All the Bumpy Pebbles: A Novel

By Tamara Cherry

When it comes to bad days, Roxanne Brown has had more than most. Her mom’s a drunk. Her dad’s not around. And the haircut she got before her first day of high school was a total disaster. Soon, a seemingly serendipitous encounter gives her a reason to celebrate. He’s cute and confident and best of all, he likes her — like, really likes her. But Roxanne has been duped. And as she plummets down the rabbit hole, crumbs of herself are left in all the dark places we would rather not see. Will Roxanne make it out? Or has she lost too much of herself to survive?

In this chilling debut novel inspired by true events, award-winning journalist Tamara Cherry unzips the world of domestic sex trafficking with enchantment, empowerment and the existential mind of a teenaged girl. This raw, page-turning crash course on human trafficking presents readers with a startling reality: Roxanne Brown really could be the girl next door.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tamara Cherry
• Release date: May 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463491119

Book preview

Copyright © 2020 Tamara Cherry

All rights reserved.

While the contents of this book have been inspired by true events, the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, unless otherwise noted. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Cover design by: Anselmo Lourenço

Published by Pickup Communications Inc.

pickupcommunications.com

ISBN-13: 9780463491119

For all the silent sufferers. For all the brave survivors.

For all those who fought for change, then demanded more.

CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Introduction

Sept. 3, 2007 10:28 p.m.

Jamal at Four

Oct. 8, 2007 3:57 p.m.

Jamal at Six

Oct. 9, 2007 9:45 p.m.

Oct. 11, 2007 1:26 a.m.

Oct. 11, 2007 4:32 p.m.

Oct. 11, 2007 10:23 p.m.

Oct. 28, 2007 8:47 p.m.

Nov. 15, 2007 10:32 p.m.

Jamal at Fifteen

Nov. 16, 2007 7:46 a.m.

Nov. 22, 2007 10:13 p.m.

Nov. 25, 2007 6:45 a.m.

Nov. 28, 2007 4:07 a.m.

Nov. 28, 2007 1:27 p.m.

Nov. 30, 2007 2:15 p.m.

Dec. 2, 2007 1:34 p.m.

Dec. 5, 2007 1:07 p.m.

Dec. 7, 2007 2:58 p.m.

Dec. 8, 2007 5:13 a.m.

Dec. 16, 2007 5:07 a.m.

Dec. 22, 2007 4:15 a.m.

Dec. 22, 2007 12:30 p.m.

Dec. 26, 2007 9:50 a.m.

Jamal at Twenty

Dec. 27, 2007 6:15 p.m.

Dec. 30, 2007 4:15 a.m.

Jan. 1, 2008 5:07 a.m.

Jan. 3, 2008 1:15 p.m.

Jan. 7, 2008 2:00 p.m.

Jan. 19, 2008 5:07 a.m.

Jan. 25, 2008 2:03 p.m.

Feb. 1, 2008 9:02 p.m.

Feb. 2, 2008 2:00 a.m.

Feb. 16, 2008 10:15 p.m.

Feb. 25, 2008 1:15 p.m.

Mar. 31, 2008 1:43 p.m.

Jamal at Twenty-Three

Apr. 8, 2008 5:18 p.m.

May 4, 2008 9:53 p.m.

Accounting 1

Accounting 2

May 18, 2008 3:04 p.m.

Accounting 3

May 26, 2008 4:54 p.m.

Jun. 18, 2008 3:14 p.m.

Jamal at Twenty-Four

Accounting 4

Jul. 26, 2008 8:45 a.m.

Sept. 2, 2008 2:17 a.m.

Sept. 3, 2008 9:30 a.m.

Sept. 3, 2008 10:45 a.m.

Sept. 3, 2008 1:00 p.m.

Sept. 3, 2008 2:50 p.m.

Sept. 3, 2008 3:45 p.m.

Sept. 3, 2008 6:15 p.m.

Sept. 3, 2008 9:23 p.m.

Sept. 3, 2008 10:55 p.m.

Sept. 3, 2009 4:30 p.m.

Jamal at Twenty-Seven

Afterword

Acknowledgments

Author Bio

End Notes

INTRODUCTION

The following pages contain content that may be traumatic for some readers, including scenes of sexual violence, exploitation and various forms of abuse, as well as depictions of anti-Black racism.

