Finally, we arrived. I was taken in and introduced to the caretakers, an older, nice white couple. The lady showed me to my bed. I climbed in and immediately passed out. The incessant partying of the past few days had finally taken its toll. The next day, before the authorities came for me, I'd slipped out a window and was gone. I never saw that cop again. Didn't matter. There would be others.

15.

I WAS EVENTUALLY returned to Lancaster where I was slowly getting my own little pleasure: something was wrong with Diane; she was getting physically ill. Not only was she grossly overweight, but she couldn't hold her urine. She was getting dizzy. Her sickness made her weaker than usual, so the beatings were drastically reduced, but her mouth worked just fine and was meaner than ever.

I wasn't at Diane's long. Within days of being returned, I was gone again.

I hitchhiked south along the California coast, in no particular hurry, with no particular destination. I ended up in Hollywood again. After hanging out for a couple of days, I called Jr. He had good news.

He'd been discussing me with one of my great-aunts, my grandmother's sister. Everybody called her "Aunt Becky." Although I had heard the name before, I never remembered meeting her. She lived somewhere in the Los Angeles area and told Jr. she was willing to take me for a while. They weren't sure how long I could stay with Becky once the authorities found out, but it was better than what I was doing. Stories of hitchhikers getting killed were becoming more frequent. Hitchhikers were turning up missing left and right. Jr. was really scared for me.

I wasn't scared. I'd graduated from carrying a butter knife to packing a pocketknife with a two-inch blade. On top of that, I gave men (and women) a mean look when I first got into their cars, and I talked bad and acted bad. Wasn't anybody gon' mess with me.

Jr. was still scared. So we decided I'd go to Aunt Becky's and stay there until the system made me leave. Since Becky couldn't pick me up (she didn't drive), we decided I'd catch a cab to her house. That way, there was no risk of my getting lost. I hung out for a couple of days while Jr. sent me some money by Western Union. During the couple of days I had to wait for Jr.'s money to arrive, I partied hearty! I hung out with my friends (anyone who lived on the streets and drank and used like me was a friend); and did what street folks do.

A couple of days later, the money arrived. I.D. was no longer a problem-the system made me get one after my first couple of running-away escapades. They said they needed me to carry one so that authorities would be able to identify me. A smart-ass social worker said it would help them "identify my body" once some psycho I'd hitchhiked with had raped and murdered me.

Anyway, I got the money, bought some coke, some booze, and some weed. I figured Aunt Becky could wait. Hell, I had to celebrate. I wasn't going back to Diane's!

It took me a day or two to get to Becky's. I don't remember how I got there-whether a friend took me, whether I took a cab, or what, because I was in a blackout.

(I later learned that a blackout is frequently experienced by alcoholics. They get so drunk, so high that although they're physically present-walking, talking, doing things-their minds are so gone that they have no memory of what went on. This blackout was one of many I'd already experienced, and only one of thousands to come.) All I knew was that one day I was snorting coke and drinking gin (straight), and the next thing I knew, I was standing in front of a house I thought was Becky's.

I was standing on the sidewalk, looking up at the house, trying to figure out if it was the one I was looking for. It was a nice-looking house, not a mansion, but far from a shack. In fact, the whole block was lined with nice houses. I was staring up at the house, trying to get the nerve to approach the door. If it was the house, I didn't know the people who lived there. I mean, here was a woman that, although she was family, I didn't know and had never seen before.

What was she like? Was she violent? Mean?

All these thoughts were rushing through my mind when the front door opened and out stepped a god. No, really. He was gorgeous. A tall, well-built, light-skinned teenage boy slowly approached me. He wasn't wearing a shirt, so you could see the muscles in his chest and arms. And he had the coolest stroll I'd ever seen on a kid. He sort of glided toward me.

"What's up, cuzzz?" he asked as he walked up, stopping just in front of me. I had never seen anyone so handsome. I was blushing.

Be cool, I told myself. Don't make a fool of yourself.

"Nothing." I looked at my feet. I couldn't meet his eyes because, when I did, all I could do was grin-a wide-ass, all-teeth grin.

