Moments after we entered the store, Dot would come in: cleaned, showered, neatly dressed, and looking like the perfect little white citizen. By the time Dot walked in, the clerks and security were so focused on me and my crew, they never even noticed her.

We'd continue to walk around, touch, and compare items we liked. The clerks and security guards were intensely watching us and following us around. They didn't bother trying to be inconspicuous about the fact that they had us under heavy surveillance, and they knew that we knew they were watching us. What they didn't know was that while they were watching us-so convinced that we were up to something-Dot was robbing them blind. She'd be stuffing clothes into her pants, her shirt, under her hat, in her underwear, anywhere they would fit. Hell, one time she stuck gloves, earrings, and a change purse into her shoes. And she wasn't even trying to be sly about it-she didn't have to. Everyone was so afraid of what my menacing little black crew were doing that no one was paying attention to her.

Once Dot couldn't get anything else into her hiding places, she'd calmly and slowly walk out of the store. We'd wait a moment to allow her to get far enough away, and then we'd stroll out, just as loud and as ghetto as when we'd come in. The security and salesclerks were always thrilled to see us go, patting themselves on the back and giving each other high fives for having "foiled" another shoplifting scheme.

We'd all meet around the corner. Then, together (we didn't trust each other to do it separately), we'd sell the loot to the coke man, the pawnshop, neighbors, people on the corner, or whoever would buy it, and split the money. We always got a good payoff because Dot stole only nice stuff that was always easy to sell: designer jeans and tops, cute little earrings, bracelets and necklaces, lovely picture frames, scarves, gloves, small purses, etc.

Dot never thought about trying to ditch us once leaving the store with the loot. She knew we'd track her down and whup her ass. Actually, I soon came to realize that Dot was excellent for this part of my scam because the person playing the "white girl" couldn't be afraid. She had to exude confidence and superiority. She had to be convinced of the fact that, as the white person, she was the good one, the safe one, the trustworthy one. If this attitude was not sufficiently projected, the store personnel would pick up on her anxiety and nervousness. But not with Dot; she was smooth. Although she was always around a bunch of black folks, she wasn't bothered by her white skin, which she used to her advantage and, in this case, ours.

We never worked the same store within the same month and of the twenty-five or thirty times we did it, we were never caught (of course we weren't doing anything but being ourselves). Nor was Dot ever caught when she worked with us. This scam worked every time. In fact, we would probably have continued it much longer than the few months we did except Dot got greedy-and cocky. She didn't believe us when we told her that the only reason she was able to get away with stealing like she did was because we were the diversion. Dot actually thought she was good at stealing and figured that, without us, she could keep all of the loot money herself. So one day she tried to run the scam solo. She went to a leather store and thought she was leaving with several pairs of leather pants, a leather jacket, purse, and gloves. She was busted before she even hit the door.

I never found a white girl smooth enough to replace Dot. So because of her greed, one of the greatest scams I'd ever created came to a crashing, sudden halt. That was all right. Being the hustler I was, sooner or later I'd find another way.

26.

AFTER LESS THAN a year at the Complex, Daddy said he wanted out. He said he was tired of the business, the hos, the constant traffic, and the lifestyle. When Daddy told me about his plans, I wasn't really shocked. I knew he had been unhappy for quite a while. The Complex's atmosphere was completely out of his element-it was too hard to constantly be around drunks, hos, and drug users when you weren't a drunk, ho, or druggie. He said Lori had been calling and inviting him to give her the opportunity to try to make a relationship with him again, and he'd finally decided to take her up on it. So Daddy would be moving to a new house with Lori and Kelly. He quickly added that I was welcome to come. He pointed out the fact that I didn't make enough from my business to live on my own, which meant I couldn't afford to stay in the apartment by myself without quickly going through what was left of my trust-fund money. He added that, more important, I needed a change in scenery.

I didn't really have any other choice. Daddy was right: I couldn't afford to stay there by myself, especially since I'd long been using more dope than I was selling. And maybe a change of scenery would help me get myself together. I told Daddy I'd go with him.

