My mother was so beautiful. I had always hoped that when I grew up I would look just like her. I remember going to her bedroom all the time as she sat at her bureau putting on her makeup. Her skin was the most radiant, rich, mahogany brown. It was so moist and luminous that, from a distance, it looked like dark satin.

"Mommy, can I touch you?" I used to ask.

"Sure baby." She would always say, as her full lips parted into a brilliant smile. She would always extend a freshly moistened arm so that I could feel her. Sure enough her skin was like touching cotton candy.

I loved the way she used to do her hair. Sometimes she would wear it in braids; like I have now, and other times she would wear it down and naturally curly.

"When I grow up I want to look just like you, mommy."

"Baby, you are going to be way better looking than me. As handsome as your daddy is you are going to be a stunner!" She would say.

People tell me that I look like her all the time. Although I am taller, and lighter skinned (I take after my dad in that regard. I have his caramel complexion, and height. I'm 5'9 now) than she was I do have her eyes, smile, and bone structure. My Aunt Dee-Dee says that I look so much like her it's haunting. My dad used to say the same thing, before he died.

Even though I saw her die Daddy took it the hardest. He never came to grips with her demise.

My dad-Dr. Lawrence Bell-had only known my mother for seven years, but he loved her more than life itself.

When he came home from work that day the house was swarming with police. He forced his way in, and when he saw my mother's body he crumpled to the floor like someone had just broken his legs with a tire iron.

Daddy was so handsome. He was very tall, broad shouldered, athletic, bronze complexioned, and had a boyishly handsome face. He had beautiful eyes too; they were the color of green grapes (Mine are the same, and people always ask if I'm wearing contacts. I am. I wear them as a tribute to him.). Now add to that he was a world famous neurosurgeon, and you could see why women would line up to have a chance with him. My mom landed him, hook, line, and sinker.

When my mom died, though, he became a phantom. The only way that I can describe him is to compare him to a zombie. His lively green eyes grew dim, he started losing weight, and even his healthy copper tone skin seemed to lose its natural luster. Daddy started burning the candle at both ends at the hospital. He pulled super long shifts just so he could avoid coming home. Whenever we spent 'quality' time together he seemed like he was lost in The Twilight Zone. Sometimes, he would look at me and start crying. He never said why but I knew. I look a lot like my mother.

I started acting out in school. I was always fighting other kids. If anyone even looked at me the wrong way he or she got sucker punched. My daddy was always at some school meeting. The counselors suggested that I get professional help. The psychiatrists all said the same thing,

"Oh she is just angry about her mother's death." Well no shit Sherlock Holmes, even I could have diagnosed that. I still can't believe how much money daddy spent on therapists. Most of them were just a waste of time.

There was one though-Dr. Langston-who actually had the audacity to ask me what I liked to do (figuring that would help me). At the time I was not really interested in anything, except fighting. So I told him, "I like Karate."

I don't know if it was a subconscious thing or what, but those three words changed my life. Dr. Langston spoke with my father, and the next day he enrolled me in a martial arts class.

I was five years old when I began training. I can't quite explain it, but I knew on a visceral level that this is what I wanted, even at such a young age. The day I saw my mother lying on that floor I knew that I never wanted to be a victim.

"Why didn't my mother fight the bitch harder? Why didn't she kill her?"

I often thought, just not in those words. I always imagined myself going into that kitchen and stabbing Beatrix to death, myself. Most little girls wanted to play with dolls and kiss the boys, but I had murder on my mind. I wanted to kill Beatrix. Whenever I sparred with my partners I would picture her in their place; and more often than not I would win the match.

I lived, breathed, slept, and immersed myself in martial arts. I was not interested in anything else. My daddy supported me to the fullest. He paid good money to have me trained-exclusively-by different senseis every two years. By the time I was ten years old I had been schooled in: Karate, Aikido, Ninjitsu, and Kendo, The way of the sword (My favorite). I had won three tournaments, and I was even mentioned in several martial arts magazines. Outside of school martial arts was my life. I swore that I would make myself into the greatest warrior woman that ever lived, all for the moment I'd meet Beatrix again.

My daddy did not fare as well as me. He could not get over my mother's death. One morning I found him lying on his bed, fully dressed, with a note sitting on his nightstand. The bottles of sleeping pills lie beside the bed, on the floor. My father committed suicide when I was ten years old. Actually, he died the day my mother did. Only, no one ever buried him.

Now, both of my parents were gone, and I was all alone. A lot of kids blame their parents for committing suicide, but I didn't. I knew exactly who was at fault. Had my mother never been killed my father would not have taken his life. I grew even angrier at that blonde bitch. I started training harder than I ever had.

I went to live with my aunt Dee-Dee (My dad's sister) in Harlem, New York. She was my last living relative. I never knew any of my mother's family. Going from the wealth and opulence of Pasadena California, to the wonderful urban setting of West 131st street was mind blowing for me. I was so used to seeing beach bunnies and aspiring actors. Now I lived in a predominately African American/Caribbean cultural Mecca. The sights, sounds, and smells were so unique and beautiful. I did not appreciate it at first, but now I love Harlem. My roots were there. How deeply rooted I was to Harlem I was about to find out.