The subject matter is inspired by true stories shared with the author by sex trafficking survivors and those fighting the problem on the front lines. Excerpts of actual literature, interviews and court documents are marked by paperclips. The intention is that the non-fiction excerpts will provide context to the fictional storyline, and vice versa.

The author recognizes that, for some survivors, having their cases resurface in the public realm can be a form of re-victimization. For this reason, some identifying details in the paper-clipped portions have been changed, at the request of survivors.

More than a decade has passed since many of the events that inspired this book, but the problem persists.

It is real. It is relevant. It deserves our attention.

SEPT. 3, 2007

10:28 p.m.

I just called the cops. If I was younger I’d be scared by all this stuff, but seriously, this is annoying.

Why don’t I get a say in who Shar brings home anymore? When I was little she’d actually sit me down and ask what I thought about this guy and that guy. Did he stink? Did he have bad breath? Did he have nice manners? Now it’s like all the standards have gone out the window. It’s too bad, because she used to deserve better. Not anymore. She’s turned into such a you-know-what.

I wish I could remember more from when I was really little. I mean, I must have been loved back then, right? I must have been held and rocked to sleep and sung to and read to, to make it this far.

There goes a dish.

But Shar never sings to Jonathan, she never reads to him. Is that why he comes running to my room on nights like this? She should be in bed so he can climb in next to her. Or plop her giant pillow next to her bed so he can lie on top of it and have her bathrobe as a blanket. Why can’t she do that with him like she used to with me? This kid is bound to be messed up down the road.

There goes another dish.

Where are the cops? If they don’t come soon, we’ll be eating sandwiches off paper towels tomorrow. A statistic in the newspaper the other day — yeah, I’ve been trying to read the newspaper — said it takes an average of forty minutes for the cops to respond to domestic disturbance calls. What happens if Bill flips his lid in those forty minutes? Or if Shar grabs a knife? What if they burn this house to the ground?! Nothing would surprise me.

Anyway, I guess I should tell you about my first day of high school. That was today.

It took a good thirty minutes to coax my hair into something acceptable this morning. I got it chopped off last week (big mistake!) and, without that thirty minutes, I risked walking into the first day of the rest of my life looking like a boy. Whatever. What’s done is done and I needed some bangs to cover up the zits that took over my forehead ever since I got my period a few months ago.

I left early so I could walk to school. The last thing I wanted was to pull up on the bus only to find out that buses are suddenly uncool once you start high school.

A couple of weeks ago I scouted out the school from the sidewalk, but it looks much bigger when you get inside. The walls push at you from every angle while you work your way through the sea of people in the corridors.

Trying to find my locker and classrooms kept me so busy there wasn’t much chance to take in everything, but some of the girls look like they’re graduating from college, not high school. Why does there have to be such a blossoming gap between freshies and seniors? It’s as if God wanted to make an example of my tiny boobs by throwing me into hallways crowded with overflowing cleavage.

A few girls from elementary school were there, but they didn’t seem too interested in talking with me. That’s one thing I won’t have to adjust to. I was hoping to make some new friends anyway.

Oh, and I had to make myself starve through lunch. No, I’m not turning into a high-school bulimic, but really, who packs peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on their first day of high school? And what would I pack it in? The purple lunch bag from elementary school? I don’t think so. Then none of the students my age were buying anything from the cafeteria. I wanted to ask somebody if freshies are allowed to buy stuff, but everyone I even thought about approaching looked at me as if I’d offended them by entering their personal space.

My homeroom teacher seems cool. Apparently he’s been teaching Industrial Arts since the seventies and is set to retire, so I’ll probably have a different homeroom teacher next year. All the older students cheered for him — Wen-ZEE! Wen-ZEE! Wen-ZEE! — as if the welcome to school get-together in the auditorium this morning was a pep rally for all that is Mr. Wenzel. At least there’s one cool thing going for me in this school, even if it’s just a loose affiliation to a teacher.

Everything is assigned seating for the first couple weeks until the teachers memorize our names. In elementary school it would’ve been harder to look like I cared if I was stuck in one of the front-row seats, but in this case I don’t mind, it saves me from forcing somebody to sit beside me when I know they’d rather be sitting beside somebody else.

My English teacher was writing on the blackboard, and this blonde girl with a mousy voice (I know it’s mousy because I heard her cutesy little Here during attendance) actually reached into her jeans and pulled her thong out so the T of her underwear was sticking up above her waist. When one of her friends pointed it out to her as we were leaving class, she did this little giggle and acted like she was all embarrassed. Even writing about her annoys me.

