Stealing Candy (3 page)

Checking the time, she put the gas bill on top of a steep pile of unpaid debt. Soon, her home where she also operated Head Up, a center for troubled girls, would be flooded with young girls.

Due to Saleema’s lack of professional credentials, Head Up had to be listed as a social club. But in reality, it was much more than that. It was a safe haven—a sanctuary for girls who were plagued by a multitude of tribulations, including drug-addicted and abusive parents, poor school attendance, and sexual promiscuity, just to name a few of their personal issues.

Saleema’s own childhood and teen years had not been a bed of roses. She knew all too well what a dysfunctional home life could to do a girl’s self-esteem and her ability to follow the rules of normal society. A former teen prostitute and adult madam, Saleema had turned her life around and had been using a sudden financial windfall to give back and help young girls at risk.

Seeking escape from their troubled home lives, the girls flocked to Head Up, utilizing the center’s computers, participating in workshops, and self-esteem building activities. Saleema had provided her girls with a refuge where they could simply intermingle and
socialize in an environment where they weren’t ridiculed…an environment where designer labels and fly weaves didn’t define a girl’s worth.

At precisely 10:30, twelve chattering teenagers started streaming in. “Hi, Miss Saleema,” each girl greeted.

The teens lingered in the entrance hall, their noise level boisterous and inappropriate for indoors. Dreading the thought of breaking the unpleasant news to her girls, Saleema allowed them some extra time to settle down.

Amirah drifted over to the bulletin board and scanned the activity schedule. She was a gangly girl who still stood with her shoulders slouched despite Saleema’s repeated encouragement for her to stand tall and proud. She wished she had more time to work on Amirah’s confidence issues.

“How come the talent show rehearsal is cancelled?” Amirah asked, her voice filled with disappointment.

In the few months that Amirah had been a part of Head Up, she’d progressed from painfully shy to being able to recite a monologue with emotion and great passion. Saleema had hoped that showcasing Amirah’s talent in front of an audience would help boost her confidence outside the walls of Head Up.

Amirah and all the other girls had experienced a lifetime of hurt and disappointment. Saleema had expected to be someone they could always count on. Guilt-ridden and ashamed, Saleema wanted to drop her gaze, but she forced herself to look Amirah straight in the eye. “I’ll explain.”

A crowd of girls rushed to the bulletin board to check out the schedule. Baffled faces turned from the schedule to Saleema.

Portia, a hot-tempered eighth-grader who had weight issues along with a dozen other emotional problems, had been expelled from three separate middle schools for fighting. Portia rolled her
eyes in undisguised indignation. “Everything’s cancelled,” she griped. “What’s going on, Miss Saleema?”

“I have to make an announcement,” Saleema said, sounding more depressed than she’d intended. But it was pointless to try to sugarcoat the situation.

Her girls deserved the truth. She took a deep breath and ran shaky fingers through her locs. “Let’s go to the lavender room.”

The atmosphere changed instantly. Their expressions grave, the girls trailed behind Saleema in somber silence.

The rooms inside Saleema’s home that were designated Head Up areas were all painted in soft hues. The lavender room had two comfortable couches, four bean bag chairs, two recliners, a zebra-print chaise lounge, a hot pink butterfly chair, and a bright purple mitt-shaped swivel chair.

There were no assigned seats and the mitt chair was a favorite. The girls usually raced to get to that chair. But today, they flopped lethargically into any random seat.

Chyna and Stacey squatted down to the leather shag throw rug and sat with their legs crossed Indian-style.

Portia and another tough girl named Greta refused to sit. They stood, arms folded, posted up against opposite sides of the doorway. Their body language was obstinate. Defiant. Sending an unspoken message that they were mad at the world.

Saleema stood in front of the twelve girls. She cleared her throat. “It saddens me to have to inform you that, after today, Head Up will no longer be operating as a social center.”

Greta sucked her teeth. “What’s that mean?”

“It means I’m going to have to shut down Head Up.”

Groans and sighs peppered with outbursts of profanity filled the lavender room.