Our customers were sad to see us go. We always had good dope. Our neighbors were also sad to see us go. We always looked out for them and gladly shared our "party favors." Our landlord was sad to see us go, particularly since we were among the few tenants who consistently paid rent on time. The hos were sort of sorry to see us go, especially since Daddy was the only "business partner" they'd ever had that didn't take their money. On the other hand, they were used to moving around-it came with the territory.

Daddy and I packed up and left the Complex. We left the events and memories of the Complex at the Complex. No one, outside of customers, ever knew what went on there-until now.

- Lori took daddy back without question. She really loved him and was so glad to have him back, she said she didn't care what he'd done when he was gone. He and Lori rented a three-bedroom house in Skyline, an area east of San Diego. It was a nice house, with lots of large windows and a big front yard. Even though we no longer sold drugs, that didn't mean I couldn't use them. Hell, quitting drugs was never even considered. Wherever I went, the party came with me. I always found the party animals. Skyline was no different.

Since I'd returned to the San Diego area, Kelly and I would talk periodically, but we never really got close like we had been before my mother died. But that changed when we started living together in Skyline. Kelly also smoked weed and drank, so we quickly became inseparable party buddies. And as usual, Lori took care of Kelly's baby, Jason, so Kelly's motherhood never got in the way of our partying. We'd hear about a party that was happening at someone's house, and we'd just show up-not knowing a soul there and not having been invited. We didn't care. We'd walk in smiling and blowing kisses at people, waving to the crowd as if we were grand marshals on top of a beautifully decorated parade float, stopping to chitchat with everyone. Besides crashing parties, another of our favorite things to do was have midnight toga parties at the beach. We'd invite fifteen to twenty of our friends, bring along plenty of dope and booze, and build a huge bonfire. The rules were simple. You had to drink, smoke, snort, and wear a sheet draped around your body like a toga. At first, most of the men balked at the last requirement. But once they were completely smashed and wobbly from following the first three rules, they'd sloppily and drunkenly throw on a sheet-most times with nothing on underneath. Then we'd spend hours dancing around the bonfire while, at the top of our lungs, screaming, "Toga! Toga! Toga!" It was a stupid thing to do-and I loved it.

It was at one of these toga parties that Victor, a good friend and regular partier, talked to me about my drug use. He insinuated that I might have a problem with drugs.

Me? A problem with drugs? Shit, only problem I got is when I ain't got any!

I chuckled at my own joke. Damn, I was funny. Victor was looking at me oddly. Like he was trying to figure out whether I was chuckling or choking. I figured I should at least try to be serious.

"What makes you think I have a drug problem?" I asked. Now that I realized he was serious, I was insulted he'd suggest such a thing.

"Well, you don't go to school or work. In fact, you don't do shit. All you do is drink, drug, and party." He looked at me disgustedly, took a swig of Schlitz Malt Liquor, and staggered over to the bonfire to join the toga chanting.

I sat there and thought about what he said.

So that's it? All I got to do to be able to drink and use and not worry about folks thinking I got a "problem" is get a job or go to school? I could do that. I'd already tried working. It sucked. But I hadn't really tried school.

The following Monday, I set out to find a school. As I was flipping through the yellow pages looking for one, Kelly approached and asked me what I was doing. I proudly informed her I was going to school. At first she didn't say anything. She just stared at me, obviously perplexed. I ignored her and went back to looking. She stood there staring a few moments more. Finally, she turned and walked away.

I found a vocational school that offered a certificate in six months. That sounded good to me because six months was about all of the education I could stomach. At first Kelly had no interest in attending. Then she found out we would get five thousand dollars in student loans. Suddenly, she got a yearnin' to do some learnin'.

