No Boyz Allowed

by Ni-Ni Simone

  Ny’eem looked at Kamani. “You told her I was your man?”

  Kamani paused, placed her hands on her hips, and said, “Yeah, because you are.”

  “Really, Kamani, I’m your man, me?” Ny’eem looked taken aback. “Seriously?” He pointed to his chest.

  “I don’t have time for this!” I snapped.

  “Be quiet,” Ny’eem said to me. “You talk too soon and you jump to conclusions too much. So stand there, don’t move, and bigger than that don’t say a word.” He turned back to Kamani and said, “Yo, I don’t know what you lyin’ for—”

  “I’m not lyin’!” she screamed.

  “Yo,” Ny’eem spat. “You buggin’ for real, ’cause me and you ain’t never been nothin’. Ever. And yeah, I kicked it to you for a week, took you bowling, and treated you to a chicken sandwich and a Coke off the dollar menu at Wendy’s, but a cheap date doesn’t make you my girl. It just makes you a cheap date.”

  “Why are you doing this, Crook?” Kamani asked. “Why you frontin’ like this?”

  “Frontin’?” Ny’eem curled his upper lip and pointed his hand like a gun into her face. “Kamani, don’t play with me. ’Cause if you were a dude I would’ve already finished you. Now be clear since it seems you’ve been lying about this since last year, ya not my girl. Period.”

  “Whatever!” Kamani said, waving her hand, doing all she could to play off her embarrassment. “I don’t know what you trying to pretend for—”

  “Yo, I don’t know whether you’re stupid or crazy, but how about this, I come from the guts of the gutter so you can’t get no crazier than me. Which means you got about two seconds to straighten this out or its gon’ be a problem, for real, son.”

  “I don’t have to argue with you, Crook,” Kamani said. “Whatever.”

  “It’s not whatever. Me and you never existed. Now admit it!” He walked up close to her and stared her down.

  “Okay, okay,” she said, looking frightened. “Whatever. We’re not together. That’s fine.”

  “We were never together.” He stepped even closer to her.

  “I know.”

  “I thought so.” Ny’eem took a step back. “Liar.”

  Pop snapped, “I don’t believe you lied, Kamani! Are you crazy? Why would you do something like that?! I don’t believe this! You’re lucky Gem doesn’t drag you! I don’t believe that all this time you’ve been lying! You went to the bottom of the psycho-sea with that one. The queen of sickness, lying about Crook being your boyfriend. Who does that!”

  “Pop you need to mind your business!” Kamani screamed.

  “And you need to get some business. Real business and not make-believe. Freakin’ bipolar schizoid!” Pop turned to me. “Are you ready yet to swing on this chick? ’Cause my fist is itchin’!”

  Yeah, I was ready to swing, but I had to get out of shock first. Just as I came to, I said to Kamani, “You are one psychotic beyotch! You seriously need your throat sliced, but honestly, you’re not even worth it!”

  “Whatever.” Kamani flicked her wrist. “I don’t gotta stand here for this! Come on, Janay. Let’s go!”

  Janay looked at Kamani and twisted her lips. She shook her head and said, “Uh ah, I ain’t going nowhere with you, hand that rocks the cradle. You have lost your mind. Seems you’ve watched Obsessed one too many times and I’m concerned.”

  “Oh really. Is that how it is?” Kamani asked in disbelief. “Nicole, come on.”

  “Chile, please,” Nicole said. “Do you, ’cause I’m done.”

  “Jade, Briana.” Kamani looked around and called a few of the girls who were standing there.

  “Kamani, puhlease,” Jade said. “You have never said anything to us a day in your life. So don’t try and call on us because you don’t have any friends.”

  “To hell with y’all then!”

  “Girl, please,” Janay said. “Go hop on that lil bus and ride off into the sunset, psycho. That is not your man and we are not your friends. That kinda crazy has to be contagious and I don’t know where you got it from, but I don’t want you giving it to me.”

  “Whatever.” Kamani choked back tears, still trying to play tough. She ran across the street and immediately hopped on the bus that came her way. All the girls waved bye as she rode away.

