Stealing Candy (31 page)

“That fast-behind girl probably forced herself in that man’s car while she was making her escape!” shouted a short, rotund man with an owlish face and round eyeglasses.

“If that were true, the driver should have alerted the authorities by now. Let’s not be so quick to add our brushstrokes to the portrait of Portia that the system has already painted. Portia is considered a runaway and there has been no effort to search for her.”

“The city’s already operating over budget. So it’s understandable that they wouldn’t waste a lot of money trying to track down a girl who doesn’t want to be found,” said a woman wearing a business suit.

Khalil adjusted his glasses. “An adult male was spotted coercing
Portia into his vehicle. With the amount of time that has passed, this man probably figures he can do anything he wants to Portia and no one will ever bother to look for her.”

Saleema cleared her throat.

Picking up the hint, Khalil added, “Luckily, there’s someone who is very concerned about Portia. Her name is Saleema Sparks, and I’m going to turn the microphone over to her now.” Khalil stepped to the side.

Darn!
She could have punched Khalil for putting her on the spot. She wasn’t a public speaker. She’d only cleared her throat to remind Khalil that there were people who cared enough about Portia to start this campaign to find her.

Amirah, Tasha, Stacey, and Chyna applauded. “Go, Miss Saleema! Go, Miss Saleema,” the girls chanted.

She treaded to the podium with confidence in her footsteps that she didn’t feel inside. Having no idea what she was going to say, Saleema tried to come up with a speech in the few seconds it took to adjust the microphone to her height. Nothing came to mind, so she decided to simply wing it.

“Good evening, my name is Saleema Sparks. I grew up in Southwest Philly, near Fifty-fourth and Chester Avenue. Like this neighborhood, mine was pretty rough. I was raised by relatives, passed around from one aunt to the other. No real foundation. No rules. I don’t know what family love feels like.”

There were murmurs of sympathy.

“Like Portia, I was a tough girl. I got in fights at school. I fought after school; I fought in the neighborhood; I fought all the cousins that I lived with at various times. Looking back, it seems like I spent my entire childhood engaged in battle. No one understood me and I didn’t understand myself. The bottom line is, I knew no one cared about me and that knowledge made me act out in anger.”

“That’s a shame,” one of the seniors muttered.

“You are right. It is a shame when an entire neighborhood knew that I was sent to school without being dressed properly, with my hair uncombed. It’s a shame when they were aware that I came to school unprepared and without supplies. But everyone turned a blind eye.”

“Umph! That’s just terrible,” someone in the back uttered.

Revisiting memory lane was so unpleasant, Saleema paused and rubbed her forehead, overcome with emotion.

“Take your time,” William Daniels encouraged as though Saleema were a Baptist preacher, pausing in the middle of a sermon.

She exhaled slowly. “I’m not a psychologist…I don’t have a college degree, but I do know how it feels to be on the brink of womanhood without a caring role model in your life. It’s confusing. Your body is changing; and not only boys…but even grown men are suddenly giving you special looks. That attention can be very flattering when you’ve never experienced love. When you’ve always been perceived as not good enough.”

Saleema caught glimpses of her girls. They were all looking at her with furrowed brows, their eyes filled with compassion. She’d never shared her unhappy childhood.

“I ran a social club called Head Up from my home. With Head Up, I tried to provide a warm atmosphere for girls from troubled homes. I kept them involved in numerous positive activities. Portia was a member of Head Up. During our private conversations, she divulged how embarrassed and furious she was to have a mother who was addicted to crack.”

“That drug is the ruination of the black community,” said Miss Hattie.

Looking for a laugh, the owlish-looking man added his two cents. “That dang drug produced a swarm of crack babies. They big now
and bad as all get out. Running around, wreaking more havoc than they drug-addicted mammas. We got double trouble: crack mammas and ornery teenage crack babies.”

Saleema ignored the man’s negative comments. She smiled. “Getting back to Portia…Though it didn’t surface often, Portia had a smile that could light up a room. Despite her quick temper and loud mouth, she had a good side. Most people do.”

