Harlem Girl Lost Read online

  Problem glanced at Tyrell, his partner in crime. Everyone knew that Problem would have to say something or he was gonna look like a punk, but by the same token, he knew that he didn't want to say anything that would piss Silver off. He knew very well about her and also knew she could fight like a boy, so he harbored no quick desire to get in a battle he couldn't win. The two boys he was robbing, Beastly and Diego, said nothing.

  Beastly was the smallest boy in the class. He had recently arrived in the United States from Kingston, Jamaica. His real name was Beasley, but his classmates called him Beastly because of his huge Rastafarian dreadlocks, which made him look like a lion. Diego, on the other hand, was a pudgy Spanish kid who was just as big if not bigger than they were, but he was a punk and got robbed every day because of it.

  Tyrell, rail thin, with missing front teeth, urged Problem to handle his business; he assured him that she was only a girl and that he was the fucking man.

  “Yo,” said Tyrell, “you gonna let that skinny bitch front on you, dog?” Sucking his teeth, he added, “Nigga, you know I got your back!”

  Problem tossed Diego aside and sneered at Silver. “And if I don't, what the fuck you gonna do about it?”

  Problem's defiance quickly deflated when he heard click … click.

  Missy, Silver's best friend, clicked open an orange box cutter. Missy Anderson was a tall girl for twelve, with pretty dark skin and hair that hung down over her shoulders. She often lost her temper if she didn't get her way, and would fight anyone for any reason, especially boys. She was third-generation project and simply didn't give a fuck. She'd grown up in a family of all women, no males, so they had to hold it down. She'd grown up watching her mother, grandmother, and aunts fight and maim their boyfriends or other women around the projects. Their weaponry varied from straight razors and butcher knives to NBC (nigger be cool) sticks, which were bats with rusty nails sticking out of them. But their weapon of choice was a special concoction that consisted of Red Devil lye, ammonia, and urine, a secret family recipe that had been handed down for generations. If they felt other women wanted their man, a bitch looked at them funny, or there was some typical “he said, she said” shit, these infractions were dealt with swiftly. Everyone knew that if you fought one Anderson broad, you had to fight them all. That's how they got down, and this kept the entire Anderson clan fighting year-round in the projects.

  As a matter of fact, that was how Silver and Missy had met, fighting each other. When they'd first met in the fifth grade, they hated each other's guts and fought like gladiators every day, neither girl backing down an inch. It got to the point that they simply kept their faces greased with Vaseline and their hair braided at all times because they never knew when the other would stage a sneak attack.

  Then one day after school while both girls were serving detention for fighting, a third person had been needed to play double dutch, and Silver was the only one around. So Missy approached Silver, who stood immediately ready to throw down. But Missy nonchalantly asked, “Yo, bitch, you want to play rope?”

  Silver looked her in the eyes, then glanced at the rope, and spoke with attitude. “Yeah, hoe, I like to play … but I'm jumping first!”

  From that day on, with a simple rope and a common love for double dutch, they'd been the best of friends, having each other's back through hell and high water. They had no choice, because they found it easier and a lot less bloody to be friends than enemies.

  Now both boys eyed Missy as she towered over them. Problem turned toward Silver.

  “Yo, I ain't messing with you, so why you gots to be all up in my bidness?” he asked, his tone less confident.

  Silver stepped closer, both hands on her hips. “I'm making it my business.”

  Problem was shook, especially when Tyrell backed away and bounced from the classroom, leaving him alone to handle his business by his lonesome.

  Missy stood behind him and whispered chillingly in his ear as she placed the box cutter to his blubbery neck. “Talk that shit now, bitch?”

  Problem stood speechless, ready to shit on himself. Silver stared at him with disgust. “Yo, why you only pick on people you know won't fight back?” Before he could answer, she rolled her eyes and swayed her head from side to side. “Because they'll kick your fat funky ass,” she answered, and mushed him in the forehead for good measure. The entire class busted out in laughter, taunting and hissing him. Silver waited for Problem to make a move, but amazingly, all he did was smile.

  It suddenly occurred to her that the entire class had gone silent and sat properly in their chairs. With a sense of dread, Silver slowly turned and saw her teacher, Mr. Bonds, standing in the doorway, wearing a stern look.

