Growing up wasn’t the easiest thing to do... especially with the family I was stuck with. And going to high school? That was its own kind of challenge.

All my friends were heading to Jefferson, Benson, or Grant. Me? I was going to McCoy Academy, an alternative school for “bad kids.” Now I know what you’re probably thinking: What happened over the summer?

Well… nothing happened.

I just decided to go to the same school my brother Anwar went to. Not for any deep reason... McCoy’s school day was from 12 to 3, and I was lazy. I figured, if he could get his high school diploma in three years instead of four, I could do it too. Easy math.

That was also the summer I met Katie, my soon-to-be ride-or-die best friend in the world.

I actually liked going to McCoy. The classes were small, I was making friends, and for the most part, I was getting to have the teenage experience I’d always wanted. Katie introduced me to a bunch of girls, and after school we’d hang out, talk mess, eat snacks, and do what teen girls do.

My mom was strict about me being out too much, so I had to get creative with how I made time for everything. But at school? There was plenty of space for boys.

There was this one boy… Chris. A transfer.

I had the biggest crush on him. Like, heart-thumping, fantasy-building, “practice in the mirror” type crush. I used to go home after school and rehearse what I might say if he ever decided to acknowledge my existence, like, maybe on a random Tuesday.

One day, I was in the school’s kitchen; which, by the way, McCoy was literally just a big old house with two floors and a basement. That’s where we ate.

I was having a snack I’d grabbed from the corner store that morning when Chris walked in.

He went straight to the fridge, opened it, grabbed nothing, and sat down.. right in front of me.

I was frozen. I mean, this was the moment I’d been planning for weeks.

He looked at me and asked, “What are you doing in here?”

Mouth full, I took a bite of my pie and mumbled, “Eating.”

“Can I have some?” he asked.

Without thinking, I pushed the snack bag toward him. He rummaged through it and pulled out the other pie.

I was in total shock. I mean... this was Chris. CHRIS. Sitting with me. Eating my snacks. Talking to me.

Then he said, “Did you do the packet in Charles’s class?”

I shook my head. “No.” I couldn’t even make eye contact.

“Me neither,” he said. “I was about to see if I could copy yours.”

I looked up slowly, studying his face... handsome, clean hairline, fresh fade, nice clothes, and that laugh. That nervous, awkward laugh while he munched on my pie.

And then… disaster.

I noticed the back of the pie, the entire back, was molded. Like, straight-up green and fuzzy.

He was almost done eating it.

My stomach flipped. My face turned red. I panicked.

“CHRIS!” I yelled. “Don’t eat that! It’s molded!”

He paused mid-bite, turned the pie slowly, and stared at the back of it. “Oh my God… are you trying to poison me?!”

He got up and tossed it in the trash while I dropped my face into both hands, wishing I could disappear.

But then…

Chris burst out laughing. I mean real laughing... holding the counter like he needed support.

“I don’t go to that store no more,” he said, still giggling, as he sat back down.

Relief washed over me. Mixed with deep, soul-crushing embarrassment.

We talked a little more until the “bell” rang. Well... we didn’t have a real bell. We had an intercom in each room.

“STHUDENTHS, it ith now time for your fifth period clath,” Robert, the old security guard with a lisp, called out.

I mimicked him under my breath. “STHUDENTHS, it ith time for your fifth period clath,” I teased, making Chris laugh again.

We walked out together, separated for class, and that was it.

That was how I met Chris.

Teen Supreme & Dream Seeds

High school felt too easy.

We were handed a schedule and a stack of packets, told, “Do the work, get the credit.” That was it. And honestly? I rarely did the work myself. I usually took my packets home and passed them off to AnWaR. And the truth is... he did them. No questions asked.

AnWaR was really smart, way more than folks gave him credit for. His behavior and his environment might’ve screamed “trouble,” but underneath it all, he was sharp. A thinker. A survivor. He was my big brother, but somehow, even at sixteen, he’d become the head of the household.

He lived upstairs with his 18-year-old girlfriend, T.V., who barely ever came out of the room. Our house? It was basically the hangout spot for every Crip in the area. I couldn’t tell you the names of their sets or hoods, there were too many to count. All I knew was: blue flags, loud music, and a steady rotation of bodies moving through. Every day.