Kelly signed up for the legal-secretary program. I signed up for medical assistant. I figured they'd need someone like me to watch over the medicines. But I soon found out that before they'd let me handle meds, they wanted me to learn some medical terminology and biology. Problem was, I hated biology and couldn't remember any of the medical terms. There were way too many names of body parts, bones, and shit. Hell, to me a finger was a finger. But they wanted you to know all the different bones and veins in the damned thing! After miserably failing my first vocabulary test (I didn't get one answer correct), I approached the counselor about changing programs. He took one look at my exam and agreed. He suggested I join Kelly in the legal-secretary program. It was an excellent suggestion.

For some reason, the legal terms just came naturally to me. I could study the words the night before an exam (while smoking a joint and having a drink), and still do well enough to pass with a C- or D+. Kelly, on the other hand, hated it all. She hated the legal terminology and just couldn't get the shorthand. The only thing she did like about school was that Daddy and Lori kept Jason so she could attend classes. So she hung in there, at least till she got her student-loan check. Once the check cleared, Kelly's schedule changed, though she never told Daddy and Lori because she knew once they found out she'd quit, she'd have to stay at home with Jason. So she got up every morning, as though she were going to school, and rode to school with me. But once we got there, she never went in: she'd sit in the car, smoke weed, and sleep while I went to class.

I, on the other hand, actually enjoyed school, especially since there was no math or biology required. In fact, the hardest class I had to take was shorthand, which I loved. It too came naturally to me. And it soon became the perfect "tweak" for a speed freak like me. "Tweaking" is what speed freaks do to keep their hands and bodies moving while high on speed. Speed is an upper that charges you with such an incredible amount of energy that you have to do something with it or you'll go crazy. As a result, everyone on speed tweaks in one way or another.

There are numerous ways of tweaking, so long as the person is keeping her hands busy and moving quickly. Some people go on cleaning frenzies. They'll clean everything in the house-twice. Since I hated cleaning, this was never an option for me. Some people play card games, musical instruments, or anything else that can keep their hands occupied. I soon discovered that shorthand was an excellent way to tweak, even when I wasn't in class. I would sit in front of the TV and take down the news. Sometimes, I'd just sit with Kelly and other partiers and take down their conversations. They thought I was nuts. What none of us knew was that by practicing shorthand that often and that much, I was quickly improving my skills and speed. Within three months I was taking shorthand at seventy words per minute.

My regular snorting of meth and coke also provided plenty of energy to stay up for days at a time, and really gave me the extra oomph I needed to study the night before an exam. I was soon impressed with the fact that I was able to go to school, take shorthand faster than anyone else in my class, maintain a D+ average, and still party. No drug problems, here.

Three months after I started, I felt like I'd proved my point and was getting a little sick of getting up every morning to go out and gather up a bunch of useless skills. So I decided I needed to quit, but without looking as though I was quitting. It was a tricky problem, but I was up for it.

- The following week, I ditched class with Kelly. We were sitting in my car at the corner liquor store, smoking a joint. I was bitching about my dilemma when I noticed Sara walk into the store. Sara was a young black girl who worked in my school's records department. She was a pretty girl who prided herself on the fact that she was able to work and maintain her "get high." I understood this pride. A few minutes later, she walked out carrying a brown paper bag, which held the easily recognizable shape of a 40-ounce. She looked up and saw us. She immediately skipped over to the car and bent down to peer through my open window.

"Uuummmm, smells good in here," she hinted with a big smile.

I wasn't troubled about Sara knowing that I got high. I knew she was cool because we'd partied together before.

"Girl, get in," I said, giving her a big grin while opening the door and leaning my seat forward so she could crawl into the back.

Kelly handed her the joint. She handed Kelly the 40 she'd just bought. Kelly opened it and took a long swig. Sara took a long hit off the joint.

"Is somebody gonna give me something?" I snapped. Hell, it was my car and I wasn't smoking or drinking anything. They laughed as they simultaneously shoved the bottle and joint at me.

After taking a swig and a hit, I continued my bitching about how sick and tired I was of the whole school thing. Sara listened for a moment. Then she leaned forward, "How sick of it are you?"

