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Authors: Nikki Turner
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what I’m talking about, Calliope thought. Two things Calliope did as well as she boosted: dance and count. Utilizing the latter skill she quickly ran the retail numbers of the hot goods off the top of her head, cut the total in half, and said, “Oh, for you, bitch, just give me eighteen hundred…”
“Done.” Mocha plucked a Gucci wallet from her Gucci purse and practically threw eighteen Franklins at Calliope. Then, already looking ahead, she asked, “Have you seen the new-style Cavalli jeans?”
Calliope had a pair already for herself, too bad she and Mocha weren’t the same size, or she would’ve let ’em go with the quickness. She said, “I know the ones…”
“Can you get ’em?”
Calliope rolled her eyes at what she hoped was a rhetorical question, then answered, “Does a fat bitch eat cake?” Before Mocha could answer, “I will have them by tomorrow for you.”
Grinning, Mocha said, “Cool. That’s why I fucks wit you…’cause you be ’bout it, ’bout it.”
7
It was only a four-block hop, skip, and jump from Mocha’s pad to Mabel’s.
The words to the Master P song “Bout It, Bout It” echoed inside of Calliope’s head the entire way. Mocha giving her such an endorsement was a big deal for Calliope. Though she would never admit it, she really looked up to Mocha. It was something about the way she carried herself that she admired.
Not that she was a groupie or a follower. In fact, she was far from it. But Calliope had to admit, it felt hella good to be recognized as a heavyweight by other people that really had it going on.
’Bout it, ’bout it.
Easing the key that Mabel had given her into the bottom lock on the front door of the house, she let herself inside the cool-blowing AC, welcoming the chilly embrace. If she could, Calliope would’ve hugged it back—because it was hella hot outside, and anybody who didn’t have air—God blessed their soul.
The house was empty. That was one of the few pluses about living with Mabel. That lady never let no grass grow under her foot so she was always gone, if not out with her friends, then on some trip somewhere with the other golden girls, which allowed Calliope and Compton to come and go as they pleased. The siblings felt like they had the independence of living on their own even though they lived in Mabel’s house and were still confined to certain areas of the house.
Today, Mabel was probably at bingo, Calliope thought, and—glancing at her watch—Compton’s bus wasn’t due for another twenty minutes. Enough time to run a quick shower and change clothes. Though still not of age, she had many responsibilities, and while there was money to go get, she was going to get it to take care of her and her brother. She planned to catch the bus back out to Aventura Mall to poach those Jean-Claudes for Mocha and didn’t want to be wearing the same fit she’d rocked earlier today. That would sure send a red flag.
A couple of clerks wouldn’t have noticed a pregnant elephant taking a dump, but it was better to err on the side of caution.
She took nothing for granted—that was a rule that she had adapted. She understood how nothing was owed to her and it could all be taken away from her in the blink of an eye.
For some odd reason, under the pulsating spray of the double showerheads, Calliope thought about her mother. She wondered what bullshit her mother was caught up in now. And what would happen if they caught up with her? With Big Jack being dead and all would she be held responsible? Even though sometimes it seemed they made the laws up as they went along. They would find something to convict her of, leaving the kids or conspiracy. However, if Shelly was guilty of anything, it would be her unquenchable thirst to be validated by a man.
Calliope prayed that those traits weren’t genetically inheritable flaws lying dormant within her DNA. She wanted to be nothing like her mother; in fact she wanted to be everything her
“Done.” Mocha plucked a Gucci wallet from her Gucci purse and practically threw eighteen Franklins at Calliope. Then, already looking ahead, she asked, “Have you seen the new-style Cavalli jeans?”
Calliope had a pair already for herself, too bad she and Mocha weren’t the same size, or she would’ve let ’em go with the quickness. She said, “I know the ones…”
“Can you get ’em?”
Calliope rolled her eyes at what she hoped was a rhetorical question, then answered, “Does a fat bitch eat cake?” Before Mocha could answer, “I will have them by tomorrow for you.”
Grinning, Mocha said, “Cool. That’s why I fucks wit you…’cause you be ’bout it, ’bout it.”
7
It was only a four-block hop, skip, and jump from Mocha’s pad to Mabel’s.
The words to the Master P song “Bout It, Bout It” echoed inside of Calliope’s head the entire way. Mocha giving her such an endorsement was a big deal for Calliope. Though she would never admit it, she really looked up to Mocha. It was something about the way she carried herself that she admired.
Not that she was a groupie or a follower. In fact, she was far from it. But Calliope had to admit, it felt hella good to be recognized as a heavyweight by other people that really had it going on.
’Bout it, ’bout it.
Easing the key that Mabel had given her into the bottom lock on the front door of the house, she let herself inside the cool-blowing AC, welcoming the chilly embrace. If she could, Calliope would’ve hugged it back—because it was hella hot outside, and anybody who didn’t have air—God blessed their soul.
The house was empty. That was one of the few pluses about living with Mabel. That lady never let no grass grow under her foot so she was always gone, if not out with her friends, then on some trip somewhere with the other golden girls, which allowed Calliope and Compton to come and go as they pleased. The siblings felt like they had the independence of living on their own even though they lived in Mabel’s house and were still confined to certain areas of the house.
Today, Mabel was probably at bingo, Calliope thought, and—glancing at her watch—Compton’s bus wasn’t due for another twenty minutes. Enough time to run a quick shower and change clothes. Though still not of age, she had many responsibilities, and while there was money to go get, she was going to get it to take care of her and her brother. She planned to catch the bus back out to Aventura Mall to poach those Jean-Claudes for Mocha and didn’t want to be wearing the same fit she’d rocked earlier today. That would sure send a red flag.
A couple of clerks wouldn’t have noticed a pregnant elephant taking a dump, but it was better to err on the side of caution.
She took nothing for granted—that was a rule that she had adapted. She understood how nothing was owed to her and it could all be taken away from her in the blink of an eye.
For some odd reason, under the pulsating spray of the double showerheads, Calliope thought about her mother. She wondered what bullshit her mother was caught up in now. And what would happen if they caught up with her? With Big Jack being dead and all would she be held responsible? Even though sometimes it seemed they made the laws up as they went along. They would find something to convict her of, leaving the kids or conspiracy. However, if Shelly was guilty of anything, it would be her unquenchable thirst to be validated by a man.
Calliope prayed that those traits weren’t genetically inheritable flaws lying dormant within her DNA. She wanted to be nothing like her mother; in fact she wanted to be everything her
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