The Glamorous Life 2 (7 page)

Thank God that she was able to salvage a few of her and Compton’s things and some of the clothes from their old house. Luckily Big Jack had some things with tags still on them that she was able to sell to the neighborhood boys for a few bucks. It was only by the grace of God that money was still there in the jeans that she had on the day before all of the gunplay started.

Boy, were the two of them grateful. There was a God, and he was shining on them.

Now, living with Mabel was a hell of a lot better than The Home, but make no mistake about it, it was still quite a sandwich short of a picnic. Believe that. To hold up her end of the bargain Calliope had to pretty much quit school. She had no idea that making enough money to feed and clothe Compton and herself ate up a lot of time and trying to juggle the two were almost impossible, and so that they could eat, school had to go or be put on the back burner for now. At least that’s what she told herself anyway. Her hustle of choice or necessity depending on perspective was boosting … utilizing the five-finger discount.

Calliope had never really stolen anything before but proved to be pretty skilled at it, after losing her virginity to the supermarket. Her first: a few packs of lunchmeat from the local store. Then came toiletries, underclothes, and cosmetics. Once she got more experienced at reading the floor workers and concealing the merchandise, she upped her game. The malls were where the real money was at and the labels and designers were all that she ever really longed for. It was her first real sip of the good life and it was the well that she wished to drink from—and with her talent, her taste for it was an acquired one. Getting the highest fashion in her possession for her and her brother was not only an adrenaline rush but also definitely her drug. Once introduced to her new vice, it became less about survival and more about feeding her habit: love for the finer things in life.

Six months hands-on on-the-job training and Calliope was a budding pro perfecting her craft to get any and everything that she wanted or desired. She was now able to get in and out in no time. She had it down to a science, figuring out the best times to go, and after learning how to use her time wisely, she started back at the new school at the beginning of the school year. From day one, both she and Compton had a huge fan club. People couldn’t wait to see what they would wear. Of course neither Calliope nor Compton uttered a word of how they were able to afford such expensive clothes. So people, their peers and teachers, automatically assumed that their family was somehow involved in drugs.

Funny how with the fan club and popularity came not only lots of friends but foes, and most were haters hand over foot. Honestly Calliope loved every second of it. It all motivated her and she understood that rocking the flyest and freshest stuff to school would bring the haters and the stragglers and she welcomed it all. Compton was most appreciative of how his sister had him laced, and he loved the attention.

Calliope was sure that G.G. had noticed, especially the new huge posh towels and eight-hundred-thread-count sheets that she had brought into the house. But G.G. didn’t part her lips to ask any questions. And Calliope took a page from the army: don’t ask, don’t tell.

Calliope discovered that one of the trade tricks was to dress the part; she had to rock the flyest gear if she didn’t want to stand out stealing it. But being dipped in designer labels did get her noticed outside of the stores.

That’s how she cut into a chick named Mocha. Fresh recognized fresh … it always took one bona fide diva to recognize another. Mocha lived a few blocks down the street from Mabel’s house. The lady dressed like she should have been in the pages of a fashion magazine every single day. Her walk was something to catch anybody’s attention; her strut should’ve been on a runway, the way Mocha acted as if she owned wherever her footsteps went. Calliope loved how Mocha carried herself with a sense of seductiveness. Calliope would watch as she came and went and studied her mannerisms. From up the block, looking down it seemed like Mocha had two boyfriends, both who drove European engineering. She always looked like she stepped out of some fashion magazine when she left and more times than not she returned with a few high-end department store bags. The stores that Calliope had mastered were the same ones that Mocha frequented.

Mocha turned out to be her best customer. Actually, Mocha was her only paying customer. “What you got for a bitch like me?” Mocha asked eagerly from the edge of the sofa.

Calliope unveiled two Roberto Cavalli outfits and three dresses from Caché.

Mocha, twenty-four years old with a banging body and a cuter face, only wore top-shelf designers. And had a dude wrapped around her finger that would gift wrap the moon for her if he could.

Inside, Calliope smiled when she peeped the glow that shone in Mocha’s hazel contact lenses.

“I didn’t even know these were in the stores yet,” she gushed, grabbing for the YSL pumps. “These mofos are smoking hot. And this wine color is gonna go fab with that dress you got me the other day. How much?”

