Angela Sherice

EROTIC~INTROSPECTIVE~REFLECTIVE~                                                                          SELF-EFFICACIOUS~METAPHYSICAL LITERATURE.                                                                                                  Ingest.  Feel Empowered.   Be Enlightened.    Get Inspired.


ffffffffffffffff                          Ingest.            Feel Empowedddddred.          Be Enlightened.            Get Inspired.



*THIS BOOK IS STRICTLY FOR THE SEASONED, MATURE, ADULT READER-contains language, sexual situations & subject matter absolutely not appropriate for underage readers or conservative tastes*


"Angie Situation" (INNOCENCE)  excerpt 5

-Graphic Novels
-Fiction Biographical 

"Santana was feeling the remnants of the rollercoaster ride that I was going through with my mom on one nerve and Ms. You Know Who on the other nerve. 

Things were getting very stressful for me with Ms. You Know Who because just like at home with my mom-we began to fight about any and everything. 

She was so upset with me and knew that this Santana thing was bigger than she could have ever imagined-just like my mom couldn’t. 
Just like my mom, she was straddled with her role as my teacher versus her slowly diminishing role as my Momtor and bridge between the gap of me being in and making love versus me making something of myself in life. 

She continued to grade and critique me fairly, but I had pushed her so far away from me because of Santana, she absolutely, positively refused to care anymore-she even refused to stare anymore. 
It was strictly business of the “I can’t wait until this is over,” kind, with her. 

The huffs and puffs and sighs in her voice, I can still hear them: the exhaustion, the annoyance-her frowned brows-I could feel her thoughts. 

She did not want to hear my voice. 
If it wasn’t for the fact that I was mere child and subordinate to her that she really cared for at one time; the sound of my voice would have sickened her. 
She did not want to see my face-she was hurt-very. 
A Momtor, she was no more. 
There were no more once a month weekends, movies, house visiting, beauty counters makeovers and long drives discussing my plans for my near future. 

The bridge between the gap of me being in love and making something of myself in life was broken. She meant business: instantaneously. 
She treated me like everything we had was a fable. 
My being serious about Santana definitely was not a part of the design and she proved to me that where she was concerned; my life would definitely be lived by default-all by my choosing… 

The day that I wore a pair of three-inch burgundy cowboy boots into her class-ones my dad had bought me (that I refused to wear for many months since our fight), she frowned upon them and scolded me like she cared again. 
I had a glimmer of hope that we were on our way to fighting like we used to and all would be well again. Instead, this fight was more of an annoyance and those inch burgundy cowboy boots seemed to remind her that I was just trying to be grown-trying to impress my light bulb head boyfriend rather keeping up with the formula of the dainty sweet little girl that she was grooming for success as a woman. 

She was so annoyed. 
I loved her to death and during this time we were going through issues far bigger than the heel of my boots. 

Throughout the months of my dating Santana, we fought about boys and babies and how both would ruin my life and all my dreams would go down the drain. 
Considering the fact that Santana had her class the last part of the day, I could only imagine how she was treating him-but interestingly, I never asked him though. 
Just like I hid the mommy storm and secret from him and instead, allowed him to wear the dunce cap when he came to meet her. 
I allowed him to wear that same dunce cap in front of Ms. You Know Who as well. 
He was less mature than I was and I knew that he could not do anything with either pieces of information but whine and cry about it in his letters to me and face to face and I had already been overwhelmed with enough emotion from Mom and Momtor. 

Although Santana was a year and a half older than me, Momtor felt that he was way too young and immature for me and warned me that in time, I would see. 
All she wanted was for me to graduate high school and concentrate my efforts on college and a career by her design, but I could not resist my turn with the light-bulb head boy who chose me to stay with and be his official and steady girlfriend over all the girls-many school years. 
I was happy, I felt normal and what we had felt “right.”
We were much too tight and serious at this time-it wasn’t an option for discussion-it concretely was what it was and each day that passed, I started to accept the fact that she absolutely positively refused to contend with or even work around that and what she had in mind was best for me. 

Eventually, my study halls would then be substituted by my being hugged up in some corner kissing and making out with Santana. My lunches would be spent in its entirety, eating, walking, talking and or kissing in some corner with Santana. 

Every now and then I would drop by to see if Momtor would be in her classroom, sometimes she would, be most times she would not. 

The times she would be there, she would let me hear the radio playing on the other side of the door where she on one side was having lunch and I was on the other side-knocking a few times, then walking away feeling sad until I’d see Santana. 