And yet… in the middle of all that chaos, I was blooming.

After meeting Chris, I had this new confidence in myself. Even though I wasn’t allowed to date yet, I walked a little taller. I had a little more pep in my step. I mean, no one could stop me from fantasizing about our future wedding, the white picket fence, and a big goofy dog in the yard. That imagination? That was all mine. And I lived there often... rent-free.

Katie and I stayed close throughout my time at McCoy. We rolled deep with the girls, especially Cassie; who had my exact personality, just turned up to 100. She was loud, hilarious, and completely unfiltered. I loved being around them. It was the first time I felt truly accepted, like I had a place to belong.

We did so many things together, things I will neither confirm nor deny, but let’s just say, a time was had.

The summer after freshman year, we all landed jobs at the Blazers Boys & Girls Club. We were “student staff,” which meant we worked our butts off and got paid a whopping $50 when the summer ended. Yep, $50. Total.

I had big plans for that money. So I begged my mom to let me do it. Eventually, she gave in, but not without a disclaimer.

“You gonna use that money to buy your own school clothes next year…”

With fifty bucks?

I agreed anyway. Whatever it took to get that yes.

Working at the club was a blast. The kids made me feel important, like I mattered. It was also where I started pushing myself to sing in front of people more.

And baby, let me tell you… that club was a whole portal to a new world.

It’s where I met all the ‘90s Trail Blazers: Brian Grant, Rasheed Wallace, Damon Stoudamire, Jermaine O’Neal… yeah, I was in the mix. We handed out backpacks, helped plan events, ran activities... I got to witness the real behind-the-scenes work that built a community.

And I was finding myself in the middle of it.

I started performing in local talent shows. I even got a few gigs around the city. I began doing background vocals for local artists, learning the ropes of studio life, the hours, the layering, the vibe.

I also built a bond with Linda, the director of the Boys & Girls Club. She saw something in me. Believed in me. She helped me audition to sing the national anthem at a few Blazers games... and I did it. Twice.

That summer, Linda also handpicked me to appear in a commercial called “Taco Bell Teen Supreme,” recognizing me as an upstanding teen in the community.

Y’all. I was beaming.

That commercial aired and I started getting noticed. I was proud. Not just because I was being seen, but because it felt like the start of my dream coming to life.

That little girl who used to sing into a hairbrush in her bedroom?

She was stepping onto stages.

She was recording in real studios.

She was becoming somebody.

MVPs & Pagers

Living in Portland in the ’90s? Man, it was a vibe.

Me and my girls had the city on foot; loud, proud, and slightly allergic to adult supervision.

There were six of us, thick as thieves, and we called ourselves the MVPs... Most Valuable Players, Most Vocal Princesses, Might Very Possibly be kicked out again… whatever you wanted to call it, just know we moved like a squad.

We were everywhere:

MLK Boulevard was our unofficial runway.

We’d hit up every Black-owned business up and down that strip, starting at the barbershop (not for a fade, but for attention), sliding over to the pager store, grabbing snacks from Quik Mart, and ending up at Lloyd Center, back when it was actually poppin’ and not a ghost town in mall drag.

We’d catch the TriMet like we had a monthly pass, even though half of us didn’t. Getting kicked out of places was basically part of our weekend itinerary. Loud laughter, matching attitudes, hoop earrings, and lip gloss poppin’. It was teenage girl magic in motion.

One of my favorite spots was the pager store. And if you from Portland, you know which one I’m talking about.

It was where you got your Motorola two-way, your Baby Phat phone charm, your new CD, and the gossip, all in one place.

And the man behind that operation?

Shane.

The owner.

The myth.

The very fine too grown for me but I’m still gonna blush legend.

He was tall, light-skinned with that ’90s smoothness, always fresh with a gold chain and just enough stubble to prove he was a man. Not a boy. A man.

I had a crush, yes. But I would’ve never told my girls.

Rumor had it? He liked his girls young... and not high school hallway young, but barely legal young.

Even back then, I knew I wasn’t cut out for that kind of mess.

I still giggled when boys said “hi” too slow. I wasn’t anywhere near grown enough to entertain a Shane.

