Stealing Candy Read online

  “Help!” she screamed, running as fast as she could toward people—tax-paying citizens and law-abiding adults who would feel it their civic duty to help her.

  Passersby stared at Gianna with curiosity and then quickly moved on. In a hurry, shoppers rushed past her. Mothers pulled their children close, and old folks grimaced and muttered, “Disgraceful,” under their breath.

  Gianna’s ripped blouse and blackened eye spelled trouble. No one wanted to get involved.

  “I need a phone. I need the police. Somebody help me!” she begged.

  Feeling confused and helpless, she craned her neck, checking on Bullet’s location. She expelled a loud gasp. Her worst fear was realized. Bullet was galloping toward her.

  The sound of his bare feet smacking the pavement grew louder, announcing that he was gaining on her—narrowing the distance between them.

  A city bus came to stop. Commuters began filing in. Gianna squeezed into the throng and wriggled her way to the front of the line, and onto the bus.

  “Close the doors,” she pleaded with the driver when she was safely inside the bus. “There’s a man out there; he’s trying to kill me.”

  The bus driver exhaled loudly. He rubbed his forehead in exasperation. “You gotta pay the fare.”

  “I don’t have any money!” Gianna screamed, looking through the large windshield, scanning the crowd for Bullet.

  “Well, get off the damn bus!” yelled an annoyed woman. Impatient, the female passenger reached over Gianna, and paid her fare with the swift swipes of a Trans Pass card. Muttering under her breath, the woman pushed past Gianna, her eyes panning the crowded bus in search of an empty seat.

  Through the side window, Gianna could see the top of Bullet’s head. He was at the end of the long line, trying to shove passengers out of his way. The commuters, mainly women, resisted. They jabbed Bullet with elbows and pulled at the waistband of his soggy shorts, trying to prevent him from getting in front of them.

  Frustrated, Bullet forced his way forward from the back of the crowd. Objecting commuters grumbled and stiffened their bodies, refusing to allow Bullet to move ahead of them.

  Righteously indignant, Bullet worked his way to the front of the line. He hopped on the bus. “You gotta wait your turn,” an indignant woman protested.

  “My lil’ sister is trying to run away so she can get with some old dude. Fuck all of y’all. I gotta get my sister off this damn bus.”

  Face-to-face with her tormentor, cold terror swept over Gianna. He was so close, she could smell him…his scent a mixture of sweat and shampoo. She wanted to run, but was trapped between passengers who were trying to board the bus and those who stood behind her. She began to sob.

  “Don’t try to act all innocent now. Look at you…dressed like a hooker. Get yo’ ass off this bus. Mom is all sick and laid up in the hospital and you tryna run the streets like a straight tramp!”

  Wanting to be on their way, passengers glared at Gianna. All eyes held sheer disdain for the wayward young girl.

  “She needs Jesus!” a woman near the front of the bus exclaimed.

  “Man, get your sister so my passengers can get on this bus,” the driver said disgustedly.

  Gianna clamped her hand around the driver’s wrist. “I’m not his sister. He kidnapped me! My name is Gianna Strand. I live in—”

  Bullet shut her up with a punch in her back.

  “That’s enough, man,” the driver intervened. “Handle your business at home. You and your sister gotta get off my bus.”

  “No! He’s gonna hurt me!” Gianna pleaded.

  “Damn right, I’m gon’ hurt your lil’ skank ass. Somebody gotta keep you in line,” Bullet exploded as he yanked her away from the driver and pulled her off the bus.

  Gianna fought like a wildcat, but couldn’t break free. Bullet held her firmly with one hand while smacking her face with the other.

  Concerned only with finding a seat, grumbling passengers pushed past the tussling duo.

  Bullet hit Gianna repeatedly, slapping and pummeling her until she crumpled to the ground. She balled into a defensive knot as he furiously kicked her with his bare foot. A hard kick to her behind forced her body to involuntarily uncurl.

  She pleaded for help again. Her eyes connected with a woman who was watching from a passenger window of the bus. She searched the woman’s face for compassion, but was met with a cold, disapproving gaze.

  The bus eased away from the curb and merged into traffic, leaving Gianna at Bullet’s mercy.

  Spewing profanity, Bullet held Gianna’s arm with one hand and punched her with the other, pummeling Gianna all the way back to the dilapidated house where she’d been confined.

  CHAPTER 3

  Saleema Sparks ripped open the monthly bill from Philadelphia Gas Works. She looked at the total and frowned. Here it was the first week of June and she hadn’t put much of a dent in the past due balance from the cold winter months. Keeping a large home warm was terribly expensive.

  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,” Sa
leema 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 aro
und 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.