"Come on!" she yelled as she skipped up to the door. "You'll love this place. My friend said they got the bomb recovery!"

Okay. But what's a bunch of white folks doing in Southeast? I asked myself as I hopped out of the car and scurried to catch up with Karen.

As we entered the building, the room was full of people and the meeting was already in progress. We had to weave in and out of closely packed rows of people, all the while whispering, "Excuse me, excuse me," as we ducked in front of people, knocked some on the head, or stepped on their feet trying to find two empty seats. Once we finally found seats, I was able to get a good look around the room. I saw nothing but a sea of black faces. Tons of black people: fat, skinny, short, tall, dark-skinned, light-skinned, old, young. Everywhere I looked, there was nothing but black folks.

Aw, shit! I exclaimed to myself. This is just my fuckin' luck!

"Girl," I leaned over and whispered to Karen, "these people are all BLACK!"

Karen glanced around the room.

"I know!" she exclaimed. "Isn't it great!" She was smiling like a kid in a fucking candy store.

"Hell, no!" I angrily whispered back. The last thing I needed in my life was black folks.

"I'm outta here," I snapped. I had to go. Black folks were my problem, and because of some crazy white girl I was suddenly surrounded by them.

I stood up and began to weave my way in between the rows to make my way back to the door. As I struggled through the crowd to get out, a tall, slender light-skinned woman was making her way to the microphone. The microphone sat on top of a podium that was placed in the center of the room on an elevated stage. Apparently, anyone who wanted to speak had to do so from the podium. She reached the mic as I was just about six feet away from the door. I heard her say, "My name is Venita and I'm a sober alcoholic and drug addict." That was no big surprise. I'd been to enough meetings to know that that was the normal introduction. In unison, the entire room yelled back, "Hi, Venita."

I kept moving.

As I reached for the doorknob, I heard her say, "And I used to feel ugly."

I stopped in my tracks. I turned around to look at her-my hand still on the doorknob. She was beautiful. She was everything I'd ever wanted to be. She had a nice slender build. But, most important, she was light-skinned with long hair, the ideal woman in my eyes.

What the fuck?

I was so taken aback by Venita that I began to sit down right where I was, not knowing, or caring, that there was nothing beneath me. However, a young black man had been standing next to me and watching me. He must have seen the astonishment on my face and somehow noticed that I was too flabbergasted to care about the fact that I was bending down to sit with nothing to sit on. As my body headed downward, he deftly slid a chair beneath me, saving my tailbone from ramming into the floor.

I sat there in bewilderment. And I listened. I hung on to every word she said because I understood every word she said. I felt every word she said. She described a lifetime of feeling ugly and that, all of her life, she wanted to be dark-skinned. She wanted to be dark!

I'll be a mothafucka! All of my life I wanted to be her, and she wanted to be me? I'll be a mothafucka!

She talked about wanting to be a part of something, wanting to be desired, to be "special," craving to be loved. She talked about experiencing the kind of loneliness so immense it could swallow you up. She called it "loneliness that crowds couldn't cure." I felt like she was reading my mind. Even though the things she spoke of were painful, she spoke eloquently and with such confidence. Like she knew what she was talking about. Like she'd actually experienced these things; they weren't just something she'd read about in a book or learned about in "group."

I didn't move. The whole time she was up there, I couldn't move. After about five minutes, she was through and I didn't take my eyes off her, even when she walked back to her seat. I was in awe. I had never met anyone who could relay my feelings back to me like that. And she was light-skinned with long hair-I just couldn't get over that. I'd always put those kind of girls in a different, idealistic category. And now, here was one who could have been my emotional twin.

I stayed for the rest of the meeting, though I couldn't tell you what anybody else said. I spent the rest of the meeting staring at Venita and hearing her words cycling over and over again in my head. Wondering who she was and how she knew the things she did. Wondering if someone like her would talk to someone like me.

In the meetings I'd been to already, the group had strongly suggested that I get a sponsor. It was explained that a sponsor was someone who'd been clean and sober longer than me, someone who had a working knowledge of the 12 steps, someone I could relate to and trust. At first, I looked for a male sponsor, figuring I'd get along better with a man. But when one of the white women heard me asking Sick Fucker to be my sponsor she quickly pulled me aside and informed me that women worked with women and men worked with men, meaning I had to get a woman for a sponsor. I knew I was fucked, because I hated women and really didn't want to be bothered with them-especially black women-until now. There was something about Venita, though I couldn't quite put my finger on it. All I knew was that she, with her words, had touched me like no man or woman-drunk or sober-ever had. If I were to get a sponsor, it would have to be Venita.

As soon as the meeting was over, several women swarmed around her. I didn't blame them. I wanted to get close to her too. I just didn't know how. It was then I realized that I was afraid. Without the false courage of alcohol or drugs to break the ice, I didn't know how to befriend people, didn't know what to say.

As I stood there contemplating my next move, Karen interrupted my thoughts. She informed me that we had to go. With off-site meeting passes, we were allotted so much time to get to and from the hospital. If we didn't leave right away, we'd get back late-the punishment of which would be losing our pass privileges for a few days.