“Ladies! Watch your language. I plan to reopen when school
starts. But I really can’t afford to keep it going over the summer.”

“You broke, Miss Saleema?” Tasha asked.

“Just about,” Saleema admitted. “I’m going to look for some financial backers—”

“Why don’t you file for bankruptcy?” Amirah offered.

“What good is that gon’ do?” Portia snarled from the doorway.

Wearing a pleasant expression, Amirah twisted around and faced Portia. “After my auntie filed for bankruptcy, she came up. She got a new car and a wallet full of credit cards,” she explained.

“Your auntie was probably getting paid on some credit card scam,” Portia implied and all the other girls laughed.

“That’s enough, Portia. Amirah was trying to be helpful,” Saleema interjected.

“I wasn’t lying, Miss Saleema. My auntie said filing bankruptcy is a good move.”

“I didn’t accuse you of lying. Filing bankruptcy may have improved your aunt’s situation, but I have to look at other options.”

Portia blew Amirah off with a hand flip. “Don’t nobody care what your auntie did. Anyway, ain’t your auntie in jail?”

The girls exploded in laughter.

“No, she’s not in jail! Always running your mouth. You get on my nerves, Portia.”

“Seriously, that’s enough from you, Portia,” Saleema warned.

“I’m sorry, Miss Saleema, but Amirah be getting on my nerves, talkin’ that dumb shit all the time.”

“Bitch, who you calling dumb?” Amirah shouted.

“Amirah!” Saleema was stunned that timid Amirah had challenged a known bully.

“Yo, I’m about two seconds from yanking that bitch for calling me out of my name.” In a matter of moments, Portia crossed the room, her balled fists held high.

Swiftly, Saleema blocked Amirah, trying to protect the girl who towered over her with her own petite body. “Control yourself, Portia. You know the rules.”

“You already said you closing Head Up, so fuck the rules.”

The girls gasped at Portia’s blatant lack of respect.

Though she hated seeing this angry, explosive side of Portia, Saleema had to admit that Portia had a point. Saleema could no longer offer her girls an incentive for good behavior.

Still, she stood firmly planted in front of Amirah. “Portia, if you don’t pull yourself together, you’re going to wind up in a juvenile facility.”

Portia scowled. “Do you think I give a fuck?” She lunged for Amirah.

Amirah, no longer feeling her earlier sense of boldness, ducked and cowered behind Saleema. Portia easily maneuvered around Saleema, landing a resounding punch on the side of Amirah’s head.

Until that moment, everyone, including Portia, had adhered to the “no fighting” rule at Head Up. Saleema felt completely to blame. Her lack of money management skills had brought the program to a halt.

But before she got the chance to accept an invitation to a pity party, she felt the sting of a slap that was intended for Amirah.

“Ooo! You know you wrong for putting your hands on Miss Saleema,” Tasha shouted, indignant.

“Bitch, whatchu gon’ do about it?” Greta piped in, defending Portia.

And then all hell broke loose. Tasha picked up the butterfly chair. Before Saleema could intervene, Tasha threw the chair at Greta. Greta ducked.

“I know yo’ ass is crazy, flinging that damn chair at me.” Greta
picked up the chair. Gripping its thin mangled metal legs, she zoomed across the room, swinging the heavy butterfly fabric, kicking tables out of her way. Girls shrieked and scurried out of Greta’s path as she pursued Tasha.

Meanwhile, with Saleema running toward Greta, Amirah was exposed. Portia wound her hand around Amirah’s braids, bringing the gangly girl down to her knees.

This is out of hand. How did my good intentions result in this melee?
Saleema backtracked and tried to wrench Amirah from Portia’s grip.

Another chair whizzed through the air. Saleema watched in horror as the mitt chair smashed a window. The sounds of shattering glass and high-pitched screams were ear-splitting.

Greta picked up a bean bag chair, and threw it toward a random group of girls. The girls scattered. Unfortunately, Saleema caught the full impact of the bean bag. She went down; her petite body smacked against the hardwood floor, face down.