I continued training. Nothing changed that. My father-and mother-left me 2.5 million dollars in their wills. My dad told me that my mother had made some good stock investments, which explained her money, and with his career as a surgeon they had made good. I used my money to hire the best martial arts instructors that I could afford. My auntie got her cut of the money so that she could take care of me.

Aunt Dee-Dee was disabled after a really bad car accident. She was paralyzed from the waist down. However, she was the feistiest independent woman that I knew. She and I got along well. Aunt Dee-Dee was my dad's older sister, and she looked out for her own. She never had children she always said I was like a daughter to her. After my mother died she was the only positive female role model in my life. I thank god for her.

I decided to diversify my martial arts repertoire. I wanted to learn as much as I possibly could about the warrior arts. If I ever came across Beatrix I was going to kill her, or die trying. I had made up my mind. I had it all down to a science how I would do it too. It was just a matter of preparing myself, which I did.

I enrolled in Tae Kwon Do at a local dojo, in my neighborhood, owned by Armstrong Jackson, my next sensei. Master Jackson was an 8th degree black belt-a grand master-and he knew his shit! He was really tall, dark complexioned, and had a small afro. Master Jackson looked like he stepped right out of a 1970's blaxploitation flick, I kid you not. He was a slim guy with a very athletic physique. I was twelve years old when I met Master Jackson, and I had the biggest crush on him. I think he was the first guy that I ever had a crush on. Too bad he was thirty at the time.

The art of Tae Kwon Do was so much different from The Japanese styles I had mastered. Tae Kwon Do was all about Offense. "Fists and Feet" I liked to call it. Of the styles it was my favorite, because I liked kicking ass. I got a little ahead of myself during one session when I broke one kid's-Kenny Lloyd's-ribs. He ended up getting hospitalized, and I got chastised by Master Jackson. He realized that I enjoyed fighting a little too much.

"Calm down, Baby Girl..." He always called me 'Baby Girl', since I was his only female student, "Remember, it is about form and technique, not just fighting." My teachers always said that to me, but Master Jackson was the first one that drove the point home. I guess it was because I thought he was cute. I did take his advice, and I focused less on beating people up and more on my technique. I did not realize it at the time, but it made me a better fighter. I trained with Master Jackson for five years, and earned a 3rd degree black belt (I stayed with him longer than any sensei I had ever trained with). In that time I attended nine tournaments, and won eight of them (I lost one only because I got too rough with my opponent). I was-and still am-the most popular teenaged female martial artist right now. Part of me hoped that Beatrix was keeping tabs. Stay on your toes bitch, because I am coming for you.

One day, after practice, I took the subway home. I rode my usual route to

131st Street. As I traveled I noticed some guy eyeballing me. I was used to guys staring at me. Not to sound conceited, but I am a good looking girl. I'm 20 years old now, and at the time I was 18 and in full blossom.

Guys are going to stare at an attractive young woman; they are just hard wired that way. What I hated was when old guys ogled me. This particular guy had some miles on him. Don't get me wrong, he was not some decrepit old geezer. He was a tall, well built, heavily muscled, older, dark skinned, black man. He was in very good shape, and the only way that I could tell his age was his short snow white hair, that had a slightly receding hairline. He was very well dressed. His suit was tan, casual, and he wore a white silk, butterfly collar, shirt. He left three buttons up to reveal his dark muscular chest. Infact, he looked pretty damn good for an old guy.

I did not look back at him. I just stared straight ahead.

When the subway stopped I got off. However, my admirer got off with me. I braced myself. If he even tried anything I was going to whip his ass up and down the street. I kept on walking.

"Vernita? Vernita Green? Is that you girl?" A deep voice called from behind me. It startled me. I knew it was him; apparently, he had me mistaken for someone else. I kept on walking, hoping he would get a clue and stop talking to me. He called out again. This time, I turned around and took

notice.

"What do you want?" I asked, irritated.

"Vernita is that you? Girl, are you a sight for sore eyes!" he said, as he started to walk towards me.

I stood still. 'Probably some sugar daddy trying to push up on a young girl, pervert.' I thought.

He approached me in a non abrasive manner. I eased up.

"I think you have the wrong person, Mister." I replied.

He paused, and then he walked a little closer. He cocked his head and stared at me for a moment, "Oh damn, I'm sorry young lady. You look like a woman I used to know, a long time ago." He said chuckling, "I'm sorry if I scared you. But, damn if you don't look like her."

He started to walk off, but something inside told me to stop him. I wanted to know who I had been mistaken for.

"Hey, I'm sorry for being rude. My name is Nikki, Nikki Bell." I said, as I offered my hand. Normally, I gave guys I wasn't interested in fake names. However, something told me that this guy had a good bullshit detector. Not to mention that my house was right up the street.