But he was fun. He’d let us chill in the shop sometimes, post up by the glass counter pretending to be unbothered while we watched grown folks come through; rappers from the Bay, local DJs, dudes with names like Tone Mac and Lil Gritty.

It was a scene. And we soaked it up. Until, of course, we got too loud, too many, and too silly.

“Y’all gotta go,” Shane would say, trying not to laugh.

We’d roll our eyes, strut out like celebrities getting kicked out the VIP section, and promise we’d be back next weekend.

Because we always came back.

Portland in the ‘90s raised us different.

We weren’t rich, but we had rich memories.

And in our minds, we were the stars of the city.

Grant Entrance, Stage Left

And just like that…

Tenth grade exited stage right, no curtain call.

Smooth sailing through the year, no major drama, no plot twists.

McCoy had served its purpose. Small classes, low pressure, Chris and Cassie still holding it down… but the stage lights in my life were starting to dim there.

I missed the chaos of a crowded hallway, the lunchtime buzz, and most of all, my girls.

Everyone had left already. The crew had scattered like loose glitter, shining in other corners of the city.

So I made the call: Grant High, here I come.

Did I wait to be officially accepted before I started telling folks?

Absolutely not.

I was already a student in spirit, manifesting my hallway strolls and lunch table convos before they were even real.

And right before my first official day as a Grant General, I had my Good Day Oregon interview, yes, that one.

The “singing the National Anthem at the Blazers game” recap.

It was early, but I was hyped.

Lip gloss shining, curls poppin’, and my vocals? On point.

I felt like a local celeb.

I mean, who else do you know that starts a new school and makes their entrance on TV that same morning?

God really had me feelin’ like the Portland Beyoncé for a second.

By the time I walked into Grant later that day, I could feel the stares.

Not the what’s she wearing? kind, but the yo, is that the girl from TV? kind.

My inner diva? Smiling. My anxiety? Silently screaming.

I found Katie and the girls first, gave a few hugs, tossed a few hair flips, then strutted straight to the office.

Time to make it official.

The administrator helping me looked up mid-form filling and said,

“Hey… didn’t I see you on TV this morning?”

And just like that, it was real.

I had arrived.

I laughed and tried to be cool, but inside I was screaming:

“Oh my gosh, I am famous now.”

The Night Butterflies Don’t Fly

McCoy had done its big one, had me walking outta 10th grade like a valedictorian with barely a backpack.

22 out of 24 credits, baby. I was practically a graduate just chillin’ in junior year.

By the time I hit Grant High, I was living the academic soft life: choir, art, drama, whatever gave me a reason to sing or socialize.

And chile, I was known.

The girl with that voice; anthem queen, TV darling, future star.

Grant was a movie.

Every hallway had its own subplot, every lunch period its own soundtrack.

Me and the girls were outside heavy. Catch us on the lawn, lip gloss poppin’, laughing loud, watching the boys like it was a full-time job.

And of all the boys… Chris had me wide open.

Sweet, cool, and somehow still the same boy from McCoy that had me dreaming about picket fences and puppies.

So when he asked me about prom?

I nearly flatlined.

I was just a junior. I hadn’t even considered going.

But when he said, “You should get tickets... we could go together,”

I didn’t hear anything after “together.”

I was in full rom-com mode: slow-motion dress twirls, Usher playing in the background, the works.

There was only one problem:

Money.

And I knew my mama couldn’t swing it, not the dress, not the hair, not the extras.

So I called the only other person I trusted to make magic happen: Sandra.

And just like a fairy godmother in a ‘90s Black film, she came through.

Took me dress shopping, and baby, when I tell you I found the dress; a white stunner with butterflies like heaven had laid it across a field and said, “this one’s for her.”

Sandra booked my hair and makeup, too.

Toya across the street laid me flawlessly. I felt like the moment.

The dress was laid out on the bed.

My brothers, AnWaR and them, were on the porch with half the Crip nation.

And right on cue, Chris pulled up.

My mom was cheesin’... that proud mama look you never forget.

Chris stepped out, corsage in hand, looking nervous as hell. Can’t blame him, facing a porch full of potential bodyguards is no easy feat.

He put the corsage on my wrist.

Butterflies. Not just on the dress now, real ones, in my stomach, wings fluttering in full force.

And we were off.

Prom night. My moment.

But the fairytale unraveled fast.

