Anatomy of a Girl Gang (9781551525303) (13 page)

Mac called around six, askin if I was hungry, said she was gonna meet up with the others at an Italian restaurant on Commercial, but I didn't feel like goin. Didn't feel like bein around all those beautiful hipsters and uptown mods, havin them all stare at my dog-food face. Especially since I was high.

Are you sure? Mac said. We can come pick you up.

Yeaah, no, I'm fine. I'll just order a pizza or somethin.

Okay, well, we'll see you when we get home then.

See you later, alligator. After I bagged up all the fresh, new, milky-white rocks, I decided to go down to Crack Alley for a bit and make some money. I knew the other girls had been out doin dirt all day with the ATMs, boosting and car stuff. I knew they would all be comin home with wads of cash, eh. And I wanted to, too.

I knew I wasn't really sposed to go out alone at night, but what the fuck? I'd lived out there for half a year on my own, hadn't I? I knew how to handle myself out there. I remembered to take my phone so I could call for backup if I needed to. I also
got my .22 out of the closet and shoved it in my jacket pocket. I'd never fired it, but I liked to have it on me just in case, cuz you never know who you're gonna run into down there.

VANCOUVER

In an alley in the East End, there is a muffled scream that no one cares to hear. It bounces against the buildings and then is lost to the night. Then there is the silvery flash of a blade. There are thuds of skull hitting pavement, boots to bones, and flesh pounding into flesh.

The girl on the ground behind the dumpster came from elsewhere; she's the one with the crinkly eye. She keeps her eyes closed, doesn't move, while two men—boys, really—take from her everything they can. Her wrist is broken, her nose is broken, her rib is broken, she bleeds. She bleeds. The soft grey rain falls around her.

Her blood mixes with the rainwater and runs in dark rivulets into the low places in the alley; it pools with the urine and vomit of others who were here before. The boys cackle and slap each other's hands as they zip up their pants and sprint down the alley, their boots clicking over the pavement.

MAC

I love eating out at fancy restaurants, man. I don't know why, I always have. It just makes me feel normal for awhile, I guess. You know what I mean?

No?

Well, it's like, if you're out at a restaurant, being waited on, ordering food, ordering drinks, looking around at the other customers, you're inside, out of the rain. How bad can it be? Anyone eating at a restaurant has it pretty good, if you ask me. It means you're not dirt poor. It means you like yourself enough to treat yourself. And if you're not alone, well, that means somebody else likes you enough to share a meal with you.

So anyways, me, Z, Mercy, and Kayos went for dinner at this upscale Italian place on Commercial Drive called Lucia's. We'd had a good day; we wanted to splurge a little. Before I'd even ordered, I could feel people from other tables staring at me, at us. I saw some people whispering. Some greasy guys at the bar turned to look at us—Mafia guys, maybe. Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking. Paranoid, right? But just because you're paranoid doesn't mean people aren't out to get you. There's only so much to go around in this town, know what I mean?

I should've expected this. I don't know. I guess I thought we'd be more low profile than we are. But now I realize that was stupid. Look at us, G'd up from the feet up; all dressed in black, flashing bling, all packing. Yep, just four regular girls out to enjoy some spaghetti and meatballs! Is that normal? I hardly
know anymore. I guess I'm just glad I prefer Italian food to Vietnamese. There's no way we could go in there. They know who we are, and they want us gone. I've seen where they've crossed out our name on the walls, written their own above. I've seen their girls in purple, glaring at us on the street. I just duck my head and keep walking. Avoid eye contact. Pretend like I'm no one. I don't need to start a beef with anyone, man. That's not what I'm about. I don't think that Black Roses' ad campaign was the smartest idea, now everyone knows who we are. I know that was the point, but it's not the way it should've been done. I see that now.

As our waitress set my plate in front of me, my phone buzzed. I checked the text. It was from Sly Girl. Her message said: 911 crak ally. I looked at my spaghetti, steaming red and smelling so good. I looked at the others, happily digging into their food. I threw two bills on the table and stood up. We gotta go.

VANCOUVER

Lights flicker around the girl's head; headlights bouncing off the wet pavement. She does not open her eyes. She lies perfectly still for a very long time. Later she stirs, reaches into her pocket, presses buttons. She touches the rose tattoo on her arm and waits.

Then they come for her. Her friends, the other four, come, and they wrap her in a blanket and heave her into the back of their tiny car. The spot where she fell glows red in the darkness of the alley.

MERCY

What the fuck happened to you? What the fuck happened to her?
Kayos is screaming in Sly Girl's face, then in my face, then in Mac's. She is flipping the fuck out. I'm trying to drive but keep looking in the rear-view at Sly Girl. She is bleeding, her face is all puffy, and her bottom lip is the size of a donut. She's stretched out across Kayos's lap. Kayos is holding her hand and smoothing her hair away from her face. There is blood in her hair, and Kayos wipes her hand on her new pants. Sly Girl looks like she is pretty goddamn close to dying, but she doesn't want to go to a hospital. We know because she said no hospital. That's about the only thing she's said. I park in front of our house, and we all carry her inside. Put her on the couch, cover her in blankets. I bring her a bag of frozen peas for her face. Kayos brings her a shot of Jack Daniel's and a tea. Mac sits down beside her on the couch and tries to clean her face with a wet washcloth.

Who did this to you?

Sly takes short, shallow breaths. You can tell she is trying really hard not to cry.

These two crackheads … jumped me in the alley … took everything … all the rock, the cash, then they … they … I'm sorry, Mac. I'm so sorry. She starts to cry.

It's okay, Sly. I could give a fuck about the money or the rock. That shit doesn't matter. What matters is you. You're hurt. I think we should take you to the hospital.

No!
No hospital! Fuck that!

This is the first time any of us have ever heard Sly Girl raise her voice.

