Anatomy of a Girl Gang (9781551525303) Read online

  I thought they were joking.

  But they weren’t. Uh, what do I have to do to get in?

  Whatever you want.

  What?

  Whatever you think you need help doing.

  Excuse me?

  Look, what do you really want to do but feel like you can’t do on your own? Mac asked. She stared at me with her laser eyes. She’s super intense, right? She’s not blinking, not moving, just drilling into me with those two green lasers, waiting for an answer.

  That scene from Psycho flickered through my head. Me stabbing Roger. Blood spraying across the shower curtain. Of course, I couldn’t tell them that. I couldn’t tell anyone.

  We had all gone to the same school, Lord Strathcona Elementary. They were a couple grades ahead of me. That was before Mom married Roger, and before we moved to Shaughnessy, back when we were still living in the Downtown Eastside. Mac and Mercy probably knew that I’d had a baby when I was thirteen. The funny thing was, I’d stayed in school. They hadn’t. I didn’t really know what they’d been up to since then. I’d heard somewhere that they were down with the Vipers, but I didn’t know much else. Honestly, I felt honoured that they would ask me to join their gang. I mean, I just knew it was something I had to do. It was important. It was for real, yo.

  I think they chose me because I had been sorta notorious in our school for getting in fights and blowing shit up, right? I’ve been working at developing my skills since I first got the shit kicked out of me by Wesley Gilditch in grade four. I work out five days a week at the gym, near our house. I take kickboxing and mixed martial arts. My mom wanted me to take ballet or figure skating or something lame like that, but my guidance counsellor told her kickboxing would be a good outlet for my aggression. So she bought me the deluxe gym pass that includes all the classes. I also have a weapons collection. Yo, want to know what’s in it? Alright:

  1 butterfly knife

  1 switchblade

  2 throwing stars

  1 pair of brass knuckles

  1 Samurai sword

  1 BB gun

  1 potato gun

  Everyone collects something, right? It might as well be something cool. I picked most of it up at pawn shops or the Sally-Ann. I don’t get many chances to use any of it. I fantasize about using my stuff all the time, though, mostly on Roger.

  So I said carpe-fuckin-diem, yo, and joined the Black Roses. Something I’d always wanted was to get a tattoo. But I never had anyone to go with, and I’m only fifteen, so no one will give me one without parental consent, right? So the next weekend, me, Mac, and Mercy took the ferry over to Victoria and got black rose tattoos from Mac’s Uncle Hank. He’s a full-patch Lucifer’s Choice and owns his own tattoo shop. How perfect, right?

  You know about black roses? he asked us as he pressed the stencil onto Mercy’s shoulder blade.

  Just that they’re about to bring the city of Vancouver to its knees, Mac said.

  He chuckled, showing the black gaps where his canine teeth should’ve been. Maybe, maybe so. He cleared his throat and peeled back the plastic stencil sheet. In Medieval times, they said that whoever finds a black rose in the forest will be set on a path of liberation, the path of a freedom fighter.

  Really? Cool.

  It’s also a symbol for anarchy, Mercy said. I looked it up.

  And then Uncle Hank winked at Mercy, which was creepy cuz he’s like fifty. But I guess he’s kinda good looking for an old dude, plus he’s L.C.

  Mercy fluttered her doe eyes at him, and he turned on the tattoo machine. The buzzing sound filled up the room, and none of us talked for a minute or two.

  Does it hurt? I asked Mercy.

  Nah.

  Tell the truth, Hank said, and stopped the machine to wipe away some inky blood that was dripping down her back.

  Okay, maybe a little.

  We all laughed at her.

  He started the machine again. I have to put a lot of ink on this one because her complexion is so dark.

  What, are you calling me brown?

  We all laughed again.

  How’s your old man doing? he asked Mac after a while.

  I don’t know. Haven’t heard from him in ages. She shrugged and started picking at her nails.