  “Oules” and “Oh, my Gods” filled the air and the crowd standing around went into a frantic buzz.

  I still hadn’t said anything to Ny’eem, but I knew I needed to say something.

  But what?

  I was a mix between embarrassed, relieved, and in disbelief and I didn’t know how to express that—or if I should’ve expressed that...

  Say something. I looked at Ny’eem and said, “Umm, I just want to say to you—”

  “Oh, now you have something to say to me?” he snapped. “Nah, you hate me, remember?”

  “I don’t hate you,” I said. “I was just—”

  “Being ridiculous. Because it was easier for you to believe some sick-lyin’ chick than it was for you to believe me.”

  “I didn’t know what to think—”

  “Oh really, your thoughts seemed real clear to me. You let somebody get you hyped up and then instead of talking to me, you wanted me to step. Bounce. Because somewhere in all that we shared, you forgot that I was a real dude who loved you.”

  “Ny’eem, would you just let me explain?”

  “Did you let me explain?” He took two steps back.

  “So you just gon’ walk away?” I took two steps forward.

  “Isn’t that what you did?”

  I stopped in my tracks, and when I didn’t answer, he said, “Yeah, that’s exactly what you did.” Ny’eem turned and left me center stage with my heart pounding. This was worse than crying for days. I didn’t know which way to turn or what to do. All I knew was that I loved him too much not to go after him. But I couldn’t move. And not because I didn’t want to, but because for a moment I felt undeserving of everything turning out to be so perfect. Could this really be my life? Did I actually have a chance to have everything? A family, a boyfriend . . . friends. . . .

  Me. A motherless kid who never had anybody... could I turn out to have the whole world? This was soooo crazy. Maybe I didn’t deserve all of this. Maybe I needed to let him walk away.

  I swallowed. I felt the fear of being a failure and of not ever having anything creep up on me. I didn’t know what to do, but suddenly I knew that watching my fairy tale cross the street while I stood here and opted to punish myself was stupid.

  “What are you waiting on?” Pop said to me. “Gem.” She nudged my shoulder. “Are you really going to just let him leave like that?”

  I hesitated. “Maybe, maybe it’s meant to be this way. If it’s too good to be true then—”

  “Look,” she snapped. “I don’t know what you’re standing here going through, but that’s your boo, Cinderella. Now, you better go and handle your scandal before it gets to driving down Springfield Avenue.”

  “You think I’m buggin’ . . . maybe . . . a little?”

  “No, I don’t think that. I think you’re buggin’ a whole hellava lot!”

  I paused. Pop was right. I was more than buggin’. I was about to turn toward the dark side and go crazy. I had to bring it back fast and I had to go and get my man. I ran across the street.

  “Ny’eem, listen to me.” I grabbed him by his arm and he turned toward me. “I know I messed up. But I just always—”

  “Expect the worst.”

  I swallowed, did my best to hold back tears. “Yeah. I keep telling myself that this is not too good to be real, but every now and then I get scared. I shouldn’t have believed Kamani. I should’ve talked to you. I should’ve. And I’m sorry. I am.” Tears slid down my cheeks. “But know this—I love you and I want to be with you. And I will never ever believe some b.s. that some psycho bird tells me about you.”

  He stared at me for what felt like forever. “I missed you.”

  I crowded his p
ersonal space and slid my arms around his neck. “I missed you, too.”

  “Don’t ever do anything like that again.”

  I nodded. “Never again.”

  I pressed my forehead against the base of his neck and said, “I love you.”

  Surrendering, Ny’eem placed his hands on my waist, lifted me in the air so that we were face-to-face, and whispered against my lips. “I know you do, and I love you, too.”

  A READING GROUP GUIDE

  NO BOYZ ALLOWED

  Ni-Ni Simone

  ABOUT THIS GUIDE

  The following questions are intended to

  enhance your group’s reading of

  NO BOYZ ALLOWED.

  Discussion Questions

  1. What did you think of Gem’s attitude when she arrived at her new foster home? Do you think she had a right to be angry or should she have dropped the attitude?

