Where is Cenise? Arnessa wondered, sitting under the dryer with a head full of large gray rollers. Cenise, being very prissy, almost always beat her sister to the salon. Pulling out her Nextel, she tried to reach Cenise on her walkie-talkie. After several unsuccessful attempts, she dialed her number, only to get her voicemail. She probably went to the nail salon. That’s the only time that girl don’t answer that phone. Arnessa picked up the latest issue of Don Diva from the chair next to her. Unable to focus, she flipped through it aimlessly and put it right back down.

A little over two months had passed since Arnessa had linked up with Butta, who she soon found out had king-pin status. Now she was making money hand over fist. With the good grade of cocaine Butta was giving her at a low price, she was selling it faster than she could re-up. Instead of twice a week, she was now sending dope to Baltimore Monday through Friday, also thanks to Butta’s better-priced top-quality heroin. She even had to hire a second transporter. With spring ushering warmer temperatures into the city, business was only getting better.

Making such large sums of money made Arnessa nervous. She knew that this was the type of money that attracted professional stickup kids. Not the little amateurs from up the block. Arnessa was pulling in so much money that she no longer stashed it inside Timberland boxes in her closet. All of her funds were now hidden inside furniture in storage units throughout the city—one in Brooklyn, one in Queens, and two in the Bronx. Once her hair had been blown bone straight and wrapped and pinned, Arnessa left the shop. She hopped in her brand-new black Dodge Magnum, her first car, her biggest purchase ever. She’d bought it only after Butta advised her to. “You gotta get a car,” he’d told her, unable to fathom why she didn’t already own one and how she’d made it thus far without one. In the short time that she’d known him, Arnessa had learned a lot from Butta. Whenever he was around, she watched and listened intently, absorbing any knowledge or skill he put out.

Arnessa entered her apartment and immediately observed Cenise’s book bag and purse lying in the middle of the hall. Cenise’s bedroom door was cracked. Arnessa pushed it open and saw her little sister balled up in the middle of the bed, still wearing her Catholic school uniform. “Neesie, why didn’t you meet me at the shop?”

Cenise didn’t answer.

Arnessa walked over to the bed and touched Cenise to wake her. Cenise’s body was trembling. The girl turned to face Arnessa, her hair disheveled, her eyes bloodshot, and her bottom lip split.

Arnessa was floored by her appearance, “Cenise what happened to you?”

Cenise stared at her blankly.

“Cenise, tell me what happened to you!” Arnessa said, nearly screaming.

Feeling ashamed, Cenise lowered her eyes. In a tone slightly above a whisper, she began speaking, “I was walking from school on my way to the shop. I was on 144th when this guy came out of nowhere and pointed a gun at my stomach. He slapped me so hard I couldn’t feel-feel my-my mouth.”