Anatomy of a Girl Gang (9781551525303) Read Online Free PDF

sweetie. But how could she know that? And I do want to go somewheres and talk, away from all these grubby-ass, slobbery, stinkin bums, starin at my fucked-up face,I do. I do. So, I do.
    She takes me upstairs to a quiet little room full of books, and she gives me a hot mug of tea. It’s black tea with milk and sugar, my favourite, and I love this fat white worker lady. I want to ask her to be my some kinda mom, and can I go home with her when she’s done her shift at the Carnegie? I want to live at her house with her and I won’t even get in her way, I promise I won’t. I can sleep in her closet, and she won’t even have to worry on me because I will be good. I will be so good and never make a mess or get high or have boyfriends over or anything. I’ll just stay out of her way and sleep in the closet and drink tea.
    When I’m calmed down enough to talk, I tell her I need a change. I want to get off the street. I want to get off the drugs.
    She nods like that’s exactly what she was expectin me to say. How old are you, hon?
    Thirteen.
    Well, the good news is there’s a lot of help out there for you if you’re ready for it.
    I nod, gulp my sweet milky tea. It doesn’t burn me, it doesn’t burn. It’s okay. Everythin’s gonna be okay. I start cryin again and she hands me a box of Kleenex. I want to ask her to be my mom, but I don’t.

MAC
    One day, around Christmas, I was weighing out baggies when Mercy burst through the front door, all excited and grinning.
    I found her, she said.
    Found who?
    Our runner. Our narco chick.
    Oh yeah? Who is it?
    Little Native girl from the neighbourhood. We used to sell to her, long time ago. She’s got kind of a fucked up face …
    Wait a sec, we used to sell to her? Fuckin forget about it.
    But—
    No way, Mercy. No fuckin way. No junkies. No crackheads. No tweakers. No fiends. No way, no how. Come on, what the hell are you thinking? You know how they are. We’re trying to run a business here!
    She’s six weeks clean.
    Whoop-dee-fuckin-doo. That don’t mean jack shit.
    Well, she’s got the right background. She knows her shit. She knows all the customers already, and she’s smart.
    How do you know?
    Because you don’t last on the street if you’re stupid.
    I shook my head. Not happening.
    She blinked her eyes a few times and pouted. I wondered if she was wearing fake eyelashes. Then she came around behind me and started rubbing my shoulders. She smelled like salt water and cinnamon. Come on, Mac. She’ll be good for us. Let’s give her a chance.
    No , Mercy! Forget it. I pushed her hands away.
    I couldn’t believe she would even suggest bringing an addict into the Black Roses. It would destroy everything we’d worked so hard to build. She didn’t understand that six weeks clean meant fuck all—hell, six months, too. I’d grown up with an addict. She hadn’t.
    Sometimes I would feel like a normal little kid. Mom would go straight for a while and get her welfare cheques sent directly to our landlord so she wouldn’t be tempted to buy coke and heroin with the money. She’d make macaroni and cheese or scalloped potatoes, and we’d sit on the couch and drink Ovaltine and watch Sally Jessy Raphael or Geraldo . She’d call me her princess and braid my hair, make sure I brushed my teeth, tuck me in at night, and read me stories from the National Enquirer . Those were the good times, the times I hoped would last forever. But then it would rain for six days in a row, or something I did would piss her off, and she’d get restless. Then she’d say, I’m just going out for some smokes, honey. And she’d be back out on Hastings. Gone for two, three, twelve days at a time. She’s still out there, far as I know. Either there, or rotting in pig shit out in PoCo. I haven’t seen her in about four years. I don’t even know if I’d recognize