Here the cops are. Their voices don’t sound familiar.

Thankfully, Jonathan’s sleeping for this part. The lies make me wince more than the dishes smashing on the floor.

No no officer, there’s no trouble. My, am I embarrassed. I didn’t realize we were being so loud. The neighbours could hear us? My kids didn’t even wake up! Yes yes, we’ll keep it down.

Now here comes the part where they pull Shar into the other room to ask her the same questions, hear the same answers, and go on their merry way. In ten minutes Bill will leave, Shar will come to check on me to make sure I wasn’t the one who called the cops and then, sigh, there will be peace in this house again.

How many times will I have to do this song and dance? If I wasn’t here to call the cops, would they just scream at each other forever? Would they sweep up all the broken dishes and glue them back together so they could smash them against the floor again? Maybe if I just let it go on, Shar would come to her senses on her own.

Honestly, sometimes I want to creep down the stairs, run out the door and keep on running until I have to stop and think about where to go next. Anywhere but middle-class suburbia. No more screaming. No more crashing dishes. No more thong-pulling mouse girls. Would anybody miss me? Would anybody chase after me? Call the cops? Would they even notice I left?

You would.

Love, Roxy

Image3

JAMAL AT FOUR

September 4, 1987

HALIFAX — A 26-year-old father from North Preston has been identified as the city’s latest homicide victim.

Tyson Cain was gunned down during what police described as a dispute near Brunswick and Artz Streets, early Thursday morning.

Area residents reported hearing between five and seven gunshots before a suspect fled the scene on foot.

A seventeen-year-old boy, who cannot be identified under provisions of the Young Offenders Act, was arrested following a foot pursuit. He faces one count of second-degree murder.

Court records show Cain had a lengthy criminal record, which included convictions for possession of a prohibited weapon, uttering threats, assault and breach of probation. He was also wanted for allegedly procuring a person to become a prostitute in Toronto last year.

According to a police source, Cain was armed with his own gun at the time of the shooting, though it is unclear at this point whether he returned fire.

Cain had a common-law wife and a young son, the source said.

Anyone with information about the case is asked to call Halifax Police or Crime Stoppers.

OCT. 8, 2007

3:57 p.m.

You’ll never guess what happened today. Okay, maybe you will, but here goes.

You know how I hate gym class? Well I do. In elementary school we could get away with not working up a sweat, but the slave driver they call Coach at this school says if we don’t sweat, we’re not working. And if we’re not working, we shouldn’t get a passing grade.

Then everybody is expected to shower after class, as if getting naked in front of everybody else is suddenly acceptable. I have enough things to worry about without them all looking at my birthmark and lack of everything else. And I spend too much time on this godawful haircut every morning to do it twice. Anyway, I didn’t feel like dealing with that stuff today so I decided to do something for ME for a change.

Wenzy is the only one who saw me leaving the school. I told him I had a doctor’s appointment for girl stuff. He bolted so fast you’d think he had the runs.

It’s unbelievable how easy it was to just walk away. When I got to the sidewalk in front of the school, I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder. I’d like to tell you there was a pack of teachers chasing after me with long metre sticks and I had to do back flips and cartwheels to flee the scene, but there was nothing.

Even with nobody on my tail, I felt like I was being watched, like lasers were burning into the back of my neck, so I walked as fast as my old runners would let me until I got out of range of the surveillance cameras. When the pedestrian light changed to Walk, I realized I had no idea what I was going to do. Then it came to me — what better way to rebel against gym class than do what Coach Slave Driver would hate most? I went to Burger King.

Kids meal with chicken tenders, fries changed to onion rings and two barbecue sauce coming up. If I have to talk my way out of this, I can say that my speed-walking skills burned off more calories than I was about to eat plus whatever he had planned for gym class . . . not to mention the girl problems, LOL.

So I’m sitting on the curb next to the drive-thru and about to peel open my first barbecue sauce when this guy walks up to me. Yeah, finally I get to the good stuff.

Already I’m trying to think up a lie about how I’m waiting for my little brother or my friends, or anything to explain sitting alone on this curb with a kids meal, when he flashes me this smile and straight out asks if I go to Richview. You’d think I was a ten-year-old boy the way my uh huh squeaked out.

What’s your name?

Roxy.

Foxy Roxy. He grinned.

I got tongue-tied and just shrugged and let out a stupid little giggle.

