A Street Girl Named Desire: A Novel (7 page)

She soon found herself living with the Corleys, a family straight out of a bad fairy tale. The environment Hattie Mae could have given Desire, despite her age, seemed foreign in the surroundings that Desire came to hate. There was Mother Corley, a bitter, wicked woman in her forties. She was always angry because of a lack of money. Money was the only reason she had taken in Desire. The cash stipends and food stamps allotted to her monthly added to income she desperately needed just to get by. She had twin daughters, Layla and Kayla, spoiled rotten fifteen-year-olds who despised Desire from day one for moving into their apartment and taking away one of their bedrooms. Desire was just one of many kids on rotation through their apartment. At first, the foster kids had been new playmates and potential siblings. But they always left almost as quickly as they had come, only to be replaced by new faces taking over the extra bedroom. The twins couldn't even remember all the names and faces. Desire was just another name and face that Mother Corley made clear was simply an extra resource to keep money coming in, certainly nobody that would be invited to make a real home there. When Desire moved in, Kayla and Layla treated her as if she weren't even there, because they knew one day soon she wouldn't be.

Mother Corley let Desire know from the jump that she wasn't shit and not to expect shit from her. If she wasn't there to eat when food was placed on the table, then she went without a meal. If she wasn't in the house by 11 p.m., she wouldn't be let in. The last thing that she made clear was that if she ever caught Desire stealing or putting her black hands on one of the twins, she would beat her ass.

Despite all the rigorous demands and constant nitpicking, Desire was happy; at least there she knew who the enemies were and where they stood. Desire wasn't afraid of them, by any means. She allowed them to talk all the shit that they wanted and let them have their way. She didn't want to go back to the state-run facility, where she would be monitored all the time, just like being in jail.

In the evening, Desire came and went as she pleased, though she mostly stayed in. The only thing that Desire cared about was the cassette tape that she still held on to, the one with her mother's voice on it. She had never known her mother that well to begin with. She had been literally torn from her minutes after birth, and the separation had only gotten wider over time. When Nika had disappeared for the last time, Desire was too young to have committed her face to memory. The only connection she had to her mother were moments of hearing her voice streaming from a cassette recorder. She treasured these moments in the privacy of her room. Desire played the tape every single night just as she went to bed, and guarded it with her life. One of the reasons Desire stayed in at night was because she was tired from all of the mischief she got into by day. She rarely attended school and would occupy most of her day with the other truants and runaways
at the underground arcade room on 42nd Street. It was there that she spent most of her time, but one day, when she ventured beyond the arcade, she met a twelve-year-old Brooklyn runaway, Tiah, whom she would take under her wing.

Desire met Tiah one day when, prowling the Fulton Street Mall in Brooklyn with a couple of the other gang members, she laid eyes on an unattended shopping bag full of shoes. Even though the girls who were the possible owners stood nearby gossiping and laughing among themselves, it was an opportunity Desire couldn't pass by. She waited until all four of the girls in the pack had turned their backs, then she raced toward the bag like a jungle cat. She snatched it up in one move. She heard somebody shout, “Yo, that bitch running away with yo bag!” but she didn't look back to see who had said it. Adrenaline rushed through her body as she ran faster, certain that the pack of girls was behind her. Her own gang had been oblivious to the fact that she had even made a move. She didn't know where they were and didn't have a second to think about it. The wind hit her in the face as she weaved in between the thick crowd of shoppers in the mall like they were parts of an obstacle course. She may have been able to save herself by dropping the shopping bag, but as she ran she thought of the amount of money she could get for what was inside. That amount would get her one step closer to escaping the Corley house and possibly getting her own place. The dream of that place kept her running.

Unknown to her, a girl had noticed someone running through the crowd as if her life depended on it. The same girl saw the pack of heavier girls who struggled to keep up. This girl was bored and lonely, happy to have something exciting to look at to take her
mind off the fact that she had to figure out somewhere to sleep that night. This girl wore clothes she had been recycling for days, and her hands tightly held the straps of the book bag on her back. It contained everything she owned in the world, which was not much. This girl had stepped away from the sidewalk and into the street to get a better look at the action. This girl had noticed the pack closing in on the runner, and had strained her neck to get an even better look. This girl didn't notice that the runner was headed her way. This girl was Tiah.

Desire slammed into Tiah, knocking both of them down. A couple of shoe boxes spilled from the bag, but Desire didn't let it go. She lay sprawled on the sidewalk, dazed and out of breath. Having fallen, she had disappeared into the crowd that went about shopping. The pack had slowed down, wondering in what direction the robber had gone. Tiah had not been running like crazy, so she was able to get herself together seconds before Desire, who was slowly coming to and trying to figure out her next move. Tiah saw the pack of girls stop and look around. She shoved Desire, who first looked at her like she was about to kill her. Desire spit a razor out of her mouth, ready to slash the girl's throat, certain that this was somebody who was ready to beat her to a pulp over a bag of shoes. But she had spit the razor too far, nearer to her enemy's hands than her own. As she scrambled to grab the razor off the street, Tiah flicked it away and grabbed Desire's hand. Desire was thrown off guard. The girl hadn't snatched up her weapon to use it against her. Her instincts told her to relax.

“Don't stand up,” the girl warned her. “They lookin for you. You gotta crawl.”

Tiah then started to slither through the crowd as people finally began to stop and notice. Desire blindly followed. The pack didn't notice the people pointing and laughing at two black girls, one dragging a shopping bag full of shoes that were one by one spilling onto the street, girls who scooted on their bellies on the dirty cement. Tiah led Desire behind a car whose owner had parked illegally with the hazards flashing. The pack was too busy going after the people who were picking up the fallen shoes like they had just struck gold to notice Tiah and Desire slip into a clothing store, where they waited together, for what seemed like hours, inside a locked fitting room.