"My name is Ka'son, but my friends call me 'Fly,' " he said quietly. His voice was low and sexy. It didn't take long to figure out why they called him Fly-everything about him was fly. Before I could say anything back to him, the screen door flew open and another boy came scurrying out of the house. He sprinted up to me, happy, playful, and very cheerful.

"What's up?" he chimed, never losing his smile. "I'm Keith."

"Hi," I replied. I was getting nervous now. Whenever I crashed or was put in a home with men or boys in the house, it meant I'd have to have some type of sexual activity with them. I didn't like the fact that there were two boys in this house.

My nervousness increased when a third boy came out of the house. He casually strolled up and introduced himself as Kevin.

How many of y'all is there? I asked myself. Just then, the door opened again, and another boy came out. He said his name was Kenny.

Was I that high, or did all four of these boys' names start with Ks. More important, are there any women here? I thought nervously. And where the fuck is this aunt Becky?

Just then the door opened and onto the porch stepped an older woman, about fifty-five or sixty years old. She was tall, at least six feet, and very slim. She had brown skin and a wide, friendly smile. Her salt-and-pepper hair hung straight past her shoulders. She was strikingly beautiful-even for an older woman. I'd heard we had American Indians in my family. I remembered the story Jr. told me about my great-great-grandmother being half Indian. I never really paid him any attention 'cause every black person I knew claimed to have Indian in them. Every once in a while, though, I thought I could see Native American features in my mother's and grandmother's long straight black hair and high cheekbones. Poised there in the doorway, with the sun dancing off her soft, smooth skin, her long hair blowing out from behind her, Aunt Becky looked like an Indian goddess. Actually, she looked just like my grandma. The resemblance was uncanny. I hadn't seen my grandma since my mother's funeral. Now, staring up at this woman was like staring at my mother's mother. I don't know if it was the beauty of the moment or the booze, but suddenly I wanted to cry.

"Hi, Vette," she said in a sweet high-pitched voice. She wasn't violent-I could tell by her voice. No one with a voice that sweet could possibly be mean.

"Y'all come on into the house," she said, "so we can all get better acquainted."

Ka'son, Kevin, Keith, and Kenny gathered around me and escorted me into the house. The boys were Becky's grandsons. Ka'son was the oldest. He was sixteen, and it was true that everybody (except Aunt Becky) called him Fly. Kevin was almost fourteen. Keith was twelve, and Kenny was nine. Their mother, Jenny, had been Becky's only child. The boys were my third cousins.

Becky was raising the boys because Jenny had died in a car accident. As Becky told the story of the accident, I slowly began to remember Jenny. I remembered my mom periodically talking about a "Cousin Jenny." And I remembered a thin, dark-skinned woman screaming and crying at my mother's funeral. She was hanging over the casket and hollerin' so, they had to carry her out. I think she fainted 'cause she never showed up at the interment. I'd never seen her before, so I figured she was just some nut (of which there were plenty in my family). But I liked and admired her for how she shamelessly showed grief for the loss of my mother. Looking at Aunt Becky, it came to me that she looked exactly like an older version of her daughter. I was now sure that that hysterical woman at Momma's funeral had been Cousin Jenny.

The house Becky and the boys lived in had three bedrooms and one bathroom. I was to sleep in the living room on the sofa, which let out into a bed. I'd never had any brothers (y'all know Larry didn't count!), and the boys had never had a sister, so we took to each other immediately. But there was more to our bond than that. I think we connected because we'd shared similar devastations: we'd all lost our mothers suddenly, unexpectedly, and tragically.

"Vette, you hungry?" Aunt Becky asked me as we sat around the living room getting acquainted.

It was then that I told them of my decision to take back my birth name (though I didn't tell them I'd been having "cheerleading practice" with Mr. Bassinet when I'd made the decision). Because the boys had never met me before, in fact had never even heard of me before, my name change didn't make any difference to them. They said they liked Cupcake better anyway.

Aunt Becky said that she had met me when my mother was alive and that she knew about the "Cupcake at birth" story.

