an overly anxious girl named Cinnamon shouted in my ear. “Wake up! Wake up, girl!” I jumped from my bed thinkin’ there was a fire or somethin’. Luckily, I’d met Cinnamon the night before, ’cause when I woke up in a panic from her shakin’ me half to death, she woulda got punched if I hadn’t recognized her face. It was normal for me to have violent flashbacks from my prison days. I tried to change up my ways, tried to be the sweet, calm, and understandin’ Chantel my mother barely raised, but it was hard. I still kept a part of that prison life with me; the part where I had to fight bitches on a regular to defend myself. The part where I had to get raunchy and talk nasty just to get my fuckin’ point across. Then there was the trust factor. There were no girls who could be trusted in prison, none that I confided in back at home, and there were none who could be trusted in Betty’s brothel either. “What’s up? What’s the emergency?” I asked. “Girllllllll, it’s ten o’clock,”