Living with two sisters had created a need in Desire to have one. At the Corley's there was no one to talk to or interact with. She came through the door, took off her coat, went to her room and daydreamed. She would hear Layla and Kayla listening to the latest R&B songs, watching funny television shows and sharing all the gossip from school. She always wanted to join them, but knew she wasn't welcome. In Tiah, she saw the realization of the dream to have a partner, a sidekick, a die-hard companion who could play the same role as a twin sister. Like Desire, Tiah was in the streets running away from a home that made her miserable. In the streets, a mentor is often necessary to survive. She was young, fresh, green and at a loss as to how to survive in the jungle that had created her predicament. She needed Desire, and Desire needed her.

Forty-second Street, or the Deuce as some called it, was where Desire joined the brazen Midtown Pickpocket Exchange, a highly
organized band of thieves who robbed tourists. Within minutes after getting the cards or checkbooks, hijacked by a skillfully practiced hand, the victim's identity would be lifted and placed on a bogus state ID card. By the time the victims realized they'd been hoodwinked, each and every credit card that was missing would be maxed out to the limit. Though Desire was younger than the rest of the gang, they saw in her a determination to be down and a willingness to learn any hustle or grind to the smallest detail. When Desire was permitted to join the crew, Tiah naturally went with her. The two were like a package deal. What gave Desire the most pleasure was stealing, plain and simple. Whether straight boosting or prowling with the wolves, Desire was queen bee in this domain.

Contrary to popular belief, a booster was the type of thief who required some degree of technical savvy in addition to sharp instincts. He or she might have to pop or demagnetize security alarms, or ink tags, all the while playing the role that they belonged in the store. The boosters who rolled in packs used the wolf technique, initially begun by a group of grimey Brooklyn cats who made a name for themselves in the news and the streets with their guerilla-like tactics. They would roll sometimes fifty deep in a pack and bum-rush an entire store, ripping items from the shelves, emptying the store in a matter of seconds, like a swarm of locusts. Desire was down for almost anything, but since she was used to doing dirt by her lonesome, she became a natural solo booster. She did, however, teach Tiah the game, so her young protégé wouldn't have to starve on the streets.

“The stuff that's gonna be worth the most ain't gonna have the labels blastin loud and clear,” she told Tiah one day. They had
taken the train to 34th Street to scout out Macy's Department Store. Desire had no plans to try to boost from Macy's, at least not then; the crowd was always too thick and the security was always too tight. On her own, Desire could have probably made it out with a small stash that would bring her a lot of money on the streets. But with Tiah by her side, she didn't want to take the risk that a mistake would be made. So she simply guided her protégé along the expensive shoe, purse and perfume aisles and pointed out the things she should be looking to boost.

“Anything that say Chanel, Gucci, Prada, Louis Vuitton … all that's gonna be worth something on the street. Like we can sell it for just a small fraction of what the price really is and make a lot of money.”

Tiah looked amazed at all the genuine items whose knockoffs she had only seen. She marveled at how much sturdier and more expensive they appeared. Even the perfume seemed to smell stronger. In the first-floor handbag section, she looked at the price tag hanging from one large, white leather Coach bag with a hard brown buckle. She bucked her eyes at the amount.

“Two hundred and ninety-nine dollars!” she yelled. Desire shushed her immediately.

“You can't never do that,” she warned. “Don't never act like you surprised at the prices.”

“But I can get this for forty dollars in Chinatown,” Tiah stammered.

“Naw,” Desire corrected, “you can't get
this
.” She pulled the bag down from its prop in the middle aisle display. It was securely bolted to the panel by a hidden cord. A blond saleswoman looked over at them suspiciously. Desire pretended not to see her as she
opened the bag wide for Tiah to look inside. Desire was elated to have someone to talk to who actually wanted to listen to what she had to say. She pointed at the small leather square sewn into the inside of the purse. Tiah looked at it and began to read slowly, as some of the words were hard for her: “This is a Coach bag. It was handcrafted in China from natural cowhide leather. The var … ia … tions in the grain are cha … rac … ter … istic of natural full-grain leather. It's su … pe … ri … or crafts … man … ship and attention to detail reflect our com … mit … ment to en … dur … ingqua … li … ty” Tiah stopped.

“Keep reading,” Desire told her. Tiah looked surprised.

“But it's just a really long number,” Tiah said.

“See, that's how you can tell what's real and what's fake,” Desire told her. “That really long number is what you gotta be looking for. Them bags in Chinatown ain't got this number on the inside. That's called a registration number, and all this expensive shit we can't afford, now, you best believe it got one. Some of 'em might look real, but they gonna tear up way before this one will. This one won't never tear up. This one one day might be worth even more than what it's already worth. You know, if you save it for a real, real long time, then somebody might find it and want it even more 'cause they ain't making 'em no more.”

“But what's so special about it?” Tiah asked. “It look like the same bag—”

Desire interrupted her. “Technically, it is. But see this number, that's what make the difference between the rich and the poor. Rich people buy the bags with the numbers. We buy the bags with just the look. But some of us got some style and sense. I
don't want to carry no broke-ass fake bag. I want to carry the real thing. I want to carry the bag that the rich folks know is real.”

“What's the difference?” Tiah didn't understand what Desire was trying to say. But Desire had already made up her mind to be patient. She had already learned the things about the world that nobody had taught Tiah yet.