  “Miss Jones, I want you to go straight to the principal's office and tell him about that filthy and disgusting mouth of yours.”

  “But Mr. Bonds,” Silver pleaded, “Problem's not even in this class, and he was—”

  Problem quickly interrupted. “Ms. Horsley asked me to find some chalk … and that's when she,” he said, pointing at Silver, “started messin'with me for no reason.”

  “You's a goddamn liar,” Silver snapped. “I'm not going on detention because of your lying ass!”

  Mr. Bonds’ eyes widened. “Curse one more time, Miss Jones, and I assure you that detention will be the least of your worries!”

  Silver realized her mistake. “I'm sorry, Mr. Bonds, but he's lying…. I mean, you can ask Beasley and Diego, they were—”

  Hearing none of it, he simply pointed toward the door. “Now, Miss Jones!”

  Silver looked toward Diego and Beasley to back her up, but they remained silent because Problem was eye-screwing them.

  Missy stepped forward. “Mr. Bonds, she's right. Problem was—”

  “Did anyone ask you, Miss Anderson?” Mr. Bonds coldly cut her off. “And why are you out of your seat in the first place? Now sit your contemptuous self down before you go with her!”

  Missy looked like she wanted to curse him out something awful, but Silver gestured for her to remain silent. The entire school knew Mr. Bonds was soft on little boys and harder on the girls, so it made no sense for both of them to get detention.

  “Leave now, Miss Pretty,” he mocked. Collecting the books off her desk, Silver turned to glare at smart-ass Problem, who was smiling and waving bye-bye.

  As Silver sat in the main office awaiting the principal, she noticed a musty odor that smelled like a dead rat. She frowned and held her nose, hoping that the principal would hurry up. It sounded like the principal was already in a conference with Ms. Horsley who taught the dumber students downstairs. She heard every word of their discussion in the office. Apparently Ms. Horsley was talking about one of her students, who wasn't participating in her class.

  “Come on, Andrea,” the principal said. “You are a teacher, for Christ's sake! Do your job and work a little harder with the boy.”

  Silver turned and noticed a scruffy-looking boy sitting silently at the other end of the room, staring impassively at the walls. She knew immediately they were referring to him. His clothes were tattered, and his hair was so nappy it was turning into beaded dreads from lack of combing.

  Ms. Horsley spoke, her voice heavy with frustration. “Listen, Bill, I'm a teacher, not a miracle worker. The boy needs to be in a special ed program or something—he can't read, he can't even write. I have other students I have to focus on instead of trying to teach the boy his ABC's! No,” she said, “there's nothing I can possibly do for him, and to be quite honest with you, I personally think the boy is retarded or something.”

  “Anything else?” the principal asked, defeated.

  “A bath from time to time wouldn't hurt him, either. He smells like raw sewage!”

  Silver looked at the sad-looking boy, but he showed no emotion or reaction to the cruel words the teacher said about him.

  It was sixth period at Junior High School 196, lunchtime for all the seventh graders. Silver had just gotten off the canteen line a
fter purchasing some butter crunch cookies and chocolate milk. No seventh grader in their right mind would be caught dead eating a school lunch. Silver, still fuming over receiving two days’ detention, spotted the boy she had seen in the principal's office earlier that day. He sat alone in the corner of the cafeteria eating a tray of hot dogs and pork and beans. Silver watched him for a moment, ignoring Missy and the rest of their crew as they waved for her to come and sit with them. Having the same compassion for the less fortunate as her mother did, Silver decided to go and sit with the lonely little boy.

  As Silver approached him, the students in the cafeteria looked on in silence as she placed her cookies and milk on the table in front of him. When she sat down, the boy stopped chewing and stiffened. Silver didn't have any classes with him because she was in the advanced and gifted program.

  Silver watched the timid little boy shiver like a wet puppy, and she began to feel even sorrier for him. She decided to break the ice. “So how long you been coming to this school?”

  “Not long,” he mumbled, mouth full of food.

  Silver could not understand him. “Excuse me?”

  Embarrassed, he quickly gulped down the remaining food. “Not real long,” he repeated.

  “So, what's your name?”

  Face still averted, he answered, “Chance.”

  Silver frowned. “Chance … what kind of name is that?”

