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endangering a minor, but Nicky did his best to talk the cops out of locking me up along with her. They wasn't having it. They hemmed my arms up behind my back and slapped a pair of flexicuffs on my wrists, and the next thing I knew I had been taken to central booking where I was fingerprinted, photographed, and on my way to jail. They hustled me out of Manhattan and over the bridge to Rikers Island.
    I rode that prison bus with a bunch of other handcuffed criminals and cried inside the whole way. I'd heard all kinds of stories about Rikers. I just knew they were gonna throw me in a cell with Big Bertha, some Brooklyn dyke who liked redheads and was just itching to shove a broken mop handle up my coochie and make me wash her dirty thong.
    Instead, they put me in the reception wing of an adolescent center where they housed young females, and I stayed there for two days. There were all kinds of girls in there, but mostly Puerto Ricans and Blacks. A lot of them tried to walk around looking hard, and I could tell some of them really were. I was from Harlem, and I'd seen cutthroat chicks like this all my life.
    I kept my eyes wide open that first night. They had us in one big open bay and I sat up with my back against the wall, fighting my sleepiness and trying not to nod off. I'd already run into some man-looking female on the dinner line who called me Red and kept trying to tangle her fingers in my hair. You know I hurried up and put a thick braid in my shit quick fast and tucked the end under as far as I could get it. She didn't care. She ran her fingers up and down my braid and asked if she could measure how long it was. I told her to get the fuck out my face. I didn't want no trouble outta ol’ girl, but I was running on so much fear I was ready to air her straight out if I had to.
    The next morning I had a physical exam where the nurse's assistant told me to take out my contact lenses. “I don't have none,” I told her. “These are my real eyes.” She sucked her teeth like I was on crack.
    An hour later I was sitting in an office with a social worker who asked me all kinds of questions about life with Mama. She told me Caramel was in the custody of Child Protective Services, and since I was only fifteen, I'd probably end up in their custody as well. She wanted to know how long I had been prostituting on the streets with my mother. I kept quiet and didn't tell that bitch shit. Mama had trained me better than that.
    I couldn't keep my eyes open the second night, and I must have jumped up out of my sleep at least twenty times. They didn't keep inmates in reception forever, and I was steady waiting for Big Bertha to come get me and worrying if Mama and Caramel were okay.
    As it turned out, Big Bertha would have to find somebody else to wash her prison thongs. I was waiting for my turn on the breakfast line the next morning when a CO yelled out my name. “Montana, Candy Raye. Go get your shit. CPS is ready for you, and your ass is outta here.”
    Years later I ran into Nicky Gabriano again by accident. Me and my girls were singing in a group and calling ourselves Scandalous! We were trying to finance our first demo, so I had taken a part-time restaurant job as a coat-check girl. Nicky was in New York on business and recognized me immediately.
    He asked if Mama was dead yet. I said no, but told him how low the state had me living and he tore me off some nice cash along with my tip. The next day was my day off, and he surprised me when he showed up at my foster home and offeredme a job that I figured would pay me enough to get out of foster hell and cut a recording demo too. I thought on his offer for about three hot seconds before I agreed.
    “Smart decision, Candy,” Nicky praised me as he looked around my fifth foster house with disgust. “ 'Cause otherwise you'd be stuck in this pigpen eating dirt off the floor. You've got another good year or so until you turn eighteen and can leave here legally, but you're perfect for