by Anna J.
Also By Anna J.
Novels:
My Little Secret
Get Money Chicks
The Aftermath
My Woman His Wife
Short Story Compilations:
The Cat House
Flexin & Sexin: Sexy Street Tales Vol. I
Fantasy
Morning Noon and Night: Can’t Get Enough
Fetish
Stories to Excite You: Ménage Quad
SNOW WHITE
A Survival Story
ANNA J.
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Part One
Prologue - Ode to the Streets
Journey Clayton
Joey Street - Wrong Place at the Wrong Time
Journey Clayton - Back in the Swing of Things
Vincent Clayton - Huggin’ the Block
Joey Street - Deal or No Deal
Vincent Clayton - Settin’ Niggas Up
Journey Clayton - Nickname: Me Coca-Cola
Vincent Clayton - Big Things Poppin’
Joey Street - Peepin’ ’round Corners
Journey Clayton - The Kissing Game
Vincent Clayton - Snitches Dig Ditches
Joey Street - Life in the Fast Lane
Journey Clayton - Snow Day
Vincent Clayton - Soldier Boy
Joey Street - If the Price is Right
Journey Clayton - Pinky Swear
Vincent Clayton - A Change of Plans
Joey Street - Get In Where You Fit In
Part Two
Five Years Later . . .
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
Where would I be without God? I’ve made it through another year and another book, with God’s grace, and I’m beyond thankful: thankful for having talent, thankful for having life, thankful for being able to still maintain in a time where struggle is everywhere. Thank God for everything, because without him, where would I be?
To all of my family and friends that have supported me along the way: I know I’m not in this by myself. I had to weed out a few bad apples, but at the end of the day, I know who’s really riding for me. Thanks for loving me and for just being there—and I mean genuinely being there, not just to be able to say that you know Anna J. or that you’re related to me. I’ll pass on the fakers and haters, and I thank those of you who rode it out with me without wanting anything in return. If you’re salty because I didn’t mention your name here, you’re one of the fakers I’m talking about. To those that keep it real 24/7, I love you.
For any and everyone that has ever picked up an Anna J. novel or short story, thanks for the love. I try to bring something different to the table every time, so to my erotica fans, thanks for bearing with me while I work through different story lines. For those of you that love the new Anna J., there’s more to come, so stay tuned. I love to write about tons of things, so every book won’t be erotic or street, but I’ll definitely give you a great story, so your support is greatly appreciated.
To everyone I’ve met at signings and events over the past five years, thanks for the feedback and words of encouragement. I’ll see you at a bookstore near you sometime this fall.
To all the book clubs out there who have read my work, I am open to phone, internet chat, and in person discussions, as well as interviews. If you would like me to visit your book club in any of these forms, I can be reached at your [email protected] to discuss details. I can also be found on facebook under Anna J Forrest, and on myspace at www.myspace.com/phillyauthor. Also, my new website will be launching in January 2010 under www.booksbyannaj.com.
I’m looking forward to hearing your feedback and your thoughts. Snow White is totally different from anything else I’ve ever written, and I believe you’ll enjoy it. So, thanks for the support, enjoy the read, and please keep spreading the word.
Luv Always,
Anna J.
In Loving Memory of
Paul Minter Jr.
Sunrise: February 24, 1961 Sunset: June 22, 2009
You believed in me even when I didn’t . . . thank you.
Part One
The pain was preparation for my destiny . . .
—Kirk Franklin
Prologue
Ode to the Streets
You can’t hide from the streets. As soon as you open your door and step outside, the streets is right there waiting for you. The streets almost lurk, though . . . undetected. Just kind of pacing back and forth outside your door, waiting for the perfect time to attack. Following behind you for blocks, waiting for you to sleep on ’em. See, the streets are conniving, leading you to believe that they got your back, but on the real, you out here on your own. Survival of the fittest, only the strong survive, and all that bullshit. Hell, the streets are there even when you ain’t.
Oh, and don’t think for a second that since you done moved up out the hood it’s long gone, because the hood has a habit of following you. No matter how far you move away, the hood is only two blocks down and one block over. Or are you one of those silly bitches that try to escape the hood, but mistakenly bring it with you? The streets will mold you, though. Will take you and shape you into what it wants you to be, until you can get it in your head what you need to be if you ever decide to become a free thinker.
So I pose this question to you: Will you follow, or will you lead? Ultimately, the choice is yours, but you better make a decision quick because the streets are impatient, and at the very moment you hesitate . . . it’s lights out.
Journey Clayton
January 2, 1998
“Now, Journey, remember how I told you to do it, baby,” my mother, Carla, said to me in a barely audible voice as I shuffled around the room, gathering up the supplies I needed to help my mom get better.
“I remember, Momma. I had to get a cotton ball from the bathroom.”