Calliope secretly envied Mocha. The girl had everything she wanted. And what she didn’t have, she got. If Mocha had any problems at all, money was not one of them. The items she was asking about originally had a retail price of over four grand. “Give two g’s.” Calliope bartered high.

Mocha didn’t bat not one fake eyelash. “I’m talking ’bout for everything, bitch—how much for it all?”

That’s 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 mother wasn’t. A strong woman, who made her own money, controlled her own destiny, and depended on a man for nothing. She only wanted to be with a man because she wanted to, not because she needed him to be her puppet master to contribute to her survival.

Though she had not been with a man and had never experienced the real love of a man, she knew what she would accept and what she wouldn’t. It was simple like that. In fact she had started making a list. But having a boyfriend now was one of the last things on her mind, for now she had other responsibilities to take care of. Besides making sure her brother was taken care of, she wanted to make sure that she looked her best and felt her best. After all how could she have an above-average guy if she was subpar? So being the best Calliope on the outside and inside was the goal.

Her thoughts were interrupted by her brother’s scream.

“Calliopppee! Where are you?”

He never sounded this happy when they were with Shelly. Ever.

“Coming out the shower,” she called back to him. “Go make yourself a turkey and cheese sandwich while I get dressed.”

She heard his feet scurrying to the kitchen, and then his voice: “Gonna eat some chicken tenders instead. You want some?”

“Nope, but make sure you clean up your mess.”

Done toweling off, wearing nothing but her birthday suit, Calliope got an eyeful of herself in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. Turned to the side then forward again. Returning her gaze wasn’t the reflection of a little girl anymore. Her breasts were already bigger than a lot of grown women’s, and they pointed north and got the attention of the North Star. And when she wore light Jean-Claudes, her butt turned the heads of teenage boys as well as grown men.

Her mother’s genes indeed … they weren’t all bad.

After a light dusting of MAC cosmetics, she put on Roberto Cavalli Jean-Claudes, and a white fitted Cavalli button-up shirt with cleavage peeking out. She slid on her strappy wedge-heel sandals, showing off her freshly painted pedicure. She was all set. Divalicious.

Compton was watching a rerun of
The Cosby Show
when she came down the stairs.

“Where are you going?” he asked as if she was his pimp.

“Out.” She kissed him on the head and he quickly wiped it away. “Please, clean up your mess. You know we don’t wanna hear Mabel’s mouth. And don’t leave out the house, okay? And if Mabel gets home before me, not that she’d ask, tell her that I’ll be back soon.”

“Okay,” said Compton, eyes back on the TV screen. “But when you get home Ima kick yo butt in Madden.”

“You wish you could.” She tossed a pillow at him. “I got the last lick and ran out the house.”

Inside the mall, hordes of people bustled about at frantic paces trying to cash in on the best sales.

Calliope hopped on the escalator to the upper level. Weaving back and forth, trying to dodge through the mobs of rabid shoppers, she slowed down once she reached the store that carried the Jean-Claudes that Mocha had ordered. Inside was no different than all the other spots packed like sardines.

None of their things were even on sale, not even on the first of the month.

The first thing Calliope did was scan her surroundings. The clerk: the same one from earlier.
Shit, I thought this chick would be off.
Three other girls walked the floor offering help to the people that looked like they couldn’t afford to shop there, making sure nothing got stuck to their fingers, or inside a boosting girdle.

No one paid Calliope any mind. The lick she was killing screamed money and good taste. Babelicious.

She strutted straight over to the product she wanted, no aimless wandering around—fake window shopping.

With three pairs of Cavallis along with the pair in her hand, tightly folded, and tucked into what was practically an empty purse, she walked around the store. She hid the buzzers she’d removed under some other clothing. A couple belts and a pair of shirts and she was done. That was a wrap.

Now it was time to exit stage left.

Head held high, she waltzed toward the exit, and that’s when the buzzer went off. One of the salesladies said, “Can I see your bag?”

“Sure,” said a brunette too pale to be a native Floridian. The brunette handed the saleswoman her shopping bag. Probably a mistake, the saleswoman said with an apologetic expression and tone of voice.

“I’m sure it is,” the brunette said.

Calliope exhaled, feeling a bit relieved, but kept it moving like she hadn’t the foggiest idea what was really going on, until she felt a hand on her shoulder. “Excuse me, miss.”

8

Her stomach felt like
a fat chick in a broken elevator. “I’m store special security,” the man said, identifying himself. “I’m going to need for you to walk with me.”