JUNIOR ACHIEVER: A Novel by J. A. Faulkerson (Excerpt)

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I am feverishly working on my new novel “Junior Achiever”, but as I write, I, at times, like sharing a little something-something with my fans. What follows is nothing but a taste. Just know, I’m endeavoring to allow Junior Blevins, my main character, to share the steps he took to build his own platform for success.

To PEEP & PURCHASE some of my older titles, visit https://jafaulkerson.com/store/.

Silence as Roma took a few more bites from her sandwich.  As she chewed, I almost felt compelled to say something about the fact that she did not offer to fix me one.  In that moment, my heart was just too heavy. 

I peered over at Roma as she continued to consume her sandwich.  I noted her dress – black, loose-fitting shorts and a matching sports bra.  She had just gotten home from swim practice at the high school.  I found it difficult averting my gaze, as my eyes lingered over her moderately pimpled face and toned body.  Her head rose and she stared back at me, her toothy smile a clear indication that she knew I had been sneaking glances at her.       

“Your little brother gonna be mad at you,” she exclaimed with a chuckle.  “He done claimed me as his girl, you know?”   

“Are you?” 

“Should I be?” she quipped back. 

Her quick comeback caused me to rock back and forth in the recliner with laughter.   

“Answer the question, negro,” Roma said. “Should I be your brother’s girl, or should I be… yours?” 

I got up and joined her in the kitchen, standing at the head of the island directly across from her.  My hands were inserted into my sweatpants pockets.  I desperately wanted to give her a straight answer, but in that moment, I was at a loss for words.  I wondered how a relationship with her would work with Damian and I being taken into her parents’ home for respite, all to prevent us from coming into foster care.   

“What would your parents say?” I asked.  “Seeing us holding hands, kissing even?” 

“They wouldn’t know,” she replied, walking along the left side of the island to draw near to me.  “It would be our little secret.” 

She now stood in front of me, her interlocked hands resting on the island countertop.  I peered longingly into her brown eyes, getting lost in them as she stared back at me.   

I took a momentary glimpse at her pouty lips as my right hand reached over to cover her interlocked ones.  I then leaned in and pecked her on those same pouty lips.  When I drew back slightly, the expression on her caramel-colored face told me that she wanted a little more than what I was giving.   

That’s when she took matters into her own hands.  She grabbed the back of my neck with her right hand and pulled my mouth to hers.  When her tongue parted my lips and started swirling around in my mouth, I didn’t know what to do at first.  But then I followed her lead.  The swirling motion of my tongue started to match the swirling motion of hers.  But right as our French kissing intensified, the door leading to the garage swung open.  

I turned to my right, Roma to her left.   

There stood Damian in the open doorway – with Charley looming large behind him, his mouth agape – with an angry scowl on his dark face.    

###

“My parents would have a fit if they had seen you locking lips with Roma,” Charley exclaimed moment later as we stood on the back patio.  “And you saw your brother’s reaction.  He up in his room, probably ballin’ his eyes out.  This ain’t gonna age well, dude.” 

I couldn’t shake the truthfulness of Charley’s words, but I also couldn’t shake my attraction to Roma, especially after discovering that these feelings were mutual.  But my heart ached for Damian.  While Roma considered his attraction to her as puppy love, 11-year-old Damian had real emotions for her.  Hell, Roma represented everything that was going well in his little world, his head really. 

“So, you’re saying I should back off, just ignore how I feel about her, how she feels about me.  Is that it?” 

“Yeah, man.  At least until Mr. Malcolm finds a new placement for your brother, you.  My parents find out, they gonna be sleeping with one eye open, the other eye closed.  Shit, now that I know, I’m gonna be doing that my own damn self.” 

“Why?  This has nothing to do with you.” 

Charley squared his shoulders with mine and proceeded to emphasize his statements with finger jabs at my face.  “Look, little nigga’, this has everything to do with me.  That’s why it has to stop now, ‘cause if I find out you knocking boots with my sister, I’m gonna break you in half.” 

Charley glared at me under a furrowed brow.  That’s how I knew he was serious.  I met his glare, then sheepishly looked away. 