The times when she would not be there, I would expect a note on the door explaining her departure and projected return times, but that never happened; just wishful thinking on my part. 
She gave up on me so quick and swift that if I didn’t know any better, I would have sworn ours was a mirage or dream of some sort. 
She closed down shop with me as if it never was open, so, I let go-I found total closeness with Santana-we almost covered every corner in the whole schoolhouse by that time. 

As my teacher (during class lesson demonstrations) she would practically set me up. 
She would purposely forget to bring an item to the demonstration circle so that I could volunteer mine-my desk was always closest to the circle. 

One day she needed scissors. 
I hurriedly reached over to get mine. 
I handed them to over to her like an orphan begging for porridge and acceptance while she sucked her bottom lip and smirked at me as if to say: “Got’cha!”and underneath her breath (but loud enough so that the class could hear) she said to me: “these aren’t the best scissors in the world,” and slid them back to me, then took the extra effort to go to her desk and get her own. 

I was so upset with her-she had her payback coming, I tell you. 
I was steaming mad. 

It’s on. 

My turn: 

One morning, she was strutting up the steps on the way to her classroom when some wild boys come running through the hall and bumped into her, causing her to drop her bag and a sanitary napkin came flying out. 
Everyone, including me, pointed and laughed. 
She looked around at the immature kids as she reached to pick it up. 
When she looked up, our eyes met-she gave me the look of death-squinting those eyes at me in total disbelief. 
I froze like a popsicle and turned away from her gaze, but I felt a sense relief and vengeance; feeling vindicated for the abandonment I was feeling about her cutting my lifeline to her.

I wasn’t done with her. 
I was still steaming mad inside. 

When the next opportunity arose, I was going to be sure to take it. I needed some attention from her so badly-but she turned completely cold. I never felt so completely ignored in all my life. She kept my heart pumping Kool-aid. It’s still on though.

My long-awaited opportunity of vengeance finally back came around. 

My turn, again: 

I found a press on nail that happened to have matched her nail polish that she had on. 
Everyone dared me to walk up and give it to her. 
So two minutes before the bell rang for class to let out, (when it got quiet), I walked to the front of the room, nail in hand, and handed it to her-everybody laughed. 
She just looked at me with no expression whatsoever, still ignoring me, still no care in the world about me. 
Her face didn’t move and inch-as if all that I did had no effect on her. 
I knew better though, I knew that it took everything inside of her body to keep from snatching me by the collar, but she couldn’t because the entire immature class watched while I smiled at her as if to say: “Got’cha back (Bitch)!”

My timing was perfect after handing her that fingernail. 
When the two minutes hit and the bell rang, I blended in with my fellow immature classmates, hoping that she would form a beacon at the tip of her nose and lift me by the skin of my neck. 
Part of me wished that she would call a truce and accept Santana and talk to me rather than show contempt for and ignore me. 
No beacon grabbed me on the back of my neck and no hand was extended, but instead, she let me out of her classroom door on a straight and narrow path of no resistance and that was the last time we had anything personal or resembling care, concern, contempt or scorn, ever again. 
All was lost-any love or interest in or for me: gone-as if it were: never. 

I knew she was hurt. 
Only about five percent of our issues had to do with the sanitary napkin, the boots, the fingernail and my disrespect. 
We had other issues that hadn’t been ironed out and quite frankly, not only up for discussion on just my part-but hers either. 
With just a short time before the school year was coming to an end, for five days per week and two hours per day, she was merely my teacher-nothing else. 

Outside of that, pretty much the only thing we had in common at this point was the fact that my birthday was the same date as her wedding anniversary. 

If it was left up to her-I’m sure she would have probably thrown that away too, if she could. I heard that after the school year-she would be moving on to another school to become principal at some other school. 
I do know for a fact that she never said goodbye to me and neither did I. 

Some time later however, I felt like all that time we had been friends, she had been playing a cruel joke on me because I sat in my living room flipping through the pages of Essence Magazine to a picture of Ms. You Know Who with: you’ll never guess who. 

Turns out, Ms. You Know Who was a sorority sister of and did business of some sort with my idol who I loved to watch every Saturday. 

Tears filled my eyes as I focused in and brought the magazine closer to my face. 

“Got’cha back bitch!”

I imagined Ms. You Know Who saying back at me. 

There, on the glossy picture was Dr. Huxtable’s wife on the right, Ms. You Know Who in the middle and to the left-there she was: Dr. Huxtable’s real-life sister who in my mind, at that very moment, pointed her cane [at me this time] like she’d do every Saturday from the television screen; screaming her notorious line: 




Angela Sherice on the "Angie Situation" 3-book saga/series

excerpt 1

excerpt 2

excerpt 3

excerpt 4

excerpt 5

Other books by Angela Sherice