Page 12 of Body Language
And then—
CLAP. CLAP. CLAP.
A thick, light-skinned woman with a pixie cut, full lips, and a voice you could feel in your chest walked in like she ran thewhole damn place. She wore all white, with gold bangles stacked on both wrists and a clipboard tucked under her arm.
“Alright ladies,” she said, “I’m Miss Arlette. I’m the CEO and Creative Director here at GivGold, and I’ve divided y’all up into groups of ten.”
She smiled wide, her eyes scanning the room with confidence. “We’re gonna go group by group. One at a time or two in a row—it’s up to y’all how you wanna move.”
I looked at Ty. Ty looked at me.
I whispered, “She done fucked up now.”
Ty grinned. “She doesn’t even know.”
“Together?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
Ty nodded. “Always.”
“Who wants to go first?” Miss Arlette asked, flipping her clipboard and sitting down.
Every girl in the room damn near threw their hand in the air. Probably just trying to get it over with before their kneecaps started shaking from nerves. I get it. That’s normal.
Me and Ty sat back because see.. when you know you got it, you don’t rush to prove it.
You let everyone else go first, and then you erase their memory.
Girl after girl hit the stage. There was twerking. Hair flips. A lot of heavy breathing. One girl even did a cartwheel that ended in a split.
We clapped, cheered, and smiled just enough not to be haters.
Arlette looked up from her clipboard and called out, “Last two—let’s go.”
Me and Ty stood at the same time, slow and in sync like it was rehearsed. It wasn’t. That’s just how we moved. We stepped onto the stage, black on black, slick ponies bouncing, and paused in front of her.
She tilted her head. “Names?”
Ty gave me a side-eye smirk before stepping forward and saying out loud, “My name is MissBehavior.”
Without missing a beat, I leaned in and said, “And I’m MissCommunication.”
She raised an eyebrow, blinked once and said, “You know what… I don’t even need to know why. Just show me.”
She turned to the DJ and threw her hand up, signaling to start the music. The DJ cracked his knuckles and pressed play like he knew what was about to happen.
“Ghetto Girls” by DaBaby dropped.
Same beat asProject Bitchby Cash Money. When that beat plays, you already know it’s not a performance. It’s a warning.
Me and Ty looked at each other and smiled. We were raised in Sunrise Court, but nobody calls it that. It’s Gun Hill to the world, and the name speaks for itself.
We didn’t come from money. We came from cracked sidewalks, power outages, and arguments that echoed through paper-thin walls.
Everything about us was made from struggle, but our stage presence? That came from God. Natural. Raw. Country-fed and chaos-raised.
No surgery. No shortcuts. Just ass, aura, and an attitude.
As soon as the beat hit, I gripped the pole with both hands and swung my body around it like I was born spinning.
