driver lets me know that I should get off at the next stop.

  “Thank you,” I say before stepping off the bus.

  One of the teens told me that the Safe Harbor Mission had a program called Safe Sleep and I am hoping I can get in. I didn’t feel all that comfortable with those kids. T
heir desperation and willingness to break the law reminds me of my mother and how I ended up in my current situation.

  This man wearing a purple suit gets out of a Lincoln Town Car and walks up to me, grabbing me by the arm. “C’mere, pretty girl . . . I got something for you.”

  “You don’t have nothing I want,” I reply, trying to pull away. “Leave me alone,” I shout, hoping someone will help me.

  “Look, I’m just trying to help you out. I can get you all cleaned up. Buy you some clothes and make you feel good.”

  “I don’t need your help,” I insist. “Let go of my arm.”

  He gives me a hard stare. “You being mighty ungrateful,” he tells me. “I’m trying to do you a favor.”

  A woman pushing a shopping cart across the street stops walking. “Let her go!”

  He cusses at her.

  She pulls a bat out of the cart. “I said, let her go, before I come jerk a knot in your tail.”

  From a distance, she looks like a fragile old woman wearing camouflage pants and a black T-shirt, but the way she is swinging that bat, it’s clear that she knows how to use it.

  “This is my woman,” he argues. “We’re just having a little spat. Now go on and mind your business.”

  “I don’t know you,” I say loudly, my heart racing. My chest starts to hurt, and it is getting hard for me to breathe. “L-let me g-go.”

  “If you don’t let that child go, I will crown you with this bat,” the woman warns as she crosses the street. “You think I don’t know what you been doing? You won’t snatch another girl to prostitute for you if I can help it.”

  “Shut up, old woman,” he snaps, his grip tightening on my arm.

  She speeds up her pace. “You get them hooked on drugs. I know what you been doing. You don’t scare me. I’ll whup you like a rented mule. Now let that child go.” The woman positions herself with the bat held up, as if she’s ready to play baseball.

  A tense few seconds pass before he growls, “You ain’t even worth all this trouble.” He suddenly releases my arm, then shoves me hard toward the woman.