At the venue, I stuck close, thinking this is what dates do; stick together, dance, make memories.

Chris had other plans.

He sat with his boys like I was some random girl who wandered in off the street.

When I tried to join them, he told me to keep myself busy until picture time.

So I sat.

In my dream dress.

With butterflies that had stopped flapping.

Alone.

The whole prom.

He came over once... to snap the prom photo.

Click. Flash. Fake smile.

And then: “I’m gonna take you home real quick, we’re all going out to dinner after.”

Okay. Maybe he’s gonna redeem himself.

Maybe it’s a surprise.

We pulled up to my house. I didn’t want to take the dress off, she was everything I dreamed.

So I waited.

Still in the living room.

Makeup flawless.

Hair still curled.

Heart still holding on.

I waited until the sun came up.

And he never came back.

No dinner.

No “I’m sorry.”

Just me and that butterfly dress…

…realizing that sometimes dreams don’t fly... they fall.

Butterflies and Bombshells

I slept in that dress.

No, really; curled up on the living room couch, makeup smudged, curls flattened, the butterflies on my dress crumpled and confused just like me.

I was too scared to keep calling his parents’ house... what was I even gonna say?

“Hi, I’m the girl he abandoned after prom. Is he home, or… nah?”

I sat there in silence, heartbreak humming like a sad little song in the background.

Eventually I drifted off, still hoping maybe he’d pull up, say something sweet, make it right.

Instead, the sun pulled up before he ever did.

My mom found me like that... tangled in tulle and regret.

“Baby, what happened?”

I didn’t have good words, just the half-truth of, He never came back.

Right then, the phone rang.

I sprinted upstairs, heart thudding like maybe he’d come to his senses.

It was Chris.

But he didn’t sound like Chris.

His voice had gone stiff, too formal for the boy who used to whisper dreams into the phone.

He told me he couldn’t see me anymore.

His parents said no girlfriends... he needed to focus on school.

And that was it.

Just like that.

I blinked into the receiver like maybe I’d heard it wrong.

What do you mean you can’t have a girlfriend? Since when do we follow our parents’ rules to the letter? We’re teenagers, not monks.

But before I could say any of that... 

click.

He hung up.

My hand was still on the receiver when there was a knock at the door.

I wiped my face quick, thinking maybe he was outside.

But it wasn’t him.

It was Cassie.

And ooh, she was heated.

She didn’t even wait for the screen door to close before she lit into me.

“So you thought y’all were together?”

She waved her hands like she was throwing invisible punches at the air.

She wanted me to walk with her, and I followed... half-confused, half-hopeful we could clear it up.

But then she dropped the bomb:

She had been seeing Chris.

All this time.

Her.

Not me.

My heart damn near stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

And the way she came at me, you’d think I planned this betrayal on purpose.

But I had no idea.

Not a clue.

I was floating on the fantasy while she was living the reality.

I tried to explain, to tell her I’d never, ever cross her like that if I knew.

But she wasn’t hearing it.

Told me to never speak to him again.

Then walked off like she was done with me, too.

I stood there, the prom queen of heartbreak,

Watching my best friend fade into the distance

and wondering when exactly my dream turned into a whole damn soap opera.

Fresh Air in Beaverton

Later that summer, our house turned into a boiling pot of tension.

Not from the heat, but from the street.

Gang beefs were bubbling over, fists flying, shots ringing out like warning bells in the night.

Every corner of our block whispered danger, and even though I’d grown up in it, this felt different.

It felt like we were sitting on a ticking bomb.

My mom didn’t wait for the final bang, she packed us up and said we were heading to Beaverton.

Now, if you know Portland, you know Beaverton ain’t just a change of scenery, it’s a whole different planet.

Cleaner streets, quieter nights, and neighbors that waved with all five fingers.

And me?

I was grateful.

Beyond grateful.

I didn’t care about starting over, I wanted to.

I was tired of running into ghosts in the hallway and heartbreaks at the corner store.

Chris, Cassie, the porch full of gangbangers, the memories of prom and pain... it all stayed behind in N.E.. 

I was 17, torn up and taped back together.

Still wearing invisible scars from a love I never really had.

But now I had space.

I had air.

Senior year was a blank page, and for the first time in a long time,

I had the pen