Stealing Candy Page 6

  “So you need a custodial parent present at your hearing,” Saleema said, thinking out loud.

  “Right. I need my mother to act like she know and get her butt down here,” Portia said angrily.

  “You can’t blame your mother for this particular incident, Portia.” Saleema had met Portia’s mother when she’d registered Portia at Head Up. The woman she’d met had seemed to be a concerned parent. “My mom got game; she know how to represent when she need to,” Portia had claimed when Saleema had expressed shock to learn that Portia’s mother was battling a ten-year addiction and was apt to go missing whenever she got good and ready, leaving Portia at the mercy of a food addict who’d sooner allow Portia to starve before sharing one crumb from her copious food stash.

  According to Portia, her aunt kept padlocks on her bedroom door, several cabinets in the kitchen were secured, and even a bathroom closet was padlocked…all this to keep Portia and her negligent mother from having access to the food she bought and her personal belongings. No, the aunt wasn’t likely to get involved in Portia’s dilemma. So where did that leave Portia?

  Saleema sighed in frustration. “You were already on probation; you realized another infraction would result in spending some time in a detention facility.”

  “Yeah, I knew I could wind up doing two to three months. But if my mom don’t make it to my next hearing, these people gonna get Children and Youth involved. If don’t nobody come see about me…” She paused and then spoke shakily, “I could wind up getting sent upstate until I’m eighteen.”

  “I doubt that,” Saleema said, summoning up as much optimism as possible under the circumstances.

  “If my mom is too busy getting her high to worry about me now, what makes you think she gon’ travel all the way to the boonies to see about me? I ain’t did nothing that bad that I deserve to get lost in this system for the next three years.” Portia’s bottom lip poked out into a pout.

  Portia was right. She didn’t deserve to be incarcerated for the next three years. Spending that kind of time in an institution would turn her into a hardened criminal before she reached adulthood.

  Saleema patted Portia’s hand. “I agree. You shouldn’t be institutionalized. You need counseling to work on your issues. And some anger control classes would be a great benefit. You can’t go through the rest of your life swinging on everybody who says or does something that you don’t agree with.”

  “I know, but Amirah be getting on my nerves. I ain’t mean to go that hard on her, though.”

  “You didn’t go hard on Amirah. You took your anger out on me.”

  “Aw, why you reminding me of that? You know I wouldn’t never deliberately hurt you, Miss Saleema.”

  “I know. But do you see the severe consequences of not having control over your emotions?”

  Contrite, Portia nodded. “You gon’ try to help me, Miss Saleema? They all got attitudes in here. The people who work here act like they on some kind of power trip.”

  Bully or not, Portia was still a child and she didn’t deserve to be mistreated. She needed counseling and therapy sessions. Saleema thought about her own adolescence…how it mirrored Portia’s. Other than her best friend, Terelle, no one had ever been there for Saleema either. With all her past anger issues and bad behavior, it was a miracle that Saleema had escaped the juvenile justice system and the adult penile system, as well.

  “Of course, I’m going to try and help you. After I leave, I’ll stop by your house and see if your mother is back. If I get a hold of her, I’ll personally bring her to your next hearing. Okay?”

  “Suppose you can’t find her…you know, in time for my hearing?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge later.” Saleema shifted her gaze away from Portia’s desperate eyes. The girl was relying on Saleema to make her mother materialize and assume parental responsibilities. It was quite a feat to accomplish.

  “If my mom don’t come and get me out here, I’m gon’ bust out of this place. I’m dead up, Miss Saleema. I’m not staying in here.” Portia cut an eye at Saleema, gauging the effect of her threat.

  Saleema shook her head, refusing to even indulge the empty threat. “I brought you some magazines and books and some toiletries,” Saleema said, changing the subject. “I had to leave them at the front desk so they could label the items.”

  “Thank you.” In an instant, Portia had simmered down. “I’m real sorry about Head Up. I been doing a lot of thinking and I know why I acted up like that.”

  Saleema gazed at Portia curiously.