“That’s the truth,” William Daniels said.

“I want to find Portia. She’s been missing for over a month. I’m hoping that you all will assist us by taking some of the fliers we have on hand to your places of employment, to the hair and nail salons, barbershops…any businesses that you patronize.”

Somber, the girls stood up. Holding stacks of fliers, they began moving to the rear.

“If we plaster this city with Portia’s image, people will be forced out of their comfort zones, forced to take notice and maybe… eventually, someone will care enough to give us the information that will lead to her safe return.

“Portia Hathaway is being chalked off as a runaway…one of thousands of disposable kids. I want you to understand that a daughter of this village is an abducted teen. If we combine our energy, our efforts, and our love, I believe we can find Portia. I know that together we can save her life. Thank you.”

The room was briefly silent as the community absorbed Saleema’s words.

Saleema gave a faint smile and then returned to her seat.

Khalil stepped forward. “Thank you, Ms. Sparks, for your personal testimony and for reminding all of us that Portia is not just a statistic. She’s a young girl. One of our own. It is our duty and responsibility to find her.”

There was an eruption of applause and outbursts:

“That’s right. We not gon’ take this lying down.”

“The police don’t wanna waste their time looking for black children.”

“You ain’t nevah lied. Bet if she was a white girl, her picture would be flashing over the news, morning, noon, and night.”

Motioning with his hand, Khalil quieted the crowd. “We’re going to meet here again tomorrow at five to brainstorm ways to come up with funding that would go toward increasing the reward.”

“How much is the reward?” someone shouted.

“At present, we have only five hundred dollars that I personally contributed. But we’re hoping to collect donations. One of our plans is to erect billboards across the tri-state area with Portia’s image, her description, and the tip line number.”

“My women’s group sells dinners every Saturday. We use the money to help with expenses for the rare few from this neighborhood who attend college,” the woman with the business suit offered.

“We’ve launched a website: HelpfindPortia.com. I’d appreciate it if you’d visit the site and post any upcoming funding events. You’ll also find a link where you can make donations.”

“I’m too old for all that computer jazz,” Hattie said, “but I intend to make a contribution.”

“We appreciate it, Miss Hattie. The girls have a form you can fill out, and you’ll get a receipt for your donation.”

“There’s a Beef and Beer Social at a little bar on the corner of Twenty-fifth and Wharton in South Philly. I’ll see if we can donate a portion of the proceeds to help find that girl,” the round, owlish man said in a contrite, rasping voice.

“Thank you, everyone. I hope you’ll all visit the website and pass on the information to your friends, family, and coworkers.”

This time, there was no mad dash to the exit sign. People mingled and discussed the numerous ways they could help.

As Saleema observed Khalil chatting and shaking hands, the woman wearing the business suit approached her. “You’re such a dignified young woman. It’s hard to believe that you were a delinquent during your youth.”

Saleema laughed. “Yes, I think most people who knew me would call me far worse.” Saleema didn’t dare tell the woman about her colorful past as a prostitute and a madam. That would be too much information. “But I’ve changed my ways,” Saleema said with a smile. “And so can Portia and all the other girls I’ve been trying to help.”

“You’re right. We shouldn’t be so quick to give up on our youth. You gave us all something to think about. I’m going to pray for Portia. And I’m going to discuss this issue with my pastor…see if we can get our church involved in helping to find her.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much,” Saleema said sincerely.

Suddenly, Amirah’s giggly voice came over the amplifier. “Hold up, everybody. There’s one more thing—we have a prize to raffle off.” She looked toward the back, where Chyna was holding a basket filled with ticket stubs.

Preening for the audience, Chyna graced them with her beautiful smile. She held out the basket as if she were on
The Price Is Right
, showing off a prize.

“Pick a number, Miss Show-Off,” Amirah said.

“Oh!” Chyna reached inside the basket and pulled out a stub. “Number fifty-four.”

“Hot damn!” William Daniels shouted, looking at his ticket stub.