For the past year or so, I’d been performing an unthinkable task for my mother that I was way too ashamed to tell anyone about. At nine years old, I should have been playing with my dolls, or outside skipping rope and playing hopscotch with my friends. For me, those days were long gone, as I was given the task of taking care of my mother while the deadly virus known to the worlds as AIDS ate what was left of the shell she called a body.
Carefully setting the syringe, a bottle cap from a discarded Miller Lite bottle I’d found in the hallway, a vial of crack known on the streets as Snow White, and a small cup of water on the table, I swiftly went through the task of cooking up the illegal drug before expertly drawing it up into the syringe and tapping the side of it to get out the excess air. My mother’s eyes had that glazed look they always had before she was about to get a hit, and a long thread of saliva dangled and swung from her chin in the breeze the fan was blowing from the window. Never mind the fact that it was the dead of winter; she had hot flashes that she couldn’t control, and needed cool air on her at all times.
My mother was sick, and in my mind, the medicine that she took for her virus wasn’t enough to put her to sleep. Moving the cover back from off of her dried and cracked feet, I desperately searched for a vein so that I could give my mother the relief she needed. The veins in her legs had long been gone, and were covered with ash that was so white it looked as if she had been rolling around in flour. The veins I had been using on the side of her neck were useless, leaving her feet as the only option.
Taking the belt that was hanging from the closet door, I looped it around my mother’s ankle and tightened it to cut off the blood supply, causing the one good vein she had le
ft between her toes to bulge. With tears stinging my eyes, I steadied my shaking hands as best I could and took the filled syringe from the table, careful not to drop it like I did the last time. After all, I was only nine years old, and bound to make a mistake.
Pricking my mother’s skin with the almost-dull point, I first pulled the syringe out like I’d done so many times before. I needed to see the blood bubble up at the tip to make sure I had indeed hit the vein, not missing it like I had the previous day. Slowly I began to inject the poison into my mother’s system, and at the same speed, the top of my mother’s body began to slump in a slow nod, letting me know I had done my job.
Once the syringe was empty, I took it into the bathroom that was connected to the room and flushed it with bleach and water to try to keep it clean, knowing that it was already too late. The bug you caught from sharing needles done already got to my mother. After putting up the utensils I used to give my mother her much-needed fix, I tucked her into the bed carefully and kissed her on the forehead. I turned the television to Fox 29 so that if she woke up, she could watch her favorite shows.
Now, on the other side of the door sat a demon that lurked around my household. At nine years old, my mother was the least of my problems. I approached the neatly kept living room in a juice-stained wife beater that was so tight it made me look like a little boy. Only my long, sandy-brown ponytail and plastic pink moon-shaped earrings gave any indication that I was actually born a girl. I sighed deeply at the task before me.
Turning the corner, I paused before approaching Vince, the neighborhood drug dealer who made it all possible for my mother to keep getting her fix. Standing in front of him in a pair of dingy My Little Pony printed underwear that said Tuesday on the back when it was clearly Thursday was embarrassing for me, but I had to do what I had to do. My mom needed her medicine.
Stepping out of my panties, I climbed up on the couch next to twenty-three-year-old Vince and loosened his pants, ready to perform. After all, it was for my mother, and my mother was all I had.
“Now, remember how I told you to do it, baby,” Vince said in a deep, husky voice that scared the shit out of me. I tried to act like it didn’t bother me at all.
Honestly, I couldn’t believe my own uncle would do such horrible things to me. I just didn’t understand it. You were supposed to be loved by your family, not made to do things that I was sure were reserved only for adults. I couldn’t cry, though. Tears didn’t mean a thing to Vince, and would only prolong the situation. He was supposed to love me, but I felt hurt and confused, and he never attempted to provide answers, just demanded that he stay in control. I was too afraid for my life to do anything but stay in line, but I hated Vince with everything in me.
Vince had a thing for young girls, and seeing me in the state that I was in gave him the advantage. He convinced me that I didn’t want to be put into foster care, so the only way I could be with my mother was to make sure she stayed alive. If doing this to get her supply was the only option, then that was my only option.
Vince broke down all the rules to me from the very beginning: I did what he told me to do, and he’d keep supplying that Snow White for my mother. All I wanted was for my mom to get better, and I was too young to realize I was making a deal with the devil, so that’s just the way it worked out. But little girls grow up fast in the hood.
It wouldn’t be until much later that I learned how to flip what I learned to get what I wanted, but for Vince, that wouldn’t be a good thing. After all, he did promise his brother Jimmy, my father, that he’d take care of the family as he lay in a hospital bed breathing his last breaths after a stabbing that punctured his lungs and heart.
In Vince’s eyes, he didn’t feel he was doing anything wrong. He was merely preparing me for the real world; in his mind, if it wasn’t him, it would be some other young cat around the way. Shit, he was helping me out by keeping it in the family, or so he thought. In reality, he had my young mind twisted. If family would do you like this, what anyone else was bound to do didn’t hold any weight.