  “I was mad about you closing Head Up. I loved being there.”

  Saleema swallowed down a big knot of guilt. “I’m a fighter, Portia. I haven’t given up on Head Up. And I’m not giving up on you.”

  Saleema kissed Portia on the cheek. Shockingly, bad-ass Portia wailed and wrapped her arms around Saleema, refusing to let go.

  With gleaming eyes, an overzealous guard rushed over and roughly unclenched Portia’s grip. It pained Saleema to watch the young girl being hauled out of the visitor’s room and screaming her name.

  After that heart-wrenching scene, Saleema felt like she had no choice but to comb every inch of the city until she found Portia’s deadbeat mom.

  Before exiting the detention center, Saleema stopped to jot down the time next to her name on the visitor’s sheet. She looked up at the round-faced clock mounted on the wall. One hand was pointing to number twelve and the other had fallen off, resting at the bottom of the ancient institutional clock. If a hand fell off a clock right in the lobby, what sorts of disrepair and misdeeds were taking place behind the scenes?

  Overloaded with stress from her financial straights and feeling powerless to help Portia with her predicament, she barely had the strength to search her overloaded shoulder bag for her always elusive cell phone. Sighing, she groped around, searching for her cell phone to determine the time.

  “It’s twelve twenty-six,” a male voice offered.

  She pivoted around to see who the voice belonged to. The man behind her was a brown-skinned brother who had closely cropped hair. He was tall with a lean frame. He wore glasses and that gave him a studious appearance.

  Who asked you? she thought, but muttered, “Thanks,” and then turned back to the visitor’s sheet. She wrote the digits and placed the chained pen on the clipboard.

  “Obama’s in Philly today,” he said, starting up a conversation. “Center City traffic is going to be at a standstill.”

  She faced the talkative guy, giving him a quick once-over. Wearing a crisp pair of khakis and a neatly tucked button-down shirt, his look was entirely preppy without even a hint of an urban twist. A social worker, she surmised.

  “I’m going in the opposite direction,” she replied coldly, intending to discourage further comments. She zipped her shoulder bag and took a few steps toward the door.

  The preppy dude scrawled the time on the visitor’s sheet and caught up with Saleema as she headed toward the exit sign.

  “I would say, lucky you, but I heard traffic is snarled throughout the city.”

  He was too Joe-familiar for her taste. And he seemed to be a bit of a know-it-all, the annoying type who, during his school days, had probably waved his hand enthusiastically, trying to blurt out the answer to every question the teacher asked. Saleema used to pick fights with kids who were too smart for their own good.

  She fixed an irritated gaze on him. “The president is speaking at Independence Hall. Why would traffic be jammed up all over Philly?”

  Seemingly oblivious to her dirty look, he continued, “He’s speaking to forty governors and other lawmakers. Those top officials are in town with motorcades…criss-crossing the city, causing major chaos. For security purposes, many streets have been completely shut down.”

  Saleema groaned. It was ninety-eight degrees outside. She loved Obama and in her mind, the president could do no wrong. But she sure wished he’d chosen a cooler day to shut down the city. Feeling cranky, she gave the preppy the e
vil eye for being the harbinger of bad news. “Thanks for the newsflash.”

  He held up an iPhone. On the screen was a view of clogged traffic. “Don’t shoot the messenger,” he said and aimed a smile at her. Then he removed his glasses and rubbed the side of his nose. A gesture from habit? Or was he showing off what he was really working with because without his glasses, he looked like a different man. He had wonderful features. Strong jawline, sparkly, alert eyes, luscious lips…really handsome.

  Seeing him in a totally different light, and feeling a little thrill of excitement, Saleema’s fingers smoothed back a stray loc. Murmuring a sound of approval, she smiled back, and unconsciously lowered her eyes.

  Saleema hadn’t been flirtatious in a very long time. In the past, the only time she’d bothered to entice was when money was on her mind. It was a minor jolt to her system to find herself attracted to a man for his looks instead of his financial status.

  “My name is Khalil,” he said, replacing the glasses and extending his hand.