I must have been too young to remember, I thought, 'cause I've never seen this woman before in my life!

"I always did like Cupcake," she said softly as she rose to go into the kitchen and make something to eat. "I love the story about how you got it. Your mom really liked it too."

"Why they say your name is La'Vette?" Kenny asked.

I told the boys the story about Momma craving cupcakes and her mistaken request for one that resulted in my name; and how Mr. Burns had changed it because he "didn't like it." I told them about how Mr. Burns took me from Daddy and Uncle Jr. and made me go live with Diane in Lancaster. I left out the sexual and physical abuse.

Still, reciting the story even without the abuse slowly built a fire in me. I shouted that I hated that name and that I would use only the name my mother, not some stupid sperm donor, had given me! With that, I stood up, feet spread apart, fists on my hips. I was so angry by now that I was near tears. Everyone was silent; obviously shocked by my sudden outburst and unyielding defiance.

"Okay, okay," Kevin said lightly. "Don't get your panties in a wad. Cupcake it is."

They never questioned the name again. They seemed to be willing to accept me just as I was. I would learn to love those four boys-each in his own way.

Although they sort of looked alike, they each had distinctive personalities. Ka'son, "Fly," was the cool one. He said he was a "Gangsta," and while I didn't know what that meant, I was soon to find out. Kevin was the smart one, a straight-A student and very good at Korean Hapkido (he'd been studying it since he was five). Keith was the silly one, always joking around, making me laugh. Kenny . . . well he was the baby. He always wanted to play a game-any game, with anyone.

The next day, Becky took me shopping. She bought me new clothes-not hand-me downs. And she bought me pretty undies, some smell-good toiletries, and other dainty shit that girls used. I didn't know what to do with that stuff, but she said I'd learn. She spent quite a bit of money on me, which shocked me because she hadn't yet gotten any money for me. She and Jr. were still trying to figure out how to change the social-security payments from going to Diane without my being returned to Diane's. But I didn't care if I had to turn tricks to get the money to stay there. I'd do anything so I wouldn't have to leave.

That night I discovered that Fly smoked weed and drank-though not to the extent I did. (In fact, I was quickly learning that not too many people smoked and drank like I did.) We were sitting in his room watching TV, when out of the blue he said, " 'Ey, cuzzz, you smoke?" I didn't know if he meant cigarettes or weed, but it didn't matter: I smoked both.

"Yeah," I said as he reached under his bed to pull out a little brown tray containing some weed buds and rolling papers. As he started rolling a joint, I gasped.

"You gon' smoke that in here?" I asked, glancing nervously toward the door, aware that Becky could come in at any time.

"Naw, cuzzz. We just gon' roll 'emin here. We'll take 'emoutside to smoke."

"Oh." Just then, it occurred to me that I had no idea of where in the world I was. So I asked Fly.

"Where are we?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, where are we?"

"Los Angeles, dumb shit."

"Yeah, but where in L.A.?"

"On Brighton Avenue."

Oh, that clears it up, I thought.

"But where is that? What is this hood called?"

"South Central."

"South Central? South Central what?"

"South Central, Los Angeles," he said in his low, sexy drawl.

It seemed like a nice town. From what I'd seen, all of the homes were well kept, the lawns nicely trimmed. There were no broken windows or dilapidated houses. Then again, I hadn't been there long. I wanted to ask more questions, but noticed that Fly was becoming irritated with my ignorance, so I decided to drop the subject and just trust that South Central was where I was.

- A week or so after arriving at Becky's, Keith hipped me to the party line-a phone line on which you can call and talk to several people at once. Aunt Becky had gone to sleep (she always went to bed early). I got on the party line and started talking to this dude who said his name was Ricky and he was twenty-four years old. After talking awhile, I discovered that Ricky lived nearby, so he suggested we hook up. "Sure," I replied, never thinking twice about meeting a complete stranger (hell, I did it all the time hitchhiking). Keith, who was just as naive as me, gave Ricky our address. A short while later, a red Mustang pulled up in front of the house.