  Then I remembered what I knew about Mac from back in the day at Lord Strath. Her dad was in jail, and her mom was a crack whore. I winced, remembering a day when kids threw rocks and garbage at Mac in the playground, called her a gutter slut, a jailbird. I had even thrown a few rocks myself, hiding behind the big yellow slide. I guess that’s around the time she toughened up, became a bully, like me. Yo, me and Mac even fought once. Over something stupid, I don’t remember what. An Adidas hoodie, I think. She gave me a bloody nose, I gave her a fat lip. But neither of us held a grudge, apparently.

  Anyway, now Mac’s uncle hooks us up with every connection we need. But we’re not affiliated with L.C. at all. Nothing to do with them bikers. They just gave us a head start in the game, as Mac likes to say. But really, it’s only because of them that we’re allowed to deal in the Downtown Eastside.

  My tattoo hurt like a bitch. I got it on my ankle so I could wear socks around the house and hide it from my mom. Yo, she’d shit on me if she ever saw it. It’s really nicely shaded and almost looks like a real rose about to burst into full bloom. The petals are still a little bit closed. I love it so much. For real. Mac wanted hers on the back of her hand but her uncle persuaded her to go with the inside of her wrist instead. I guess she wants everyone to see it. Mac’s was the biggest. About three inches across. It looks sick. Mercy’s turned out super nice, too. Real dark petals, but still delicate and pretty.

  After our tattoos were done, we smoked a joint with Hank, then he took us to an L.C. party at a penthouse in a swanky part of Victoria. It was a trip. Snow banks of blow, dude, seriously. I got really drunk and high and passed out early, but I know I was having hella fun up to that point.

  I woke up in the morning in a huge waterbed with cotton-mouth and a raging headache. Mercy was on my left, snoring softly, and Mac was asleep on my right. That’s when I knew, these were my girls, they were going to look out for me, they were going to keep me safe. No one has ever done that before.

  Later that day, they asked me if I was ready to put in some work.

  Sure, I guess.

  We need some money, Mac said.

  Uh-huh.

  You’re gonna get us some.

  Okay …

  It seemed like they had pulled this scam hundreds of times, and now they were testing me to see if I could handle it. To make sure I wouldn’t fuck up, right? They laid it out for me step by step over lunch at the Noodle Box.

  Only take out two or three hundred, Mercy said. Any more and it will raise flags.

  Okay.

  Any questions?

  Who keeps the money?

  We split it three ways.

  Oh.

  What? You don’t think that’s fair?

  Well, since I’m the one doing it, I’m taking the risk, shouldn’t I keep a bigger percentage?

  Oh! Oh! See, you gotta change that way of thinking, girl! Mac rapped her knuckles against my forehead. You’re running with the Black Roses now, right? We’re a family, see? We let you keep a third of it, and the two of us get a third of it. Most crews, you just do the work and the OGs keep it all. One hundred percent. This here little group runs different. We’re about equality and shit.

  Mercy nodded, narrowing her amber eyes at me.

  Okay, whatevs. Three ways is fine.

  You sure?

  Yep.

  Because if you’re not—

  It’s no problem.

  Yeah?

  It’s cool, yo.

  Good.

  So, which bank should I do?

  That’s up to you. We finished our noodles and walked up Douglas; I stopped in front of the Scotiabank. I don’t know why. Maybe because my favourite colour is red. When I was a kid, I used to think red Smarties gave me
superhuman strength. Or maybe because there was a big, shiny killer whale statue out front, like it was a beacon or something.

  Ready?

  I nodded and pressed my tongue hard into the roof of my mouth.

  Inside, two people were lined up at the ATM. My heart was hammering against my brain, and my hands were sweaty and shaky. The dude using the machine was tall with a black mohawk, the lady waiting behind him was a yuppie blonde wearing a Lulu tracksuit. I stood behind her, waiting, cracking my knuckles. When it was her turn, I watched her enter her PIN, repeating it in my mind. 1983. 1983. 1983. I’ve always had a terrible memory. I dropped a twenty on the ground by her feet. When she was collecting her cash, I cleared my throat. Uh, excuse me?

  She whipped around.

  Did you drop that? I nodded to the twenty.

