Poison Ivory Read Online Free

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    A woman with particularly large feet planted herself right in front of me. “Does yo mama know yo’re a streetwalker, lil’ girl?”
    It seemed like everyone—except for Cheng—roared with laughter. Of course I was infuriated,but I realized the futility of trying to win every battle that came my way. So what if they mocked me? I would save my energy for bigger things.
    “She’s not a little girl,” another woman said. “She’s a doll. That’s why she don’t answer.”
    “I don’t care what she is,” Miss Big Feet said, “but if she don’ want her ass whupped, she best be answering me.”
    “Abby,” Cheng whispered frantically, “please cooperate.”
    “You hear that little girl? Doll? Whatever you is? You listen to yo friend, girl, unless you want me to rearrange yo face foh you. We don’ like no Barbie dolls in here.”
    When I was a little girl, Mama said I was stubborn. When I got to be a teenager I graduated to willful, tinged by mild rebellion (I wasn’t always where I said I’d be, and I did try smoking cigarettes—briefly). As an adult I’ve eased into being comfortably contrary when I feel that I’m being pushed around. But other than that, I’ve always been the epitome of the Southern lady: gracious and calm. If I identify with any character in Gone With the Wind , it would have to be Melanie.
    Miss Big Feet extended an index finger as fat as a Cuban cigar and mashed it into my forehead so hard I nearly lost my balance. “Answer me, girl!”
    That’s when Mama’s karate lessons came in handy. Not that I’d taken them along with her, mind you, but she’d made me sit through enoughof them to learn how to throw a stomach punch. My fists might be tiny, and my arms short, but I caught my tormentor totally unawares.
    Miss Big Feet emitted a very satisfying gasp, swayed like a radio tower in a Category Five storm, and fell over backward. Her enormous stilettos, when suspended in the air, appeared totally surreal. She might just as well have been waving a pair of high-heeled canoes around. The other prostitutes convulsed with laughter.
    “Ladies!” The single word was bellowed like a command, and it was followed by the clanging of a nightstick across the bars of our cell.
    Cheng and I froze in position, like in the childhood game of Statues, but most, if not all, of the other women hooted and jeered at the prison guard. Even Miss Big Feet—once she was helped upright—got into the action.
    The guard’s face turned the color of pomegranate pulp. “You,” she screamed, pointing at me, “you come with me!”
    The women—and I refuse to call them “ladies”—convulsed with laughter. They slapped their thighs, stomped their feet, and whooped with delight. When one of them leaned against a wall to catch her breath and then slipped to the floor, they screamed their approval. At least as entertainment, I was a resounding success.
    Another guard appeared to assist with my removal, although my actual removal was non-eventful—well, except for the rude catcalls that followed me down the hall.
    “Hope to see you soon, little girl, but not on my street!”
    “Hey you! That’s right, you! You like yo sugar brown, or white?”
    “Don’t pay no attention to her. I’m gonna take you home so my daughter can play with you, on account of I can’t afford no Barbie dolls.”
    But it was the last thing I heard we before we turned the corner that really got to me.
    “Abby, please don’t abandon me!”
     
    I was ushered brusquely into a windowless room and told to wait. The center of the room was occupied by a long, institutional-style table, around which six functional chairs had been placed. I chose a chair facing the door, and frankly, at that moment, I was glad just to be sitting. How quickly one’s priorities can change, I thought.
    After exactly twenty-two minutes (by my watch) the door opened, and a split second later so did my mouth. I stared, but for who knows how long. I was