I ran to the window to see what he looked like. As Ricky stepped out I was disappointed. He was ugly! At the time, I liked light-skinned, tall men, but he was dark, dark black. Almost blue-black. And short. But I thought, What the hell? He had a car; he said he had a job and a place to stay. All the things a girl who often found herself "on the go" would need. So Ricky's having all the required necessities made up for his ugliness.

I grabbed the new coat Becky had just bought me and headed for the door.

"You really gon' go?" Keith asked unbelievingly as I stepped onto the porch.

"Hell, yeah!" I replied. I needed some excitement. And, more important, I needed a drink. I ran outside and skipped toward the car. As I approached the car, Fly came strolling out of the house.

"Where you going, cuzzz?" he asked in that smooth, quiet voice. His question shocked me. I wasn't used to being questioned or having to report my whereabouts to anyone. I was so shocked, I paused for a moment. Fly didn't wait for me to reply. He strolled up to Ricky and asked for his driver's license. Then he walked to the front of the car and noted his license plate. As he walked back to the driver's door where Ricky and I were standing, he asked Ricky where he lived and worked.

As Fly stood there drilling Ricky with questions, I started getting pissed. I felt like he was meddlin' in my business. Fly, oblivious (or indifferent) to my irritation, asked Ricky if he was hip to the "Gangstas." Ricky said he was. Then very calmly and coldly, Fly informed Ricky that he was a Gangsta. He told Ricky that if anything happened to me-anything at all-Ricky would have to deal with them. This bit of information made Ricky visibly nervous. He started sweating and stuttering as he told Fly that we were just going for a short ride and that he'd have me back within a hour or so. "Make damn sho you do," Fly softly replied with a look of anger that made me uncomfortable.

Then he turned to me, flashed me his playboy smile, gave me a hug, and told me to be careful. It was then that I realized he'd asked those questions because he was concerned for me. I was so touched. I fell in love with him right there at that moment-the moment I realized he gave a damn. I smiled to myself as I hopped in the car.

Just as Ricky promised, we went for a short ride. All we did was stop and buy some Night Train and park around the corner from the house. Ricky told me he was really scared of the Gangstas. He didn't want to go far because he wanted to be sure and have me back within an hour as Fly had instructed. His fear intrigued me: I made a mental note to find out more about these Gangstas, and what it was about them that would make the mere mention of their name scare the shit out of a grown-ass man.

We drank the "Train," smoked a couple of joints that Ricky had brought with him, and talked. At first he seemed a little shocked that I looked so young, but he eased up when I told him I was almost fifteen. That seemed to make him feel a little better-like somehow, being with a fifteen-year-old girl was not as bad as being with a fourteen-year-old one. We talked about sex, though I didn't have sex with him-at least not that night. I would have; it's just that he was too ugly and I wasn't getting paid. So I figured I'd wait until his ugliness grew on me-or until I was too high to care.

He took me home after about thirty-five minutes. As we pulled up, Fly was standing on the porch with two other tough-looking dudes. Ricky turned off the car and looked up at them. He was scared. Shit, I was too. He walked me up to Fly and the two dudes, bid everyone good night, and began a brisk walk back to his car. Before he could reach it, Fly shouted, "Hey, cuzzz, you got any more smoke?" I don't know how he knew we'd been smoking weed. He must have smelled it on us, or maybe it was the cloud of smoke that escaped from the car when we got out that gave us away. Ricky replied that we'd smoked his last joint, but he knew where to get some more.

"Y'all watch out for my lil cuzzzin while I make this run," Fly shouted to the two guys on the porch as he ran and hopped into Ricky's car.

"Tray dat, cuzzz!" one of them shouted back.

I wondered what language they were speaking and why they kept sayin' "cuz." I mean, I was Fly's cousin, but who were these dudes? While Fly and Ricky went to cop some more dope, I got to find out.