  Oh! She bent to pick it up and I grabbed her bank card out of the slot and popped in the fake one Mercy had given me. The machine beeped.

  Shit.

  Thank you so much! She smiled, tucking the money into her pink wallet. That was so honest of you. She grabbed the fake bank card and put it in her wallet without even looking at it.

  No problem, I mumbled, and stepped up to the machine. I waited for her to leave, and then slid in her card. 1983. Savings. How much? How much? $300. And then, out it came. All fresh twenties, crisp and green.

  Was that easy or what? Mercy grinned at me as I came out of the bank, squinting into the bright afternoon.

  Yeah, I nodded. It was the most money I had ever held in my hands at one time. I shoved it into my purse and looked up and down the street, watching for cops, armoured guards, CSIS, whoever was coming for me.

  Relax, girl. You’re a natural, Mac said. She and Mercy laughed and held up their hands for me to slap them high-fives, and I did.

  On the ferry back to Vancouver, we sat down at one of the little round tables in the cafeteria. We sipped iced tea and ate cherry Danishes that Mercy had stolen from the cooler.

  These are disgusting, Mac said.

  At least they were free.

  They’re not too bad, I said.

  They both glared at me like I’d done something wrong.

  Mercy finished her Danish and wiped her mouth on a napkin, then took a tube of lip gloss from her purse and reapplied. I think it’s time, Mercy said.

  Mac nodded, reached for her bag, and pulled out a sheet of paper covered in red ink. Read each rule out loud, she said, placing the paper on the table in front of me.

  What?

  Can you read?

  Yeah. I looked down at the piece of paper. Obviously.

  Read it, then.

  ................

  Always honour and respect the Black Roses. Say/do nothing to defame any member or the gang as a whole.

  Never rat on anyone in the Black Roses, no matter what has happened; death before dishonour.

  Major decisions are group decisions. Always talk things over with other members before acting. In the event that the gang is divided, the final decision will be made by the leader, Mac.

  All of Mac’s decisions are final and cannot be contested. If Mac is unavailable, mercy will step into her role.

  Do not start shit with other crews. Violence and gang wars are useless and costly. If you have a problem with someone from another gang, talk it over with the Black Roses.

  Everything you do is in the best interest of the Black Roses. Everything the Black Roses do is in your best interest.

  Never call any of us by our real name. Never let anyone know your real name. We use our street names only.

  Never bring anyone to Black Roses HQ without requesting specific permission ahead of time. Never let anyone know where Black Roses HQ is located.

  Zero tolerance for drug consumption. If you are found to be using crack, cocaine, meth, or heroin, you will be ejected from the gang.

  Love your Roses as you love yourself. No fighting within the gang, no backstabbing, lying, stealing, cheating, or scheming against fellow gang members. Stick together!

  ................

  Can you agree to follow each and every one of these rules as they are written? Mac asked.

  Yeah, I think so.

  You think so? Or you can?

  I can.

  She raised her pale eyebrows and looked over at Mercy.

  Mercy pursed her glossy lips, studied my face for a moment, then nodded.

  Your new name is Kayos. Kayla doesn’t exist anymore. You will be known only as Kayos from now on. Do you accept your new name?

  Yes. I covered my grin with my hand and tried not to look like a total moron. My whole face felt hot, and I blushed.

  Now go memorize these rules by heart and come back when you’re done.

  Seriously?

  Is that going to be a problem?

  It’s just that I …

  What?

  I, um, I’m really bad at memorizing stuff.

  Well, here’s a chance to challenge yourself. She shoved the list into my hand and turned away.

  I looked at Mercy for help, but she was busy fiddling with her phone and waved me away without glancing up.

  I found a quiet spot near the back of the ferry and curled up in one of the seats. I read the rules out loud over and over and then recited as much as I could from memory, whispering under my breath. It felt like it took about three hours, for real. But it couldn’t have, because the whole voyage is only an hour and a half, right? I watched an old lady trip over somebody’s guitar case, and a hippie-granola help her up. Then the chimes, and the announcement came on, We are nearing the Tsawwassen Ferry Terminal. It is now time for all vehicle passengers to return to the vehicle decks. My time was up. I would have to wing it, and if I fucked up, well, at least I had tried.

