Page 5 of Body Language (Mind, Body, & Soul #2)

Niveah

I pulled up slow, windows down, lashes longer than my patience, music bumpin’ just enough to let them know THE problem had arrived.

GivGold looked like a baby daddy with good credit opened a club.

Black and gold everything. Velvet ropes. The smell of hookah, Black Ice air freshener, and broken dreams swirling in the air.

Ty was already outside, leaned on her car, eating Flamin’ Hots with a pickle stuck in the bag. Red dust on her fingers, bonnet tied around her purse strap.

When she saw me, she laughed and said,

“Bitch, finally! You tryna dance or you waiting on Jesus to do your makeup?”

“First of all, you're lucky I came. I was three seconds from putting on my robe and watching reruns of Girlfriends. ”

She looked me up and down and nodded. “Okay…you look good. Waist sittin’. Lace tight. I see you gave them thighs a lil coconut oil baptism.”

I posed. “Soft but slippery, baby.”

We turned toward the line of girls outside the club. All types: long wigs, no wigs, barely-there outfits, fishnets fighting for their lives. One girl was doing squats in stilettos, another was hyping herself up in the mirror of a compact.

Ty sucked her teeth. “Why shorty got on her cousin’s prom dress?”

“Why that one look like she just clocked outta Popeyes and kept the shoes on?”

“She did! That’s grease in them socks. I know that smell.”

Another girl walked by smelling like straight Bath & Body Works.

I whispered, “She got on A Thousand Wishes and desperation.”

We passed a group of girls side-eyeing us heavily. One of them had a BBL so fresh, her walk had a loading screen.

Ty leaned over and whispered, “Why does her ass look like it’s still buffering?”

I choked. “Bitch, I don’t feel like fighting today.”

A girl in line rolled her eyes at us and mumbled, “They not even all that.”

Ty turned around like a principal catching a student texting. “And YOU are not even in the club yet. Talk to me after your name on the flyer, boo.”

I hit a lil spin. “God don’t like haters with cheap heels.”

We finally made it to the front. Ty looked up at the GivGold sign and said,

“Okay, it’s givin’ money. It’s givin’ somewhere you meet a rich uncle who got a pacemaker and a pension.”

I nodded. “It’s giving maybe this was a good idea.”

She turned to me seriously. “You ready?”

I adjusted my hoops. “I was born ready.”

“Let’s go in here and make ‘em forget every bitch they ever loved.”

The room smelled like fresh perfume, baby oil, and competition.

After we finished dressing, girls were already inside a room, heels high and bodies glistening.

Me and Ty walked in like a damn announcement. We wore matching all-black fits. Mine was a velvet two-piece with cutouts on the hips and just enough shimmer to catch light when I moved. Ty had on a black mesh one-piece with silver piping and a deep V-cut.

Different styles, but same energy on purpose. When two dark-skinned women walk in with intention and symmetry, men go stupid and women go silent. We both had our hair slicked back into matching ponytails, not a single strand flying.

No frizz, no flyaways. Just finesse. That was our signature for years.

Twin energy.

Not because we were trying to be the same, but because that’s how you shake a room without touching a damn thing.

One woman with confidence is a statement. Two? That’s a damn conspiracy.

We stood against the back wall, quietly watching the other girls talk and stretch. You could smell nerves in the room. One girl kept pacing. Another was bent over, adjusting her fishnets like it was gonna fix her choreography.

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 the whole 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 as Project Bitch by 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.

Ty dropped low in front of me and started doing what only she can do: Twerking. In Waves. Ripples. Shakes that made gravity question itself.

That cornbread-and-collard-green fed booty of hers was talking and had the room silent. Not a word. Just the sound of bass and disbelief. MeganTheStallion could never. Jell-O should sue.

That ass didn’t bounce, it floated. Like it had rhythm insurance.

I swung myself up the pole with one leg hooked, spinning sideways before I hit a split so clean, you’d think I was Elastigirl off The Incredibles.