One said his name was Huck. I'd never heard a name like that before. He was a tall, thin dark brother. He said he lived on Brighton Avenue too-down the street from us. He had a blue bandana hanging out of his back pocket. He said that Fly was his "homie." The other guy said his name was "Dob" (though when he said his name, it sounded like he was saying "Dov"). I thought that was also a funny name. But, hell, with a name like Cupcake who was I to judge? Dob also lived on our street and also had a blue bandana. But instead of hanging out his back pocket like Huck's, his was wrapped around his hand like a bandage. At first I thought he'd hurt his hand. But as he talked he wrapped and unwrapped it, and I never saw any blood or scars. So I figured the bandana was some kind of a toy to him.

When Fly and Ricky pulled back up, Dob and Huck and I were standing in the middle of the street. They were pointing down it, trying to show me where they each lived.

" 'Ey, cuzzz," Fly said as he and Ricky got out of the car, "let's go roun' the corner. I don't want Momma to wake up and start hoo-bangin'."

I didn't know what "hoo-bangin' " was, but I was down for goin' anywhere where there was dope.

We all hopped into Ricky's car and went around the corner to the same spot Ricky and I had just left. We still had some Night Train left, so we rolled up some fat blunts and got bent. No one talked much, we just smoked and drank. I noticed the higher we got, the more Dob would wrap and unwrap the bandana around his hand. It was then I realized that he wasn't really playing with that little blue rag; rather he was studying it with admiration and adulation. I wondered why.

After we finished the blunts, Ricky dropped us off back in front of Aunt Becky's. Before pulling away, he took down my number and said he'd call me the next day (though it was already two in the morning). I mumbled a "whatever" and stumbled onto the porch. Dob and Huck slurred "Later, cuzzz" at us and staggered down the street toward their homes.

I was so high, I'd forgotten the questions I'd intended to ask Fly about the Gangstas and the strange language I heard them speaking. Fly and I went in the house, munched out, and collapsed.

- The following day, as Fly and I kicked it on the front porch nursing our hangovers, he gave me my first lesson on gangbangin'. I'd never heard of gangs before and never knew any gang members, so I sat listening in fascination as he taught me about "the game." Fly belonged to a gang called the Eight-Tray Gangster Crips. He explained that many of the gangs in L.A. were named after the streets on which their territory begins. The Eight-Tray Gangsters' "set" (territory) started on Eighty-third Street-thus the name "Eight-Tray." And, because the Gangstas' set name ended with the number three, their gang sign consisted of the middle three fingers being held straight up. Most gangs have several ways to "sign" their names. The Eight-Trays were no different. One of those alternative signs was to curve the forefinger and thumb into a C, causing the remaining three fingers to stand alone. The C stood for "Crip," and of course the three fingers symbolized "Eight-Tray." Also known simply as Gangstas, Fly said the gang was one of the most notorious and violent ones in Los Angeles. And, unbeknownst to me, I was in training to become one.

I learned that Crips wore blue and Bloods wore red. Crips loved everything and anything blue and hated everything and anything red. The opposite was true for Bloods. They never, ever wore or acknowledged each other's colors. Why these colors? Why the hatred? The reasons were lost in time.

The Crips' essential word was cuz-which they used a lot. Cuz was a term of endearment (like homie), but it was also substituted for everyday words whenever possible-for example, instead of "because" they said "cuz"; instead of "cousin" they said "cuz." (And, whenever Gangstas wrote the word, they used three zs signifying the Eight-Trays.) The Bloods' essential word was blood. Bloods never said "cuz" and Crips never said "blood." In fact, Crips hated the word blood so much that they would say that they had "cuz-juice" running through their veins.

Crips dissed Bloods by calling them "slobs" and other derogatory names, while Bloods called the Crips "crabs." Their hatred for each other was so severe, wearing the wrong color or using the wrong word in the wrong hood could cause a person serious harm or even cost him his life. Kids living in a particular neighborhood knew which colors to wear and not to wear and which words to say and not to say in order to stay alive.

However, just because another gang shared the same colors didn't mean they were allies. Most gangs have few allies or none at all-whether they share the same colors or not. In fact, the Gangstas' number one enemy, besides Bloods, were the Rollin' 60's-another Crip gang who also wore blue.