  When I got back to their table, Mercy was painting her nails black, and Mac was reading the newspaper. They looked up at me standing there, and for a second, it seemed like they didn’t recognize me.

  Then Mercy snatched the sheet of paper away from me. Alright, Kayos, let’s hear the blood oath.

  And then the worst thing that could have happened did. My mind went blank.

  MERCY

  She stood in front of us in the ferry’s Coastal Café, all ready to recite the oath, and then this wave of redness spread up her neck and into her wide, freckly face, and it looked like she just fell apart inside. She looked so … empty. I wanted to help her, somehow. I looked at Mac. Mac looked at me. Kayos just stood there staring straight ahead, her big turquoise eyes getting all watery. Two little kids ran by our table, screaming, holding their paper cups like torches.

  Let’s go outside, I said. Too many people around here.

  Alright, get to it, Mac said when we were all standing on the outer deck. She lit a cigarette and so did I. Kayos took a big breath, then began. She looked so nervous and unsure, just like that scared little fourth grade punk-ass kid we’d known her as. But she recited all the rules almost word for word, and I sort of felt like clapping at the end, but I didn’t.

  Good, Mac said. Now, sign your name to it. She pulled her jackknife from her back pocket and dropped it into Kayos’s hand.

  What? In blood? She laughed.

  That’s why it’s called a blood oath, I said.

  She stared at me for a second. Then she opened the knife and made a quick slit across her finger. She didn’t even flinch; it was as if she’d done it a hundred times before. Mac and I smiled at each other as we flicked our butts over the side of the boat. Kayos wrote a big K at the bottom of the page in her blood.

  Down for life? Mac asked.

  Down for life. Kayos handed the paper to Mac, and Mac folded it neatly and slid it into her backpack. Then both of us gave Kayos a monster hug and told her she was our sister now, and we would love her and protect her forever.

  SLY GIRL

  I been livin in the Downtown Eastside bout six months by this point. Mostly on the street. Sometimes in squats, at tricks’ places, once in awhile at a hotel if I could
afford it. I seen these girls around, three of them. Always together, walkin fast, wearin all black. One was big and tall, a redhead, lookin some kinda tough, one had pale yellow hair to her shoulders, shark’s eyes, a thin face, and the other one wore leather boots, big gold hoops in her ears, raven hair to her bum. She was a skinny Indian. Not Indian like me though, but Indian from India, eh. I knew these girls sold crack, H, and Oxy. Everybody knew that. Yeaah, I bought off them a few times. Their stuff was pretty good, but their prices … not the best.

  I’d think on them girls sometimes, while I sat in the alley beside the Army & Navy Department Store, bout to shoot up or just on the nod, whatevers. Them girls would be rentin my headspace a lot of nights. I was curious about them. Who they were. What their story was. Who they were workin for. There ain’t too many decent-lookin girls down here, if you know what I mean, so when you see some, you notice.

  VANCOUVER

  Puddles explode as heavy boots tramp through them. Neon lights reflect off my streets, off the water, off sharp, ever-scanning eyes. I’ve watched these three grow up; but they’re not so old. I have watched them flip upside down on monkey bars, in a grassy park. I have seen them skin their knees and blow bubbles and make crowns of dandelions and necklaces of shells. I have seen their mouths fall open in wonder at the size of a tree, the vibrant violet of a sea star, a flock of geese stopping traffic on the bridge they call the Lions Gate. I have heard them tell their mothers they love them. But they don’t do that anymore, they don’t do any of that. Now they rob and steal and sell people their medicine. Their breath hangs silver in the air as they smoke cigarettes and walk fast—too fast—through these streets. My hardest streets. Where the people lie and cry and die in the alleyways, every single day. Did I know these girls would be here? Doing this? Maybe. But what could I do about it? What can I do but watch? And contain it all.

  I know they still want to be loved. I know there is fear shining in the corners of their eyes. I know there are others who will become what they are.