  With his glasses on, he went back to looking like a bookworm, which was a relief. She grasped his hand and shook it courteously.

  “Saleema,” she told him. She gave him only a fraction of a smile, but her lips were twitching to extend into a mega grin.

  CHAPTER 9

  Are you driving?” Khalil wanted to know as they stood outside the detention center, meandering instead of saying their good-byes.

  “Yes, do you need a ride?” she blurted, surprising herself with her eager willingness to spend time with Khalil, even if it meant being ensnarled in a traffic jam that could last for hours.

  He could be a serial killer, her inner voice warned. But she chose to ignore her good common sense.

  “I’m parked right there.” She pointed to her five-year-old Camry across the street, parked under a shade tree. There was a time when Saleema wouldn’t have been caught dead inside anything less than a luxury car, but those days were long gone.

  Though her wardrobe—remnants of her past—broadcasted a fashionista, Saleema hadn’t shopped for clothing in over a year. She no longer required up-to-date trappings of glitz and glamour.

  “No, I drove. My car is parked in a lot at the end of the block, but it doesn’t make much sense to move it with traffic at a standstill. Are you hungry?”

  “A little.” A coy smile flickered on her lips. She felt lighthearted. Tipsy. With great effort, she kept her mouth from spreading into an ear-to-ear grin. It was odd to engage in repartee with a man without the thought of a dollar sign in mind.

  Prior to opening Head Up, Saleema had been on a paper chase. She’d been preoccupied with emptying out men’s wallets and bank accounts ever since she’d taken a job at a massage parlor called Pandora’s Box during her teenage years.

  Later, motivated by her lust for money and having grown tired of the sex trade, she’d almost taken a disastrous trip down the aisle with a wealthy man who was a former trick.

  But a horrible tragedy had changed her, made her reevaluate what was important in life. She’d opened up Head Up with the plan to dedicate her life to prevent young girls from straying down that wrong path she’d taken. She’d wanted her girls to know that their sense of self-worth was their most precious and valuable possession.

  Khalil didn’t have to coerce Saleema into agreeing to have lunch with him. On impulse, she accepted the impromptu lunch date with this intriguing stranger.

  The pair trekked on foot for several blocks until they reached the place Khalil described as one of his favorite restaurants in the area.

  When they entered a very small and cozy Caribbean restaurant, the hostess wore a smile that was aimed at Khalil only.

  “Hello, stranger,” the woman said in a tone that was a mixture of joy, accusation, and longing.

  “Stranger?” Khalil protested. “I was here last Wednesday.”

  “How convenient that you came on my day off,” she replied in a voice filled with complaint.

  “My bad,” Khalil said, slipping into jargon, his hands spread wide in apology.

  Saleema felt an uncomfortable stab of envy. Were Khalil and the hostess sexually involved? Don’t even go there, she sternly reprimanded herself and surveyed the restaurant while the petulant hostess sashayed away.

  What was that all about? she wanted to ask, but didn’t dare show that kind of vulnerability. She gave her undivided attention to an expansive menu that was printed on numerous chalkboards posted on a wall.

  “Anything look interesting?” Khalil’s voice was silk and Saleema was officially smitten.

  Perhaps it was the daggers being shot at her by the hostess on the other side of the counter, or maybe she just felt feminine and flirtatious, which prompted her next move. Whatever the case, Saleema felt compelled to let Khalil know that she found him appealing.

  Gently, she placed her hand on top of his folded hands. “Nothing on the menu seems half as interesting as you. I’ll have whatever you’re having.” Bold! And not bad for a woman who had indulged her earth mother inclinations for so long, she’d totally neglected her sensual side.

  Unprepared for Saleema’s personality that had suddenly shifted from demure to aggressive, Khalil removed his glasses and did that finger-rubbing thing against his nose. He was nervous and that fact was absolutely adorable.

  A male server approached. “Something to drink?”

  “Strawberry lemonade,” Khalil said.

  “Two?”

  “Yes, two.”

  Two. It had a nice ring to it.