"Then let's go!" I yelled as I grabbed her arm and began dragging her toward the car. I didn't want to be late because I didn't want to lose my next pass. I couldn't lose it-I intended to use it to come back to the Southeast Alano Club and see Venita. I didn't know why, but I just had to see her again. I hoped that she would talk again. And I hoped that maybe I'd get the nerve to ask her to be my sponsor. And maybe, just maybe, she'd say yes.

The next day, I requested and was granted an off-site meeting pass. Karen had gotten one too, but she was into "meeting hopping" and wanted to try another Alano Club she'd heard about. I told her to go on. I was going to the Southeast Alano Club. I really didn't have a choice. It was almost like I was compelled to go; so I gladly made the two-hour bus ride from the hospital to the club.

All the way there, I was hoping Venita would be there.

Please let her be there, I begged. Please.

I really didn't know whom I was talking to. I figured it might be God. I hadn't talked to Him much since being in the hospital. Actually, I hadn't talked to Him at all since that day I saw my reflection in the plate-glass window and I'd asked for help. I still hadn't learned how to pray, let alone how to pray "right," and I still didn't know any religious rules, songs, verses, or sayings. So I wasn't really sure if I was talking to Him. And even if I was, I wasn't sure if He was listening. I began pondering the situation in my mind.

Maybe the first time someone talked to God without "rules" was a "freebie." Maybe after that, you were expected to know and follow the "rules."

Nevertheless, I wanted to give it a try. I figured I'd just ask Him and see if He'd respond-like before.

"Please let her be there," I said quietly. I waited, expecting to hear something from the Voice-some profound articulation of the magnificent miracle that was to come.

Nothing.

All the way there on the bus, I waited for the Voice to speak.

It never said a word. The only noise I heard was my own mind running crazy with questions.

How are you going to talk to her? What are you going to say? You don't even know if she's going to be there. You've been to several different meetings and heard many different women-some of which you could also relate to. What's so special about her?

I didn't know. But I had to see her again.

Am I gay? my mind continued. Could that be it? Was I hot for this chick? I'd been with women before, sure, but always as a part of a "business arrangement."

Naw, that's not it. But what IS it?

What the fuck is wrong with you? I screamed to myself. She's just a woman!

I didn't care. I had to see her again. Hear her again.

The dumb-ass bus driver missed my stop. I ran the two blocks back to the club. I threw open the door and looked around. Just as it was the first time, the room was full of blacks. I looked over the sea of blackness and saw faces of various shades, sizes, shapes, and ages, but I didn't see Venita. I scanned the room a second time. She was nowhere to be found.

"Do you want to sit down?" an older black woman asked, startling me.

All of a sudden, people started piling in through the door. The older lady grabbed my arm and quickly led me to a nearby chair to get me out of the way as we made room for the incoming crowd.

I miserably plopped down on the chair. I was let down and embittered. I began to fuss at myself, telling myself that I had been a fool.

You know better than to get your hopes up about anything.

I sat in the chair with my head down and began to cry. I was so disheartened. For the first time since going into the hospital, I felt . . . hopeless. I quickly wiped away the tears, not wanting anyone to think I was a punk or weak. I stared at the floor, wondering when would be the right moment to get up and leave. I wouldn't be coming back to the Southeast Alano Club. In fact, I wasn't going back to any meetings.

What's the use? I told myself. It will never work for you.

I continued staring at the floor. My sadness slowly began to turn to anger. I was pissed at myself for coming all that way for some black chick that probably wouldn't have given me the time of day anyway. And I was pissed at myself for trying to believe in a God after everything I'd been through. The tears began falling faster than I could wipe them away.

Just then, the person in charge of the meeting stood up and spoke into the microphone.

"Venita, would you like to share?"

Venita? My head shot straight up. Did he say "Venita"? No longer caring about who saw my tears, I began frantically searching the room for her. It took me a moment, but soon I spotted her long hair bouncing up and down as she climbed the stairs to the stage.

She's here! I shouted to myself in delight.

Had I somehow overlooked her when I first came in? I couldn't have. I'd searched that room carefully-face by face. The tears really began pouring down my face, but I really didn't care who saw them now, because they were no longer tears of sorrow. They were tears of joy. I don't know why I was so happy to see her. I just was.

She started speaking. First, she apologized for being late.

So I hadn't overlooked her! She wasn't here! She must have walked in when my head was down, when I was busy doubting God.

I shut my mind up, sat on the edge of my chair, and listened. Again, she touched me with her words. I knew that I wanted what she had. I didn't know how she got "it" or if I could get "it." But I had to try.

Once she finished speaking, she went and sat down. Again, I just stared at her. I spent the rest of the meeting talking to myself about how to approach her and what to say. When the meeting was over, she was again swarmed by a group of women. I wanted to go up to her so badly, but I didn't have the courage. All of a sudden, I wanted a drink. I knew that a drink would give me the courage to talk to her. A few drinks and I'd push all "dem bitches outta my way," hog her to myself, and kick anybody's ass who complained about it.