He took my hand into his own. His hand was like a baseball mitt. I didn't know how huge he was until he was right up on me. He had a very strong grip for an old guy, and his hand felt like sandpaper, "My name is Willy Hudson; people around here call me Cutlass." He said, "Sorry if I scared you. You look like a younger version of my old runnin buddy. I shoulda known she wouldn't be this young, or have those pretty green eyes."

I smiled. He was a smooth talker that was for sure. Flattery will get you in my good graces, but, it won't get you in my pants. I thought.

Cutlass never took his eyes off me, and I never averted my gaze. He wasn't sizing me up like guys always do. You know how men are when they're examining a woman to check out the goods? Yeah, that look. It was not that way at all. He seemed to be 'studying' me. Cutlass was genuinely interested in finding out who I was.

"It was an honest mistake. They say everyone has a doppleganger out there, somewhere." I replied with a half smile.

He laughed, "Maybe, but I swear you resemble an old friend of mine."

There was a moment of awkward silence, "Well, I need to go. My auntie is probably worrying about me. I'll see you around." I said, before I started to ascend the subway staircase. By then Cutlass and I were back to being strangers. But, as fate would have it, my wallet fell out of my gym bag.

"Shit." I cursed. My gym bag was heavy enough. Now I had to turn back around and pick up my wallet.

"I'll get that for you baby girl." said Cutlass. When he called me 'baby girl' my mind immediately recalled my mother's face. That was her pet name for me. I paid no attention to it. Everyone called me Baby Girl because I looked so young.

Cutlass, being a gentleman, bent down and picked it up for me. Some of the contents had fallen out, in particular a photograph of my mother, father, and myself. Cutlass picked up the wallet, and picture. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped open like an unhinged door. He looked like he had seen a mermaid, "Is this your mother?" He asked, as he looked up at me and back at the picture.

"Yes, that's her..." I replied, with great trepidation.

"You have gotta be kiddin me... Ole Vernita went and settled down." He chuckled. He looked back up at me and smiled, "I knew it. Talk about a small world."

I started getting a little perturbed, "Look, I think you have the wrong person. My mother never went to New York." I stated adamantly. However, it was not without hesitance. There was so much that I didn't know about her.

"Oh yes she did. She used to live here, way before your time, youngster. I didn't think she'd ever settle for the simple life though." Cutlass stared at the picture. He was looking at it like he had found the holy grail or something.

However, I was getting pissed. I snatched the picture out of his hands and pocketed it, "You are mistaken. My mother died fourteen years ago." I said.

"Oh shit, I'm sorry about that, Honey. How did it happen?" He asked, with genuine concern.

"That's none of your business. And don't call me Honey. You don't know me like that." I began to walk off. Part of me hoped that he would stop me. He gently grabbed me by the elbow. I was glad when he did.

"Alright, fair enough. Look, I'm not yankin your chain. Your mother and I go way back. Mean Vernita Green used to run these streets..."

"What are you talking about?" I cut him off. What does he mean, 'run these streets?' I thought, "My mother was a house wife. She coached little league and attended PTA meetings. What do you mean she "Ran the streets?" Look, I'm sure you mean well, but you have us confused."

Cutlass gave me a puzzled glance, and then he smiled, as if he knew the punch line to a secret joke he hadn't told.

"Damn, she didn't tell you anything, did she?" he said, "Then again, you were too young to know the gory details."

I thought about what he said, for a moment. My mother would never lie to me. Maybe there were things that she wanted to say but never had the chance to. I was only four years old when she died. Maybe there were aspects of her life that she was protecting me from. I looked down and then back at Cutlass. Gory details? I thought. What in the hell was that supposed to mean. I didn't know, but I wanted-needed-to find out.

"Look-" my voice cracked, as I struggled to fight back tears. I pushed my braids off my shoulder and fumbled with my gym bag. Whenever I talked about her I became emotional, " I really have to get going. Maybe we-"

"Nikki!" A voice called out from behind me. I turned around. It was my aunt Dee-Dee, sitting at the subway station exit. If looks could kill Cutlass would have been dead the way she glared at him. She looked angry.

"Cutlass-"

"Nikkia Bell. I am only going to call you one more time!" She demanded.

"Hey, how about you and I meet at the Mama's Soul Food shack tomorrow, 4 o'clock sharp, on 125th street. We can talk then." He said. There seemed to be some unspoken communication between him and my aunt. He could feel her overprotective vibe just as well as I. Cutlass descended into the subway tunnels and caught the next train out.

I stood there for a moment as I took in everything that had just occurred. I took out my family portrait and stared at my mother for a moment.

Vernita Green? Who were you? Why did she kill you? Is that why you never went with daddy-to Harlem-during family trips? Is that why you always left the room whenever daddy and his friends started reminescing about old times? I thought. Or what if she was trying to get away from him?

My mind started to run in every single direction.

"Your mother had it comin." That quote rang out like a bell. There was a lot that I didn't know. Maybe Cutlass could help me put the puzzle together. If I could find out "who" my mother was, then maybe I could find Beatrix. But, part of me was scared as hell. I was scared of finding out who she really was, if this man was even telling the truth.

"Nikkia! If I have to call you one more time-"

"I'm coming Aunt Dee-Dee!"