  2. What did you think of Malik’s reaction to Gem when she said she didn’t want to stay in their new foster home? Do you think he should’ve agreed with Gem simply because she was his sister?

  3. What did you think would happen to Gem when she ran away? Do you think running away ever solves problems?

  4. What did you think of Gem’s birth mother? Do you know someone who has a mother like Gem’s?

  5. How did you feel about Gem being a foster child? Do you know any foster children? Do they act like Gem? If you were a foster child, would you act like Gem? Do you think there are any good foster homes?

  6. When do you think Gem started to change and become more comfortable with her foster family?

  7. What did you think of Gem’s relationship with Man-Man? Were you surprised that he treated her like family from the beginning?

  8. What did you think of Gem’s friends?

  9. In what way do you feel Ny’eem changed Gem’s life?

  10. If you were to rewrite this story, how would you change it?

  COMING SOON!

  Hollywood High

  by Ni-Ni Simone and Amir Abrams

  Welcome to Hollywood High, where socialites rule and popularity is more of a drug than designer digs could ever be.

  1

  London

  Listen up and weep. Let me tell you what sets me apart from the rest of these wannabe-fabulous broads.

  I am fabulous.

  From the beauty mole on the upper-left side of my pouty, seductive lips to my high cheekbones and big, brown sultry eyes, I’m that milk-chocolate dipped beauty with the slim waist, long sculpted legs, and triple-stacked booty that had all the cuties wishing their girl could be me. And somewhere in this world, there was a nation of gorilla-faced hood rats paying the price for all of this gorgeousness. Boom, thought you knew! Born in London—hint, hint. Cultured in Paris, and molded in New York, the big city of dreams. And now living here in La-La Land—the capital of fakes, flakes, and multiple plastic surgeries. Oh . . . and a bunch of smog!

  Pampered, honey-waxed, and glowing from the UMO 24-karat gold facial I just had an hour ago, it was only right that I did what a diva does best—be diva-licous, of course.

  So, I slowly pulled up to the entrance of Hollywood High, exactly three minutes and fifty-four seconds before the bell rang, in my brand-new customized chocolate brown Aston Martin Vantage Roadster with the hot pink interior. I had to have every upgrade possible to make sure I stayed two steps ahead of the rest of these West Coast hoes. By the time I was done, Daddy dropped a check for over a hundred-and-sixty grand. Please, that’s how we do it. Write checks first, ask questions later. I had to bring it! Had to serve it! Especially since I heard that Rich—Hollywood High’s princess of ghetto fabulousness—would be rolling up in the most expensive car on the planet.

  Ghetto bird or not, I really couldn’t hate on her. Three reasons: a) her father had the whole music industry on lock with his record label; b) she was West Coast royalty; and c) my daddy, Turner Phillips, Esquire, was her father’s attorney. So there you have it. Oh, but don’t get it twisted. From litigation to contract negotiations, with law offices in London, Beverly Hills, and New York, Daddy was the powerhouse go-to-attorney for all the entertainment elite across the globe. So my budding friendship with Rich was not just out of a long history of business dealings between my Daddy and hers, but out of necessity.

  Image was everything here. Who you knew and what you owned and where you lived all defined you. So surrounding myself with the Who’s Who of Hollywood was the only way to do it, boo. And right now, Rich, Spencer, and Heather—like it or not—were Hollywood’s “It Girls.” And the minute I stepped through those glass doors, I was about to become the newest member.

  Heads turned as I rolled up to valet with the world in the palm of my paraffin-smooth hands, blaring Nicki Minaj’s “Moment 4 Life” out of my Bang & Olufsen BeoSound stereo. I needed to make sure that everyone saw my personalized tags: LONDON. Yep, that’s me! London Phillips—fine, fly and forever fabulous. Oh, and did I mention... drop dead gorgeous? That’s right. My moment to shine happened the day I was born. And the limelight had shone on me ever since. From magazine ads and television commercials to the catwalks of Milan and Rome, I may have been new to Hollywood High, but I was not new to the world of glitz and glamour, or the clicking of flash bulbs in my face.