Not even bothering to look at me after he zipped up his pants, he threw three vials on the table like he was shooting dice. I scrambled for the drugs like I was the one that had the addiction and not my mother. Three was only enough for about a day and a half because I usually gave my mother a shot in the morning and at night, so I mentally prepared myself to see Vince in about two days.
Running my bath water once he was gone, I rinsed away the day with a few pieces of balled-up soap that had melted down from previous use. I hoped my situation would get better soon.
Once I got into my room, I hung the pair of panties on the windowsill next to the only other two I owned, which were already there. I had hand washed them in the sink earlier. I only owned four pairs: Tuesday, Friday, and Sunday. What happened to the other days-of-the-week panties that I used to have are beyond me, but I worked with what I had and kept it moving. I hoped they would be dry by the morning, or else I would have to wear an old pair of shorts under my jeans.
I moisturized my skin with lotion from the Dollar Tree, even though I knew I would still be ashy in the morning, afterwards smoothing out my paper-thin Care Bear comforter over my body. Taking my stuffed rabbit, Hippity Hop, into my arms, I cuddled up and fell asleep, hoping that the nightmares that normally haunted me would let me rest on this night. I knew the mustard sandwich I ate for dinner wasn’t enough, and I closed my eyes tight so that the growling from my stomach wouldn’t play too loudly in my ears. Thinking about the way my life was going saddened me, but it was for my mother, and I’d go to the end of the earth for her. Besides all that, she was all I had, and I needed her around.
Joey Street
Wrong Place at the Wrong Time
Friday, 3:00 a.m.
“Man, I know you ain’t getting scared now. All we gotta do is walk in there and take the money. It’s only two of ’em in there, so it’ll be a piece of cake,” Bunz said to me as we blazed an L in the parked car across the street from the African hair braiding shop on the corner of Fortieth and Lancaster Avenue.
It was three o’clock in the damn morning, and I knew my girl Shanyce was gonna be mad as shit when I got home, but I had to get this paper. We had been scouting this place for like two weeks now, and figured that Marie’s African Hair Braiding Shop was getting mad paper.
I saw the heavyset sistah with the cute face walk into the shop around 7:30 that night, and I thought for sure they were going to turn her away. I was trying to find any excuse not to go through with the robbery because every time I dealt with Bunz, it always ended up in a tragedy. When I saw a woman who must have been the owner get on the horn and make a few calls, and a half hour later a younger-looking African girl pull up to the door, I knew they would be in there for the rest of the night.
“Nah, I ain’t scared, nigga. Just don’t go in there getting all trigger happy and shit like you did the last time. No one has to die.”
Bunz turned and looked at me like he couldn’t believe what I was saying, but I knew he got off on fear and sometimes didn’t make the best decisions. In a hostage situation, your adrenaline is pumping, and the weed that we’d been smoking on all day made him think irrationally at the most inopportune times. That’s why the last time we did a stick-up I found myself spreading peanut butter all over a dead woman’s body while he yanked her teeth out of her mouth so that the rats and vermin would eat her and no one would be able to identify her body. Three days later they found the girl. I tried like hell to keep a straight face as I watched the story breaking on the ten o’clock news, but it was killing me on the inside.
Lancaster Avenue was popping like it was three in the afternoon instead of the a.m. hours that we were presently in, so we waited until it died down some to make our move. Sporting all black, with a Yankees fitted pulled down over my eyes, we walked across the street like it wasn’t nothing. The young girl and the client never saw us coming. We stood on the side of the door out of view of them, just to
see who would walk up. I could see inside the shop from my viewpoint, and although the braider and the client were holding a conversation, they both looked exhausted and ready to go home.
We were about to make our move when a bunch of loud, drunk-ass girls turned the corner where the news stand was located, after getting off the 40 bus. We didn’t need any witnesses, so we waited for them to get almost to the Murry’s food store next to the barbershop up the block before we did what we had to do.
“You ready, Street?” Bunz said to me under his breath, calling me by my last name. I wanted to say that I wasn’t ready, but I was already there, so I had to make it do what it was gonna do. I could see the excitement of a possible kill in his eyes, but I was hoping he’d chill out tonight. Nightmares from so many dead bodies were already haunting my dreams, and I couldn’t take it anymore.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I mumbled back, feeling the handle on the sawed-off shotgun I held in the small of my back.
From what we observed over the last couple of weeks, there was a resident that lived on top of the braid shop that kept traffic coming in and out, so we just acted like we were waiting for him to come down and let us in as we stood in the cramped hallway outside of the shop. We closed the gate behind us so that no one could just rush in.
Both the client and the stylist looked up at us, but quickly turned back to their conversation. I noticed that the woman who was getting her hair done was cute to be a big girl, and under any other circumstances, I probably would have tried to get at her. Tonight, I was on a mission, but if I ever saw her again after this day, it was on.