  His eyes remained on his food. “Well, my real name is Chancellor … Chancellor Haze. But I don't like it, so I just tell people to call me Chance for short.”

  “I think Chancellor is a beautiful name,” Silver said. “But if you prefer to be called Chance, I'll respect that.” She smiled. “My name is Silver.”

  As if he was talking to his food, he shrugged. “Silver,” he said. “And you talkin’ ‘bout my name?”

  Silver chuckled. “You're right. I should be the last person to talk about names.”

  “How'd you get a name like that?” he asked, still looking at his food.

  As if she had answered the question a million times already, Silver opened up her milk and said, “Well, when I was born, the nurse was cradling me in her arms when I opened my eyes. She said to my mother, ‘Oh, what beautiful eyes she has … they look almost silver. What is her name?’ She handed me to my mother, who took one look at me and said, ‘That's her name. Silver … Silver Jones.’ “

  Silver picked up her napkin, wiped her hands, and extended one of them for him to shake. He didn't notice her hand at first, so she waved it to get his attention. He quickly shook it and pulled back.

  Silver smiled widely and said, “Now it's official. That makes us friends, right?”

  Chance shrugged and said, “I guess.”

  “And since we are friends now …” Silver bent lower to get his attention. “I ask but one favor.”

  “What?” Chance looked up suspiciously and then lowered his eyes again.

  Silver answered seriously, “When we talk, I would appreciate it if you looked at me when you do, okay?”

  Slowly, Chance raised his head and looked into her smiling face.

  Chapter 2

  UPTOWN, HARLEM

  The train station at 116th and Lenox was noticeably empty as a tall and exceptionally beautiful woman wearing a blond wig emerged up the stairs. Jessica Jones, whom everyone called Jesse, was returning home from a long evening shift of carnal exchange. Jesse had a statuesque, almost regal look about her. She took long, confident strides in her white knee-high boots and seemed oblivious to the freezing temperature. She wore only a short buck leather skirt and matching jacket. Jesse had grown accustomed to the cold. As she turned the corner, a powerful gust of wind greeted her head on, breaking her stride and causing her to readjust her wig. Everyone in the neighborhood came alive when they saw Jesse round the corner, from local merchants opening their sturdy black gates to downtrodden winos who slumbered about waiting for the liquor store or check-cashing place to open.

  “Whassup, Miz Jesse?” Stickbroom Johnny, an old toothless man who delivered newspapers around the neighborhood from door to door, greeted her.

  “Hey, Stickbroom. What was Brooklyn last night?”

  Even though no one was within twenty feet of them, Stick-broom Johnny cautiously peeked around with his bugged eyes.

  “Seven twenty-eight,” he whispered.

  Though Stickbroom was older than dirt, he had the mentality of a ten-year-old; everyone from the neighborhood loved and took care of him because of his contagious sense of humor. He was particularly famous for knowing anything and everything that was going on in the neighborhood. If anybody wanted to know who was fucking whom and who was getting fat, you need only ask Stickbroom. “I dun put ya paper at yo doow, Miz Jesse.”

  “Thanks, Johnny,” Jesse said, handing him a dollar. “I'll throw you something extra on my way back down, okay?”

  “I sho’ appreciate, Miz Jesse,” he said with a gummy smile.

  One by one, people on the street greeted her or asked for some spare change, which she gave them. This was her neighborhood, and she was happy to help them out.

  Turning the corner on 117th and Eighth, Jesse slowed when she saw Mitts, the neighborhood's most notorious dope fiend. Mitts was one of those grotesque dope fiends who had repulsively swollen arms and legs from years of heroin abuse; it made him look like Popeye the Sailor Man. Everybody called him Mitts because he had hands that were the size of catchers’ mitts. No one could bear the sight of him because of the legion of crust-filled, pus-induced sores that covered his hands and body. Because of poor eyesight and cataracts, he wore thick dark glasses to prevent sun exposure. Seeing Jesse, he nervously rocked back and forth, because he knew the kindhearted Jesse was a sure score. As she approached, he extended his freakishly huge hands toward her. Jesse stared at him as he squirmed like he had to pee real bad. Because of his addiction, butterflies in his stomach gave him the urge to defecate. Feeling sorry for him, she reached inside her purse and handed him ten dollars. Taking the bill, he strained to see the denomination as he held it close to his dark glasses. Once again he began to rock back and forth, for ten dollars wasn't nearly enough to get past his morning sickness. Seeing his reluctance, Jesse reached inside her bra, peeled off a twenty, and handed it to him. He snatched the bill and raced off down the block toward the nearest shooting gallery for his wake-up, or as they say in the streets, his “breakfast.” Jesse knew firsthand how it felt to have the beast on her back.