Amirah held up the portable DVD player donated by Saleema.

“I don’t know how to work none of those computer contraptions.” Mr. Daniels was visibly disappointed.

“This is a portable DVD player. You can watch your movies anywhere you want,” Amirah explained.

“Hot damn!” Mr. Daniels repeated, now thrilled at the prospect of owning a state-of-the-art gadget.

 
 CHAPTER 37

Filled with resentment, Gianna watched Bullet and Bubbles sharing a blunt. Bubbles sat up front, where Gianna used to sit.

“Yo, the other day when I rolled up on you and dude, you was riding him like you was trying to bust a nut. Lemme find out.”

“I was acting. Just tryin’ to get him off quick. You know I don’t cum for nobody but you, Daddy.”

Gianna’s ears burned. From what she could recall, Bullet couldn’t stand Bubbles and vice versa. At some point, during the weeks that she was kept high on painkillers, Bullet and Bubbles had become a cozy couple.

At the red light, Bullet turned toward Bubbles with the lit end of the cigar inside his mouth; his teeth were clenched tightly on the unburning end. On cue, Bubbles opened her mouth; her lips touched his as she accepted the blast of thick smoke that Bullet blew into her mouth.

Observing such an intimate act made Gianna shift uncomfortably in the back seat. Skittles sat next to Gianna, staring out the window. Unaffected by the lovey-dovey behavior up front, she mumbled to herself like a crazy person—lost in her own world.

Jealousy burned Gianna’s face like fire. Bullet had never treated her with that degree of affection.

Yearning for some attention, Gianna said, “Hey, Daddy, one of my customers asked me if I would get with him on the side. I told him, hell no! My daddy will whoop my ass if he caught me stealing money from his business—”

“Bitch, shut the fuck up. You ’bout to get stomped for even thinking some shit like that.”

“I wasn’t thinking that. I was just telling you what that trick wanted me to do.”

“That didn’t even need to be spoken on.” He gritted on Gianna through the rearview mirror. “Scoot over, baby,” he said softly to Bubbles.

Bubbles moved as close to Bullet as the center gear shift console would allow. “Calm me down,” he said in a grumpy tone of voice.

“You want some head?” Bubbles asked in the sweetest tone of voice Gianna had ever heard her use.

Gianna looked at Bubbles with unbounded scorn.

“Yeah.” Bullet lifted up slightly, giving Bubbles access to his zipper, which she swiftly pulled down. “That bitch done got on my nerves. Got me amped up and my man done got hard.” He pulled on the blunt, his features contorted and mean.

Giving Bullet a warm smile, Bubbles said, “I gotchu, Daddy. Concentrate on traffic while I calm your nerves down.” Bubbles buried her head in his lap and Bullet put the burning blunt in the ashtray.

The windows of the Cadillac were recently tinted. No one could see Bullet’s hand pushing down on Bubbles’ head.

Every three or four minutes, Bullet yelled. “Hold up! You gon’ get us killed! Stop! I’m about to cum!”

Responding to his fervent protests, Bubbles would lift her head and rest it against Bullet’s stomach, waiting patiently for him to give her permission to resume sucking his dick.

When?
How had Bubbles started getting so much attention. Sure, trying to call her mother was stupid, but Bullet had taught her a lesson. It wouldn’t happen anymore. She’d suffered the consequences and wished they could move forward.

Bubbles didn’t make nearly as much money for Bullet as Gianna
did. Bubbles hadn’t even had the intense oral training that Gianna had gotten. It hurt Gianna to the core to be demoted to sitting in the back seat with crazy-ass Skittles.

“That’s enough.” Bullet patted Bubbles’ head impatiently.

Coming up for air, she asked, “You want me to stop?”

“Hell, yeah. It’s six-thirty. Shouldn’t she be outside taking a smoke?” Bullet made a sharp right into a road that led into a strip mall in Eddystone, a small borough near Chester. A Shoprite Supermarket was on the left and Wal-Mart was on the right.