“Oh, my God!” Amirah shouted.

“Call the cops!” another voice added.

From the floor, Saleema lifted her head. Gasping, she witnessed Portia’s and Greta’s legs racing toward the door. Saleema heard a medley of beeps and buzzes from several cell phones.

The girls were calling the police. She didn’t want them to, but with the wind knocked out of her, she couldn’t speak. All she could do was shake her head.

She heard Amirah giving out the address and the names of perpetrators, but couldn’t stop.

“Don’t worry, Miss Saleema,” Amirah said. “The 9-1-1 operator said the cops gon’ be here in a few minutes.”

Having Portia sent to a youth detention center was not at all what Saleema had intended. She would have preferred to handle the situation herself, but it was now out of her hands.

 
 CHAPTER 4

You trying to punk me?” Bullet spewed. His face was so close to hers that she could see the particles of chicken that were trapped between his teeth.

“I’m not trying to punk you.”

A sharp jab to her face dazed Gianna for a few seconds.

“Number one rule…don’t disagree with me.”

“Okay.” She yearned to rub her throbbing face, but she feared that Bullet would consider the gesture as “trying to punk him,” so she kept her hands folded in her lap.

“You like fucking with my money?”

She didn’t know whether to say yes or no. Taking a chance, she shook her head.

“I’m feeding you and keeping a roof over your head. I been taking my time and tryna train yo’ young ass cuz you can’t work the track if I don’t school you.”

“I’m sorry, Bullet.”

“Whatchu sorry for? Sorry that you got caught?” There was fire in his eyes.

“I’m sorry for running away from you.”

He raised his hand threateningly. She flinched. He laughed, mockingly.

“Look around you,” Bullet demanded.

Relieved that he didn’t strike her, she quickly obeyed, looking around the shabby quarters. Chicken bones and bits of charred chicken skin filled a chipped dinner plate.

Bullet pointed a finger at Gianna. “How you gon’ run out on your man like that?”

“I was scared.”

“Scared of what? Those lil’ bit of ass whippings you got wasn’t ’bout nothing. But after that shit you pulled today, I’ma make sure yo’ ass is too scared to run. Real talk, bitch.” Bullet huffed and sighed for a few moments, and then he grabbed Gianna by the neck, pressing his thumb into her windpipe. “You didn’t even clean up behind yourself after I had the decency to feed yo’ hungry ass.” He shoved her.

Gasping, Gianna reached for the chipped plate that sat atop a crate. Bullet’s knife was next to the plate.

“Do you think I like living in this shit hole? Jail was better than this dump.” He picked up a knife. Threateningly, he ran his finger along the blade. “You ain’t gon’ never do right, is you?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Nah. You gon’ keep trying to run away.” He shook his head. “I ain’t wasting no more time tryna train you. It’s time to cut my losses.” He paused and gave her a long, sneering look. “I might as well get rid of you.” Then he looked up in thought. “Yeah, I need to get myself a better bitch. A bitch that knows how to listen.”

“I can listen. I’ll do right. Really. I promise, Bullet.”

“Your promises ain’t worth shit. You a slimy, ruthless chick. How you gon’ shout out your government name on a crowded bus?” He blew out a disgusted breath. “If I keep fucking with you, I’ma wind up back behind bars.”

Whenever Bullet talked about going back to jail, the creases in his forehead deepened. Expecting a swift kick, a slap to the face, or a body blow, Gianna tensed, and then let out a breath of relief. Surprisingly Bullet didn’t get physical; he just glowered at her.

“I can’t trust a bitch that would deliberately try to get her man
locked up,” he said, continuing his verbal tirade. “Do you know how much time I could get over snatching yo’ young ass?”

His brows arched, meeting the creases in his forehead, a warning for her to start talking fast. “I made a mistake. I don’t want anything to happen to you. I love you and I need you. Please, Bullet, can I have another chance?” In all uncountable days that she’d been his captive, she’d never once told him that she loved him.

Bullet relaxed his facial muscles. His eyes brightened. He liked hearing that she loved him.