  King Heroin—the ultimate slave master! In Harlem and throughout the free world, it is known by many pseudonyms: “smack,” “H,” “P-funk,” “boy,” “horse,” “snow,” “diesel,” “dope,” or “D,” but no matter what you call it, it'll eventually be called one thing: death, a slow and miserable one. To many who used it, it was the closest they'd ever get to heaven on earth. But to all who were hooked, it was a guarantee of hell on earth. Jesse had been off the poison for six months now, after vowing never to use the cunning, baffling, and insidious drug ever again, not only for her own sake, but to avoid the hell she put her daughter through.

  Jesse put the entire episode with Mitts out of her mind and continued about her business. She heard a loud commotion coming from the alley and stopped in midstride. Normally Jesse would abide by the ghetto's golden rule of “hear no evil, see no evil,” but she faintly recognized the voice and took a chance.

  Stepping over a jungle of dirty hypodermic needles, broken wine bottles, and trash, she happened upon a man brutally beating another man with the butt of his gun. Edging closer, she stepped on a fragment of bottle, crushing it and alerting the man to her presence. In one swift move, he turned his weapon toward the unwanted intruder. Jesse instantly lost her breath as she stared down the barrel. Frightened, she quickly threw her hands up. “Chubby!” Jesse said quickly “It's me, Jesse!”

  The generously proportioned man squinted to see who was disturbing his business. After recognizing her, he lowered his weapon, smiled widely, and began rockin
g back and forth like Stevie Wonder. He took a Tootsie Pop out of his mouth and said, “Oh, shit … Jesse, that you? Fuck you doing back here?”

  Jesse dropped her hands in relief and stepped closer. Staring down at the beaten and bloodied man beneath him, she recognized Dupree, a neighborhood kid who used to hustle coke for Chubbs.

  Chubbs lived on 116th Street between Manhattan and Morningside Avenues. He was big, black, and the meanest motherfucker on the black side of Harlem. A diagnosed manic-depressive with horrible mood swings, he stayed on medication to keep him out of the mood of premeditated murder, as per the New York State Mental Board and stipulations in his parole. But it was apparent the meds weren't working. Chubbs had four older brothers, all felons who'd been doing dirt since they came out of Pampers. Vonda, Chubbs’ older sister, had been Jesse's best friend since grade school. Their family had taken Jesse in when her mother kicked her out when she got pregnant with Silver at fifteen, and she'd lived with them for nearly two years. Even though Chubbs owned many legitimate businesses such as bars, a barbershop, and some Laundromats, he remained street. Money to Chubbs didn't mean a thing—it just came along with being a gangster. He and his four brothers had grown up with artistic backgrounds—they'd perfected the art of stick-ups, the art of kidnapping, and the art of extortion, and they made use of those skills on drug dealers. The only thing sweet about Chubbs was the Tootsie Pops he had a habit of sucking.

  Though Chubbs had many faults, the neighborhood loved him—especially the older folks. His minor transgressions were overlooked as inconsequential because he kept the neighborhood safe from petty thieves and stick-up kids who preyed on women and the elderly. Chubbs had hated that kind ever since one of them robbed his mother years ago. Legend had it that one crackhead had made the unfortunate mistake of robbing a seventy-three-year-old neighborhood lady of her social security check as she exited the check-cashing place at 116th and Eighth. That same day, Chubbs and his brothers found the man, threw him inside the trunk of their car, and drove off. The next morning the police found the man completely naked, beaten to a bloody pulp, and an inch away from death. He was gagged and tied to the very gate of the check-cashing place where he'd robbed the old lady, a bloody note pinned to his flesh that read, “I will not rob my neighbors ever again,” written one hundred times. After that, needless to say, niggers took their chances robbing white folks downtown before fucking around in the hood.