He was right.  Our placement in his parents’ loving home was more important than my personal desires, which is another way of specifically saying my raging hormones.  But I also knew Charley didn’t want me being the reason Roma did not fulfill her fullest potential.  Like I said before, Roma was an over-achiever.  Even as a high schooler, she knew where she was going and what she wanted to do.  I didn’t have a clue. 

With that, Charley left me standing alone with my arms crossed on the back patio.  I sank into the corner of the back patio railing, the wooden plank pressing into my lower back and buttocks.  I faced the house, so when I looked up at Roma’s third floor bedroom window, I immediately spotted her looking down at me.  She pursed her lips to blow me a kiss.  I dared not blow one back, out of fear Charley would see me doing it.  Therefore, I shook my head somewhat vigorously and turned my back to her.  This girl, two grade levels ahead of me, was in hot pursuit of love, and I was that day’s designated prey.    

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Copyright 2024 Jeffery A. Faulkerson. All rights reserved.

The Thug Whisperer (Excerpt)

Snip20150806_8“That’s my seat,” the Black, teenage thug loudly exclaims as he, and three of his boys, all Black, step off the platform and into the subway car. “Get up.” I watch as his large hands become fists and he steps closer, invading the suited, White man’s personal space. “Now.”

The stern expression on the suited, White man’s face lets me know he’s not accustomed to backing down from a fight. But this fight is one he knows he can’t win. The tightening of his grip around the briefcase in his lap lets me know he’s protecting something of value, a laptop computer perhaps. He has probably ridden the Metro numerous times, from Downtown Los Angeles to the M.L.K. Transit Center/Compton Station, but this is the first time he has been accosted by the local thugs.

I almost feel sorry for the man. Like me, all he wants to do is get home without incident after spending eight hours or more at the office. I have him pegged as a show runner with one of the local studios, but the pocket-protected pens and markers in the front, left pocket of his button-down shirt gives me second thoughts.

He undoubtedly is an accountant at one of the local banks.

But how can I feel sorry for him? My skin is as dark as the pesky thug’s. By virtue of being born Black, I’m supposed to side with him, right?

Stick it to the White man, take what they are unwilling to relinquish on their own, right?

The Black, teenage thug grabs the man by his collar, effortlessly lifts him from the seat. Members of his entourage snicker in the background, patiently waiting on the punch line to some sick joke. Hanging from the Black, teenage thug’s bent arm now, the suited, White man nervously looks up at him, seeking permission with his eyes to be excused.

The Black, teenage thug releases him. The suited, White man immediately turns on his heels to seek refuge in the adjoining car. The Black, teenage thug claims the now-empty seat, high-fiving a lighter-skinned member of his entourage.

An angry scowl on the face of the old, White man seated just to the right of me doesn’t go unnoticed. He is dressed in all black, with a preacher’s collar, and the little hair that remains on his head is combed over to cover a bald spot.

“You need to stop eyeballing me, old man,” the Black, teenage thug says, his unbelted, denim jeans now six inches below his waistline. He stands briefly to pull his pants up over his boxers, then sits. His gaze falls on me.

Pointing, he says, “Hey, y’all, look at Wheels over there.” Eyes above smiling faces now shift to me.

“Bet not get him mad, Ty,” a member of his entourage interjects. “He’ll run you over.”

“Why do you people act the way you do?” Preacher Man gruffly says, his arms crossed.

The Black, teenage thug now known as Ty doesn’t hear him, but a member of his entourage does. “What’s that you say, old man?” the member asks. Everyone’s attention shifts to Preacher Man as the thug who heard him stands, readying himself for a fistfight.

Preacher Man continues, “We give you space, yet you still feel the need to mock and terrorize us. Why? For laughs? I think not. You don’t care. About yourselves, the legacy of your people.”

Ty leaps from his seat while reaching for the revolver in his right jacket pocket. He stands in front of Preacher Man, his revolver pressed firmly against Preacher Man’s temple. Preacher Man’s arms are at his sides now, and his eyes are shut. Must be making amends with God, for he probably fears the end is near.

“He’s right, you know?”

Ty turns to me, revolver still pressed firmly against Preacher Man’s temple.

“You don’t care. About yourselves, the legacy of our people.”

Copyright 2015. Jeffery A. Faulkerson. All rights reserved.

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