  As Saleema sipped the sweet and tart beverage, Khalil gave the waiter their lunch order: stewed chicken in mango sauce, rice and beans, with a side order of cabbage and fried plantains.

  “For two?” the waiter wanted to know.

  Khalil and Saleema both nodded.

  Wanting to know more about Khalil, she leaned forward. “How many kids at the detention center are on your caseload…and what exactly do you do for them?” She was hoping he could give her some advice regarding Portia’s situation.

  “I’m not a social worker. I run an alternative school for young men. Boys who haven’t been successful in the traditional classroom.” He rose up a little, pulled his wallet from his pocket and withdrew a card and handed it to Saleema.

  Changing Lives Academy was printed in large bold letters. She perused the address, but her eyes nearly bugged out when they landed at the bottom of the card: Khalil Gardner, Ph.D. Founder and Director.

  Saleema’s piqued interest now went beyond Khalil’s good looks and gregarious nature. Like her, this man was trying to make a difference in the lives of troubled teens. He was a kindred spirit.

  Then her heart sank. Kindred spirits? Maybe not. While Khalil possessed a Ph.D., Saleema was a high school dropout. They certainly were not evenly yoked. In an instant, she felt small and inconsequential.

  Back when she’d been guardian of her goddaughter, Markeeta, she’d made sure that Markeeta was educated in the best private school in the area. While running Head Up, she always stressed the importance of education to her girls, yet she hadn’t even put forth the effort to get a GED. What did that say about her? Saleema wondered.

  “One of my students…a misguided but good kid nevertheless, is being detained at the detention center.” He shook his head ruefully. “He’d been making so much progress…but like I said, keeping young men off the streets is often more difficult than keeping an addict clean.”

  “I’m still recovering from the fact that you’re the founder of an alternative school. That’s major. I’m so impressed,” she said in quiet admiration.

  “Well…don’t be. Not yet. The school just opened last year with fifty-three ninth-graders. By the end of the term, we were down to forty-one. Hopefully, enrollment will increase and the boys will all be attending the academy’s first graduation ceremony in three years.” He gave a sigh. “Wish us luck.”

  “I’m sure you’ll get there.” Typically, Saleema exuded confidence. She was an int
elligent woman who read everything she could get her hands on but, at the moment, she was mentally focused on her own educational shortcomings and could offer only a few measly words of encouragement.

  “Trying to educate my boys is a constant battle. Keeping them interested in books and away from the allure of the streets is very challenging,” he said with sardonic laughter.

  “I bet,” she said simply, intent on keeping her comments to a minimum and hoping he didn’t ask where she’d gone to school.

  Never had Saleema felt so out of her depth. She’d known plenty of educated men. Wealthy, educated men. But she’d always felt superior because she had what they wanted…sex! Sex that she doled out according to their ability to pay.

  Unaware of Saleema’s waging internal battle, Khalil went on. “I was at the detention center visiting one of my students—a fourteen-year-old who got caught with four Klonopin pills in his pocket.”

  Saleema frowned. “Seems like a minor offense.”

  “He has a long history of minor offenses.”

  “Yeah, one of my girls is at the detention center…”

  Khalil looked shocked. “You have a teenaged daughter?”

  “No. I run…well…I used to run a social club for troubled girls. I was at the detention center visiting a young lady who has anger management issues and a lengthy history of fighting. She swings on teachers, students, neighbors…anyone who has the misfortune of being in her path when her anger erupts. I was her latest victim.”

  “What happened?”

  “During a heated verbal exchange with another girl, she threw a bean bag chair and accidentally clunked me in the head. I hit the floor with the wind knocked out of me. One of the other girls called 9-1-1 before I could catch my breath.”

  “I’m glad you’re okay. But I meant…what happened to your social club?”

  Saleema looked glum. “Long story.”

  The arrival of their food drew their attention away from Saleema’s troubles. Her eyes sparkled at the sight of the large heaping of exotic cuisine. “My goodness, this looks and smells scrumptious. And such a large portion. I don’t think I’ll be able to eat all this—”