"Very sick!" I snapped. Hasn't she been listening to a fucking word I've been saying?

"Well, if it's worth your money, I can make it worth your while," she stated quietly. She had my attention.

She said that for one hundred dollars cash she could "update" my records to reflect I'd completed all of the required courses, making me eligible for my certificate and graduation.

"No shit?" I asked, unsure if she was joking or not.

"No shit," she replied.

Later that night, as I lay in bed smoking a joint and drinking gin and orange juice, I thought about Sara's offer. Should I take the easy way out or, for once in my life, try to actually learn something, earn something, finish something?

- Two weeks later I graduated. To me, that meant I'd finished something. (Didn't matter that I'd paid a hundred dollars for it-fair exchange ain't no robbery, right?) I didn't remember one legal term, but my last shorthand exam had been timed at seventy words per minute. To me, that meant I had learned something. I still hadn't earned anything, but hell, I figured two out of three wasn't bad.

Daddy was so proud of me. He bragged to all of his friends that not only did I graduate, but I'd done it in three and a half months instead of the normal six. The downside is that when I graduated and Kelly didn't, Kelly was forced to come clean about dropping out of school. Daddy was furious that she'd lied and taken advantage of them. He swore he and Lori would never watch Jason again.

I didn't show up for the graduation ceremony. I never even went and got my certificate. I didn't do it for the certificate. I did it to prove to myself, and others, that I didn't have a problem with drugs. Because drug addicts don't go to school, right?

27.

MY NINETEENTH BIRTHDAY was coming up, and I wanted to have a party. I was a college graduate, and I'd proven I didn't have a drug problem. Who wouldn't want to celebrate?

I made a list of things to do. First, I needed a party place. The house next door was being rented by two single black guys, Gregory and Brent. We'd become friends because they had a nice huge den that we often partied in. I approached Greg about using his house to throw myself a party. I told him I'd provide the booze, the dope, and the DJ. Always down for a party, he agreed.

Now that I had a party place, I needed party people. The problem was, I really didn't have any friends, not real ones. And although I had people who were always willing to drink and drug with me, they were only a few. I wanted a huge party. I wanted to surround myself with lots and lots of people-I wanted a throng to come celebrate me. I decided to make flyers publicizing my party. I printed three hundred flyers announcing the date, time, and location, and in extra-large letters I put that there'd be plenty of free booze. I placed the flyers everywhere-stuck them under windshield wipers of cars in grocery-store parking lots, nailed them to trees in parks, and taped them on the front counters of liquor stores.

I continued with my checklist. I'd taken care of the party place and party people. Next, I needed party favors-booze-and lots of it. I knew just where to go. Kelly, a couple of other friends, and I took a trip across the border to Tijuana, Mexico, where booze was very cheap. In fact, the only time I ever went to TJ was to buy booze because, there, I got a fifth of booze for what a half-pint would cost in San Diego.

Legally, you were only allowed to bring two bottles of booze per person back across the Tijuana border. But being the hustler I was, I had a plan. When the border patrolman approached the car and asked if we were bringing anything back into America, I made sure each of the other five people in the car held up two bottles. Seeing that we had twelve bottles in the car, he seemed satisfied that that would be enough booze for anyone to bring back. He waved us through with no idea that we had another 20 bottles hidden in the trunk: rum, vodka, gin, brandy, scotch, tequila, bourbon, whiskey, and cognac. I didn't stop buying liquor until I ran out of money.

I now had all the necessities for a great party. I just hoped someone would show up for it. In street life, you knew the reliability of your friends was directly proportionate to your supply of alcohol or drugs. Hopefully, the partiers of the city wouldn't let me down.

The big night finally arrived. I wanted to wear my favorite color, so I bought a sexy little, little purple dress to wear. Paired with my signature five-inch heels, I was just too cute for the occasion.