Then he asks, So what grade are you in, Roxy?

Nine.

Really? How old are you?

Fourteen, but I’ll be fifteen in November. (Why didn’t I just say fifteen? Better yet, sixteen.)

I’d have thought you were older.

Really? (More concentrated now on making myself stop blushing).

Yeah, with legs like that I thought you were at least a senior.

You obviously didn’t notice my small tits. (Okay, I was just thinking that part.)

Now I try to sound cool. Nah, but I’ve just started at this school and already I can’t wait to get out.

I hear ya. That shit’s not for me.

I asked him how old he was, he said twenty. And he had tattoos, and this awesome car. I’m not going to act like I know anything about cars, but it was like the ones in the music videos, fancy rims and all. I half expected a bunch of girls in bikinis to hop out of the trunk and start doing that thing where they put their hands on their thighs and look at their gyrating butts.

What are you doing on the weekend? he said.

Long pause, like I was thinking of all of the millions of things I had planned for the weekend. Nothing yet, (instantly regretting not making the pause more believable).

He pointed toward his car. A few guys were sitting in it. One of my boys is having a party up in Brampton. You down?

Is this actually happening to me outside a Burger King?! Uh, yeah, sure. Where in Brampton? I could feel myself blushing at the thought of showing up on the bus.

Don’t worry about it, I’ll pick you up.

Phew. But aaaaaaaaaaah!

He put my number into his phone under Foxy Roxy (or at least that’s what he was saying when he typed in the number) and said he’d call me on Friday. Then he got into his car, rolled down the window and let the rap music pour out. He did one of those little kissy things with his lips, winked and drove away.

I swear I was pinching myself the rest of the day, expecting to wake up from a dream. Why was this happening to me? Where did this guy come from? I don’t even know what his name is! Do guys usually pick up girls outside Burger King? I don’t think he even had any food.

I’m going to drive myself crazy for the next four days, waiting for his call. Still can’t believe it. Things are finally starting to look up for me!

Okay, I’ll report back when I have news.

Love,

A very excited Foxy Roxy!

Image4

JAMAL AT SIX

Victim Impact Statement

Name: Jamal Cain

Date: October 8, 1989

Emotional Impact of the Crime:

- Use this section to describe any emotional impacts of the crime, including your general feelings of wellbeing or enjoyment of life; how the crime has affected any relationships; any emotions or feelings related to the crime; effects on your lifestyle or activities; psychological effects of the crime (including any treatment you may need); how these impacts might change your life in the future.

Image24

OCT. 9, 2007

9:45 p.m.

Whatever happened to calling on Friday?! This is only Tuesday. Okay, so his name is Paul. I finally just asked him and he said that was his name, but his friends call him Daddy.

Your friends call you Daddy? It came out ruder than I intended.

Well, my girlfriends, he said, and he kind of laughed (apparently I’m foxy and funny now). Everybody else just calls me Stacks.

So I think this means I’m supposed to call him Daddy. No promises though.

Anyway, he said he couldn’t wait until Friday to call me. Thank God Shar is working tonight. I haven’t said anything to her about my little encounter yesterday and don’t think I will. I get the feeling she has something against black guys. In the tally of men that have passed through this place, I don’t think I’ve seen so much as a guy with a heavy tan.

Daddy said he couldn’t stop thinking about me after yesterday and had to stop himself from calling me last night! It’s as if he took a walk around my brain to see exactly what I’ve always dreamed of a guy saying to me.

And that voice — I could take a bullet for that voice. He’s so smooth. And sweet. And cute. And mature. A real ladies man, but such a gentleman. The perfect mix.

He said he’s a music producer and he was heading to work when he left me yesterday, otherwise he’d have stayed to talk longer. He said his friends were bugging him because he kept talking about Foxy Roxy.

My heart’s still pounding, I can feel it through my pyjamas. I don’t think I ever sat so still for so long as that phone call: twenty-two minutes and thirteen seconds according to my phone. That’s gotta be a record for me!

And I haven’t even gotten to the biggest part. Not only could he not wait until Friday to call me, he wants to take me out tomorrow night. Tomorrow night!

We’re going to a movie. I don’t even remember which one he said. He’s coming to pick me up at 8:30. Lord, let it be another late shift for Shar. Maybe I can get that girl down the street to watch Jonathan until she gets home.

Okay, I should really stop writing. So much to do! What to wear?