All About Me

Enjoy building basic skills with Home Workbooks! Filled with age-appropriate activities, puzzles, and games, this teacher-approved book is perfect for extra practice at home or school and during travel or school breaks. Children will love the 140 full-color stickers included in each book! An incentive chart is also provided to help parents or teachers track the progress of young learners.

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I knew who I was. Chere Adams, big, beautiful, black and damn proud of it. So what was I doing at a step aerobics class at this hour when I should be in bed? As I huffed, puffed and stared out of the big picture windows wondering when this torture would end, outside the Florida sun began to rise. In my head I pictured pork chops, scrambled eggs and grits washed down by a gallon of sweet tea. I should be wolfing down breakfast not sweating off a meal I hadn't had. "Pick it up, ladies. Work it!" The instructor's voice through that amplified microphone was already hurting my head. And the rap music at this hour of the morning threatened to blow an eardrum. "One, two, three, four, five, pump those arms. Work it! Sashay to the right and pick up the pace, ladies. One...two..." "That woman wants to seriously hurt me," I muttered to the lumbering, huffing woman next to me. "If I hear work it one more time I'm going to do something to that mic." "Yeah, but it might well kill us to look like her," my companion in crime said between pants. We misfits were huddled in the back of the room, bouncing up and down and pretty much falling all over ourselves. Why I allowed myself to be talked into this class, and at such a crazy hour, was all because of Quen Abrahams, my personal trainer. I was already thinking if this was the warm-up I'd be dead by the time they started stepping. Forty-five minutes of climbing up and down steps just wasn't going to agree with Chere Adams. I exhaled on a loud whistling breath, and tried to keep up with the dry-looking women in the front of the room making it look effortless. Here I was, five foot six, and 225 pounds of sweating, quivering flesh trying to hold my own with women half my size. In my red sweats I looked like a raging bull, snorting and lumbering along. "I might just have a heart attack," I wheezed. "Tell me you don't feel like your chest is on fire." "I have a stitch in my side," my companion whined. I had to keep reminding myself that my incentive was the eighty pounds of flesh I planned on getting rid of, and the man whose attention I wanted to get. Losing that weight would bring me down to a respectable 145 pounds. Then look out world, here comes Chere Adams. I wanted to look just like the yellow-skinned woman in the black leotard or the brunette upfront with the fake boobs. Well not exactly like the brunette in the sports bra with her rubber hard stomach and sparkly belly button ring. She had a nonexistent butt and I liked mine, there was a helluva lot more to hold on to. But she'd gotten the attention of the muscle men in the outer room which is something I couldn't do. Actually there was only one muscle man whose attention I wanted. Quen Abrahams. A group of awed males had their noses pressed to the Plexiglass divider and were actually drooling. I wanted to tie a bib around their necks to stop the spit, and not the kind you got at Red Lobster, either. Food was all I could think about. What was it about the woman's nonexistent jiggle that turned them on? Must be the big boobs, it just had to be the boobs. Mine were even bigger--40 size triple D and not full of saline either. My booty I'd been lugging around since I was twelve, and damn proudly, too. It got men's attention usually. But I had this spare tire and a couple of double chins I wanted to get rid of. That was the real reason I was here. I was sick and tired of hearing how beautiful I could be if I would only lose weight. "It takes work, sugar!" Quentin Abrahams, my personal trainer, constantly reminded me. "Work and watching every calorie that goes into your mouth." Easy for him to say. The man didn't know what it was like to be fat. He was built like a brick house. All muscle and sinew. And hotter than any man should be. He set me on fire. "Okay, folks, now that our warm-up is over, time to get some real work done," the small, dark-