As usual, I started drinking way before the party officially started. I had a rum and coke while getting dressed. Then I had a vodka and orange juice as I helped Greg and Brent set up chairs. I enjoyed a gin and tonic with the DJ as he set up his equipment. I had another rum and coke as I sat around nervously waiting for people to arrive. The flyer said the party started at 9:00. But I knew people wouldn't start coming till 9:30 or 10:00. Finally, they started filtering in.

It didn't bother me that I had to go around and inform people that I was the reason for the party. I wasn't insulted that I had to constantly announce to people that I was the birthday girl. Nor did their blase, uninterested responses bother me. Some mumbled a half-assed "Happy birthday." Others carelessly looked at me and said, "That's nice. Where's the bar?" I didn't care. Whether they knew it or not, they were there for me.

I partied hard for the first two and half hours. Then I passed out. I tried to hang, but I couldn't. By 11:30 (an hour and a half after the party really got started), I'd had three rum and cokes, three gin and tonics, four vodka and orange juices, three whiskey shots, two brandies, and I think two cognacs-I was in a blackout after the second whiskey shot.

All I knew was that one minute I was dancing on the coffee table (with myself) with Greg, Brent, and some others trying to coax me down, and the next, I was lying on Greg's bathroom floor, vomiting up what I was sure was my intestines. After I barfed a couple of times, Greg came in, picked me up (unaware of the vomit that streamed down the front of my once-pretty purple dress as a result of my missing the toilet a few times), and laid me down on his bed. He was heading for the door when I rose my head and slurred out to him to "stop twirling the goddamn room!" He glanced back at me, gave a little chuckle, and ducked back into the party crowd. I lay there assessing my situation. I felt like shit. I smelled like shit. And I was sure I looked like shit. So I gladly welcomed complete, utter, drunken unconsciousness.

- I was awakened by a great commotion. I was lying on the bed on my back, drool sliding down my cheek, when Greg burst into the room, slamming the door into the wall behind it. He'd thrust open the door with such force that when it hit the wall, the doorknob created a gaping hole. I raised my head as much as I could to see what was going on. Greg's left arm hung limp at his side, and his shirt was soaked with some type of liquid. I figured it had probably been caused by a spilled drink-I had no idea it was blood.

"Watz slapin'?" I slurred.

"Mothafuckas want to start some shit," he growled to no one in particular as he reached into his closet and grabbed a shotgun, "then it's gon' be some shit!"

His eyes were bloodshot red, and his face showed pure rage. He stormed out of the room.

Well, whatever it is, I thought, he's obviously handling it. I suddenly became conscious of the fact that my head was too heavy to continue holding up. I plopped back down on the bed and passed out again.

The next afternoon, when I came to, I learned what happened.

By midnight, about two hundred more people had shown up wanting to get into the party and get their free drinks. However, there were at least 125 people already inside the house, so Greg refused to let anyone else in. Some of the niggas got upset and tried to force their way in. A shoving match started; shoving escalated to punching. Several fights started. Suddenly, someone pulled out a gun and started shooting. Greg, who was standing in the doorway turning people away, was shot in the arm. But he was too drunk and pissed to think rationally. In his drunken fury, it never occurred to him to shut down the party and call for help. Instead, the alcohol told him to shoot back and "get them mothafuckas!" That's when I'd seen him dash into the closet to grab his gun.

Later, he was taken to the hospital and patched up. The bullet went clean through his arm. He was the only one shot that night; however, someone else was stabbed, and still others were beaten up pretty bad. But it was unclear who shot whom, who stabbed whom, and who'd been fighting whom. Of course, when the cops tried to interview people, no one knew anything and no one had seen anything.

I didn't give a fuck about the others who'd been hurt. Those niggas ruined my party. I did feel kind of bad for Greg, though. I mean, it was my fault that so many people had shown up. But, hell, I figured if I'd passed out three hundred flyers, maybe seventy-five people would show up. It never occurred to me that some of those three hundred would tell a friend.