Okay, okay. Just relax. Mac looks over at me, eyebrows up, turns back to Sly. Is anything broken? Can you walk?

I don't know.

Do you want to try?

No. I want to die.

Mac sighs and daubs at the blood around Sly's nose.

Owww!

Sorry.

We're gonna kill those motherfuckers, Kayos says, pacing the room, her eyes hard and bright. Tell us what they looked like.

Sly starts to cry again, and I go kneel on the floor beside her head, look into her good eye. Sly, honey. Did they rape you?

She nods and hides her face in the couch, sobs racking her body.

We all look at each other. I see a tear slide down Kayos's face. Her fists are balled up and she seems to be vibrating.

Jesus, Mac says.

Cocksuckers! We'll chop their dicks off! Kayos kicks and slashes the air.

Maybe we should go to that walk-in clinic, Z mumbles.

I think we should definitely take her to the hospital. She needs to get tested, says Mac. She'll get the morning-after pill, probably some stitches, a cast, and whatever else—

I'm not going to the fuckin hospital so you can all just fuck off!
Sly Girl screams between sobs.

Okay. Okay. Just relax. We're going to get you through this. Promise. I give her a tiny smile, then go to the kitchen and mix two parts vinegar with one part water in a plastic pop bottle. I don't know if it will do anything, but I figure it's better than nothing. I go back to the living room. Help me get her into the shower.

KAYOS

It's totally fucked up what happened to Sly Girl. I swear to God, I'm gonna kill the two fucks who did this to her.

Mercy and Mac put her in the shower. Then Mac gave me fifty bucks and sent me down to the 24-hour pharmacy to get her the morning-after pill.

Can I drive?

Do you have your licence?

I got my N.

Alright, go. Take Z with you.

The pharmacy is just around the corner. I eye up all the Oxycontin bottles behind the counter, and think about how much we could make selling those little gems on the street. I imagine I'm Matt Dillon's girlfriend in
Drugstore Cowboy
, and we just sweep the entire shelf into a pillowcase and take off. Then I remember why I'm there. I'm afraid I might be pregnant and need to get the morning-after pill. The white-haired pharmacist asks me to sign a form, and then he hands over the Plan B. I pay the cashier at the front. It's too easy. Jesus Christ, I wish I'd thought of this. Then I wouldn't have my stepdad's kid. But I was too young to know what to do then. I was barely thirteen.

Z buys a first-aid kit, some Polysporin, and acetaminophen with codeine. We zip back to the pad, and they've got Sly all tucked into bed. Mac and Mercy stand in the corner of the room. They stop talking when we come in. I sit on Sly's bed and pop the little pink pill out of the blister pack and tell her everything's gonna be okay. Watch her swallow it with water.
Her face is all puffed up like a koala bear, purply black bruises spreading around her eyes.

Z opens up the first-aid kit. What first?

Sly Girl struggles to pull up her shirt and removes a bloody washcloth, revealing a two-inch gash beneath her right breast.

I look away, feel the bile rise up the back of my throat. Swallow.

Yikes. Alright, let's clean that up and get some gauze on it, okay? Z says.

Uh-huh.

Z pours some clear liquid into the wound.

Sly Girl sucks her teeth.

We all suck our teeth.

Breathe, Z says.

It hurts to breathe.

Try humming.

What?

Humming. You know. Like a song.

What should I hum?

How bout, “You Are My Sunshine”? I say, and start humming it.

Z hums it too, then Mercy, then Mac. Finally, Sly Girl does too. We are all humming while Z tapes layers and layers of white absorbent bandages over Sly's wound until we can't see the dark blood oozing through anymore. Then she gets out a Q-tip and applies some Polysporin to the cuts on Sly Girl's face. Her hands are quick and careful. She's like pro-medic, yo. It's impressive. For real.

Here, take two of these and call me in the morning, Z says with a half-smile. She shakes two pills out of the bottle.

Wait. Mac grabs the bottle out of her hand. She can't have these.

Why not?

There's codeine in them.

Yeah, I know. That's why I got them.

Just give her another shot of whiskey.

Yeah, sure, she can wash the pills down with it.

Z, can I talk to you outside?

They go out of the room.

I look over at Mercy. Uh-oh, trouble in paradise.

Sly Girl half-laughs, and then moans.

Shh, just try to lay still, Mercy says. She goes to the window, raises the blind, and peeks out. Sly Girl moans again, coughs. Poor thing. She looks hella rough. We probably should have taken her to the hospital. For real. Obviously she needs something stronger than regular acetaminophen. I don't know what Mac's problem is. She can be a real bitch sometimes.

MAC

Can I talk to you alone for a minute? I took Z's wrist and pulled her outside Sly Girl's bedroom.

What the fuck, babe? It's just acetaminophen.

It's acetaminophen with codeine, Z.

So what?

So, Sly Girl is a heroin addict.

Is or was?

Same thing.

Z rolled her eyes at me, but she didn't know. She didn't know a goddamn thing about it. So? What? You think codeine is gonna make her relapse or some shit?

I nodded.

Oh, come on! You're not serious.

I've seen it happen before. When I was around eleven or twelve, my mom went straight. She was doing real good, clean for two, maybe three months, then she twisted her ankle, just stepped on it the wrong way, wearing her ridiculous platform shoes, and the doctor gave her T3s for the pain. That did it. Put the taste for opiates right back into her. Next morning, she was hobbling down Hastings, looking for a fix. But who would believe that? Who would even care?

We heard Sly Girl groan from inside the room.

I'm giving them to her. She was fucking
stabbed
, Mac. The girl's in pain. Her nose is broken, obviously. Maybe a rib. Who knows what else? I can't stand by and do nothing when I could be helping her. She twisted the knob and slipped through the door.