Upside down, heels in the air, I made them stilettos clap like I was cheering for all my naysayers.

And at the same exact time, Ty was on the ground making her ass clap. That natural percussion God gave her syncing perfectly with my heels.

Same sound. Same time. Same power.

We didn’t even have to look at each other because we already knew.

She hit the floor and flipped her hair back as she bounced and couchie-popped like her rent was due and the water bill was waiting.

She climbed the pole with all thighs and legs gripping like it was personal.

She hit a full upside-down split. And as she did, I dropped too.

Split to split. Symmetrical sin. We landed couchie-to-couchie, still clapping, still locked in.

The other girls stopped breathing. Arlette’s pen dropped. The DJ damn near screamed.

When we move together, it's more than entertainment. We’re proof that survival has choreography.

She bounced. I popped. She swirled. I flipped. And when that final bass dropped, I landed and flipped into a handstand, and started walking on my hands in a circle around Ty, heels clapping like gunshots.

Ty arched into a full bridge on the floor—legs wide, head tilted back, tongue out and started throwing ass.

CLAP. CLAP. CLAP. CLAP.

My heels. Her cheeks. Perfect. Fucking. Sync.

The sound hit the walls like thunder and temptation had a baby. When the beat gave us that final drop, we jumped up at the same time, backs to the crowd, and hit our final pose.

One hand on our hip, the other to the ceiling like we were collecting tips straight from heaven.

Unbothered. Untouchable. And we didn’t say a word because when you end a performance like that, the silence is the applause.

Arlette was still sitting with her mouth open like she’d just seen Jesus do the cha-cha in red bottoms.

She blinked and adjusted her bangles. Then slowly stood up, fanning herself with the clipboard like the Holy Ghost had crept into her spirit.

“I—”

She paused. Looked around. Then looked back at us.

“I don’t need to see another DAMN thing.”

The whole room turned. Arlette turned to the girl holding a second clipboard off to the side and snapped,

“Go ahead and tell the girls in Rooms B and C to head out. They can go home, rehearse, and try again next time.”

Gasps. The girls in the room snapped their necks like they’d just heard their man say he don’t like weave.

“Wait, WHAT?”

“I know tf not.”

“Hell naw. This some bullshit—”

She raised a finger like she was pressing pause on the mess.

“Instead of talkin’ all that shit, maybe practice more and y’all will make the cut next time,” she said coolly. “Matter of fact, you should be paying MissBehavior and MissCommunication for lessons.”

The room erupted with under-the-breath mumbles and side-eyes. That’s when Ty leaned forward with a big smile and no filter.

“Hit up PoleItUp Fitness ! Lanette will get you right, baby.”

I snorted on the low. One girl stomped out, heels loud and raggedy. Another muttered, “Ain’t even all that…”

Arlette didn’t flinch. She just waved the rest of them off like background noise and walked straight toward us with a smile that said business was booming.

“I’m hosting a private poker event here tonight,” she said, stopping just in front of us. Her eyes were sharp, smile unbothered. “I want to keep it sexy but classy. Champagne. Big wallets. Celebs. A few regulars with money and too much ego.”

Then she turned to me and said,

“MissCommunication, I want you in the private room. The VIP. That flexibility of yours is something crazy. Baby, you stretch and spin on that pole like you were born on a turntable. You belong in that private room. The minute you hang upside down, they gon’ hand over their whole 401K.”

Then she turned to Ty and grinned.

“And MissBehavior, I need you headlining. Dead center. That ass moves like water. I ain’t never seen no natural body float like that.. You could clear the stage and empty pockets with a two-step.”

Ty bowed like a princess at a petty pageant. “You already know.”

Arlette leaned back and added,

“And after everything… I want y’all to close out the night together. Side by side. The final set. The finale of the century. The soft opening people talk about for years.”

She took a step towards us, hands on her hips.

“So. What y’all say?”

Me and Ty looked at each other, smirking like the setup was already ours. At the same time, we said,

“Sounds like a motherfuckin’ plan.”