Still, it was a great party. Only thing I hated was that I'd missed most of it and all the excitement. Greg didn't harbor any ill feelings toward me. I gave him a dime bag for his troubles, and we were cool. We continued to party together for months to come. But he never again let me use his house. I didn't care. Finding places to party was never a problem.

28.

ONE DAY, JR. called to say Grandma had died. I was hungover, so it took me a moment to clear my head and realize what he'd said.

"Grandma's dead?" I asked disbelievingly. He answered that she was.

I cried most of the day. Partly because Granny was gone, but mostly because of the intense guilt I felt. I hardly ever went to see her, using the excuse that I couldn't take seeing her like that. Now that she was gone, I wished I could see her "like that" or any other way. But I couldn't. Now, I'd never see her again. To help ease the guilt, I got loaded until I passed out.

After Grandma's death, I drank more and more; and my promiscuity increased dramatically. The realization that the only two women I'd ever really loved, my mom and her mom, were gone forever seemed to widen the already huge void I had inside me. However, Daddy didn't understand my need to sleep around. In fact, he firmly instructed both me and Kelly not to have men in our rooms. More important, they were not allowed to stay overnight. But where else was I supposed to take them?

One Saturday morning, Daddy was heading for the golf course. His car wouldn't start, so he came to my room to ask me if he could use mine. He knocked on the door a couple of times, but there was no answer.

I never heard the knock on the door. I was busy.

Daddy knew I was home because my car was in the driveway. So he opened the door and peeked in. He said that all he could see was the covers moving up and down. Every time they moved up, he'd see my toes sticking up. He gasped and shut the door. I never knew he was there.

Daddy decided that he should also check on Kelly. So he went and peeked into her room. Again, all he saw were covers moving up and down. He closed the door and caught a cab to the golf course.

Later that afternoon, when he returned, he called us into the dining room. It was then he informed us that he'd caught us both in the act. We were shocked as we looked at each other.

I started to lie. "I wasn't fuck-"

"Cup, don't lie to me!" He slammed his fist down on the table. He was really pissed. He said it was disrespectful to him and Lori as parents for me and Kelly to have sex with men in the house.

Let me get this straight, I thought. We can sell dope, and you can have hos, but all of a sudden you don't want me fuckin'?

Daddy continued, "If them niggas can't afford a hotel, they're not worth it. But in any event, there will be no more men in the bedrooms. Is that understood?"

"Yeah," we replied with our heads hanging down. I wasn't so upset by knowing Daddy caught me in the act of sex. I was more upset by the fact that I'd have to find another place to do it. I wondered if he really meant what he said. I decided he didn't mean it; he was just trying to be a "father" in front of Lori.

- The next day, tired from playing golf, Daddy was sitting at the kitchen table reading a newspaper. A young black man, wearing nothing but boxer shorts, sauntered into the kitchen, opened the fridge, grabbed two beers, and casually strolled away. The young man saw Daddy, but didn't bother to speak.

Wondering who the young man was and where he was going, Daddy quietly got up and followed him. He watched him walk into my room and close the door.

"Did my daddy see you?" I asked the young man as he entered the room with the beers. His name was Billy, and he lived down the street from us. When I'd sent him to get the beers, I told him to be careful, to be quiet, and to stay out of my daddy's way. The last thing I needed was to hear Daddy's mouth.

"Naw," Billy lied.

Later that day, Daddy called me and Kelly into his room.

"I thought I told you girls I didn't want any more niggas in this house?"

"But-" I started.

"But, my ass!" Daddy screamed, cutting me off before I could finish the lie. "Now shut up and listen, and listen good. I don't want anyone-man, woman, boy, or girl-to come through that front door without my permission. Now I will never kick you two out into the street, but what I will do is put my foot so far up your asses, it will take a dentist to get my toenails out of your throat! Now get the hell out of here. I'm sick of looking at you both."

Kelly and I turned and walked out quietly but quickly. Shit, I was scared. The last time I'd seen Daddy that pissed was the day he'd kicked the wall when the doctor told us Momma was dead.