Fly also schooled me on the strange vocabulary he'd been using. The word hoo-bangin' had several meanings, depending upon the context that was being used. It could mean someone was fussin' or talking shit, which is what Fly meant when, the night before, he'd said we should go around the corner to get high so Aunt Becky wouldn't start hoo-bangin'. However, when bangers hoo-bang one another, it means they're letting you know what set they claim-usually by throwin' up their signs and yellin' out their set's name. And Tray dat meant something like "right on." Use of tray was as desirable as the use of the number three whenever possible.

Fly said the first thing we had to do was to give me a gang name because everyone had one. Most gang members earned their name, while some were just given one. Fly had two. He told me how he got them. He said that one night he and Huck (short for "Huck-A-Buck") got drunk and decided to get a "G-ride." He paused to proudly state that as many cars as he had stolen, he'd never been arrested for a GTA (grand theft auto-the legal term for a stolen-vehicle offense). Anyway, Fly and Huck were testing the ride's power when they noticed the red lights of the LAPD in the rearview mirror. Refusing to pull over (Fly said the gin he'd been drinking told him he could beat them), a chase began. They sped through the streets of L.A., pushing the G-ride for all it was worth, but the LAPD cruiser was built for this kind of chase and closed ground quickly. Fly slammed the car to a sudden, screeching halt, hopped out, and ran. It was this run that earned him his name.

As Fly was running from the police, he booked down a narrow street that was blocked by a parked car. Noticing (or hoping) that both front windows were down, and not having time to run around the car, Fly dove through the car-entered the passenger window with his arms straight out in front of him like Superman and flew straight through to the driver's window. He almost cleared it, but he was too tall and losing speed. The rim of the driver's window caught his shoe, slowing down his flight. But it didn't stop him. He stumbled onto the sidewalk, jumped to his feet, and continued running. As he hopped a fence, losing the cops behind him, he heard of one them exclaim "Did you see that nigga fly?" Fly said he'd been called "Fly" ever since.

But the name also fit because of his stunning good looks and debonair personality. He was so smooth it was sickening. His gorgeousness allowed him to keep three to four fine-ass women chasing him at all times. He walked cool-long, slow strides that made you just want to watch him move. He talked cool-in a soft, sexy drawl that made you just want to drop whatever you were doing and listen to him. He dressed cool-his clothes made you want to undress him to see the sexy body you just knew was waiting underneath. Even his mannerisms were cool. You ever met anyone like that? Someone who was irresistibly charismatic? Who just exuded cool, smooth style? That was Fly-the flyest muthafucka you've ever seen.

But like I said, some folks, including Fly, had more than one gang name. The unofficial leader of the Gangstas was an OG named Sidewinder. (OG means "original gangster"; it's someone who's been in the gang a long time, has earned his "stripes," and is well respected, even revered, by the younger members.) So Fly was also called "Baby Sidewinder"; it was an honor to be named after an OG. But everybody called him Fly.

Fly told me that Huck-A-Buck got his name the same day Fly had earned "Fly." As Fly decided to abandon the police chase and slammed the car to a halt, Huck-A-Buck was thrown head first into the dashboard, causing the loss of several front teeth. Huck had to make the tough decision of whether to try ditching the police by jumping out and running with all his might, or pausing to grab his teeth.

Huck left his teeth sticking in the dashboard and ran. Fly said he'd been Huck-A-Buck ever since.

I didn't bother asking what "Dob" meant. I just assumed it was short for "Doberman."

Hearing the stories about being "dubbed"-christened with a street name-fascinated me. I wanted one. Fly said I needed a cool name; something that sounded hard and down. Although Fly liked "Cupcake," he said it was too wimpy. We tossed around several choices, but were unable to come up with anything that fit the bill. Finally it was decided that we'd wait awhile till I could earn one like everybody else.

I was starting to have second thoughts. I wasn't sure if I wanted to be in a gang and wasn't sure what it meant or required. And it would mean getting a new favorite color. My favorite color had been red for as long as I could remember. I loved red.

Could I learn to hate it?

Seeing the uncertainty on my face, Fly said, "Let's go on the set and introduce you to some of the homies." So we made our way to Eighty-third Street. There I met my new family.