There was one problem with that plan: I wasn't supposed to drink. I hadn't had a drink or any nonprescribed drug in almost a month. Shoot, the hospital had even taken me off sleeping pills and sedatives my second week there.

But how else was I going to be able to talk to her?

I decided that I would try one more time the next day. If I failed to do it then, I'd get the courage from my old friend, gin.

- The next day, I repeated the pattern. I got an off-site pass and made the two-hour bus trek to the Alano Club. On the way there, I again had a short, quiet talk in my mind with someone I hoped was God. First I apologized for doubting Him the day before. Then I simply asked Him to let Venita be there. I thought about it for a few moments and then quietly added the request that, if she was there, He give me the courage to say something-anything-to her. If God heard me, He didn't respond. There were no soft replies of encouragement. No gentle voice telling me not to be afraid. Nothing. Complete silence.

When I entered the club, the meeting had already started. A young black man was at the podium. I had no idea what he was saying, nor did I care. I scanned the room. My eyes immediately locked on to Venita. She was sitting in the middle of the room. As I walked past, she looked up and smiled at me. Damn, she was pretty. I sheepishly smiled back and quickly found a seat behind her. I was angry at myself for being late.

What if she's already talked? I asked myself, terrified at the thought. I hoped she hadn't. And if she hadn't, I hoped she would speak.

"God, I hope she talks today," I whispered.

"Did you say something, honey," an older black woman who was sitting next to me asked. I recognized her as the same woman who'd grabbed me out of the way the day before. I later learned her name was Chaney.

"Uh-uhhh," I stammered, "n-no. I was just talking to myself."

She smiled and returned her attention to the man at the podium.

I was hoping he would shut up. The longer he talked, the more time he took from Venita-if she talked.

God, if you can hear me, PLEASE let her talk, I pleaded again, though this time, I made sure to say it to myself. I looked at Chaney to be sure I hadn't spoken aloud. She didn't look my way.

Three more people were called on to speak. I sat there, my patience spent and feeling about ready to jump out of my seat. Although I related to the things they said, it just wasn't the same as when Venita spoke. Finally, the speaker called on her. She seemed to glide to the podium. She walked with such assurance and confidence, I knew there was no way she could have ever done the things I'd done. She couldn't have used drugs or drank the way I had.

Still, she again touched me with her words. She talked about selling furniture, microwaves, and televisions for dope. She talked about living in the dark because she'd spent the light and gas money on dope. She talked about eating Top Ramen for days on end because they were twelve for a dollar. It was like she'd been following me with a hidden camera for the previous fourteen years.

At the end of the meeting, I whispered another little prayer-or something-and approached her. There were no women around her this time. In fact, no one was surrounding her, which is a good thing because if there had been, I probably wouldn't have had the nerve.

I slowly walked toward her, all the while practicing in my mind what I was going to say.

Do I say my name first? Introduce myself, or just come straight out and ask her to be my sponsor? What if she doesn't sponsor dark girls? What if she doesn't sponsor ugly girls? I couldn't shut up my mind. But my feet kept moving.

She stood there, almost as if she were waiting for me. Finally, we were face-to-face. I looked at her, but was unable to speak. I was scared to death. Luckily, she spoke first.

"Hi!"

I meant to say "hi" back, but I was so nervous all that came out was a mumbled "huh." I stared at the ground.

"You're new here, aren't you?" she asked.

"Uhhh, yeah."

Damn, girl. Pull yourself together. Act cool. You been cool all your life. You know how to be "cool," don't ya?

Without a drink or drug, I didn't.

"My name's Venita. What's yours?"

"Cup-Cup-" I stuttered as I continued staring at the ground.

Come on, girl. You know your name! Sure I knew it, but I was so nervous, I couldn't say it!

"Your name is 'Cup'?" she asked.

"Cupcake!" I yelled. I didn't care that I'd said it so loud. I was just glad to get it out. If the sudden elevation in my voice startled her, she didn't show it.

"Cupcake? Is that your birth name?" She was bending down trying to look up into my face, which was still aimed down at the ground.

"Yeah," I replied.

"That's cute."

I still couldn't look up.

"How much time do you have?" she asked.

"Time? What do you mean 'time'?" I'd heard that term before in meetings but I was usually biting my nails, daydreaming, or doing something else with my mind. Now, I'd wished I'd paid attention so I'd have known what she was talking about.

"How long have you been sober? When did you last drink or use?"

I hadn't really thought about it. Although I'd heard other people count the number of days they'd been sober, I never really believed I would stay sober, so I felt like keeping count would be a waste of time. But, since she was asking, I wanted to give her an answer. I took a moment to count back the days since I'd entered the hospital.

"I think about twenty days," I proudly replied.

She smiled approvingly.

"Will you be my sponsor?" I blurted out. I had to get the question out before I scared myself into not asking. I sheepishly looked up at her and held my breath waiting for her response, which I was sure would be no.

"You don't have a sponsor?"

I shook my head.

"Well, I'm serious about recovery and I only work with people who are just as serious. Are you serious about staying clean?"