  Grab a pad and pen. And take notes. I was taking the fashion world by storm and being groomed by the best in the industry long before any of these Hollywood hoes knew what Dior, Chanel, or Yves St. Laurent stood for: class, style, and sophistication. And none of these bitches could serve me, okay. Not when I had an international supermodel for a mother, who kept me laced in all of the hottest wears (or as they say in France, haute couture) from Paris and Milan.

  For those who don’t know: yes, supermodel Jade Phillips was my mother. With her jet black hair and exotic features, she’d graced the covers of Vogue, Marie Claire, L’Officiel—a high-end fashion magazine in France and seventy other countries across the world—and she was also featured in TIME’s fashion magazine section for being one of the most sought out models in the industry. And now she’d made it her life’s mission to make sure I follow in her diamond-studded footsteps down the catwalk, no matter what. Hence the reason why I forced myself to drink down that god-awful seaweed smoothie, compliments of yet another one of her ridiculous diet plans to rid me of my dangerous curves so that I’d be runway ready, as she liked to call it. Translation: a protruding collarbone, flat chest, narrow hips, and a pancake-flat behind—a walking campaign ad for Feed the Hungry. Ugh!

  I flipped down my visor to check my face and hair to make sure everything was in place, then stepped out of my car, leaving the door open and the engine running for the valet attendant. I handed him my pink canister filled with my mother’s green gook. “Here. Toss this mess, then clean out my cup.” He gave me a shocked look, clearly not used to being given orders. But he would learn today. “Umm, did I stutter?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Good. And I want my car washed and waxed by three.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Welcome to Hollywood High.”

  “Whatever.” I shook my naturally thick and wavy hair from side to side, pulled my Chanels down over my eyes to block the sparkling sun and the ungodly sight of a group of Chia Pets standing around gawking. Yeah, I knew they saw my work. Two-carat pink diamond studs bling-blinging in my ears. Pink Hermès Birkin bag draped in the crook of my arm, six-inch Louis Vuitton stilettos on my feet, as I stood with poise. Back straight. Hip forward. One foot in front of the other. Always ready for a photo shoot. Lights! Camera! High Fashion! Should I give you my autograph now or later? Click, click!

  2

  Rich

  The scarlet-red bottoms of my six-inch Louboutins gleamed as the butterfly doors of my hot pink Bugatti inched into the air and I stepped out and into the spotlight of the California sun. The heated rays washed over me as I sashayed down the red carpet and toward the all-glass student entrance. I was minutes shy of the morning bell, of course.

&n
bsp; Voilá, grand entrance.

  An all-eyes-on-the-princess type of thing. Rewind that. Now replace princess with sixteen-year-old queen.

  Yes, I was doin’ it. Poppin’ it in the press, rockin’ it on all the blogs, and my face alone—no matter the headline—glamorized even the cheapest tabloid.

  And yeah, I was an attention whore. And yeah, umm hmm, it was a dirty job. Scandalous. But somebody had to have it on lock.

  Amen?

  Amen.

  Besides, starring in the media was an inherited jewel that came with being international royalty. Daughter of the legendary billionaire, hip-hop artist, and groundbreaking record executive, once known as M.C. Wickedness and now solely known as Richard G. Montgomery Sr., President and C.E.O. of the renowned Grand Records.

  Think hotter than Jay-Z.

  Signed more talent than Clive Davis.

  More platinum records than Lady Gaga or her monsters could ever dream.

  Think big, strong, strapping, chocolate, and handsome and you’ve got my daddy.

  And yes, I’m a daddy’s girl.

  But bigger than that, I’m the exact design and manifestation of my mother’s plan to get rich or die trying—hailing from the gutters of Watts, a cramped two-bedroom, concrete ranch, with black bars on the windows and a single palm tree in the front yard—to a sixty-two thousand square foot, fully staffed, and electronically gated, sixty acre piece of 90210 paradise. Needless to say, my mother did the damn thing.

  And yeah, once upon a time she was a groupie, but so what? We should all aspire to be upgraded. From dating the local hood rich thugs, to swooning her way into the hottest clubs, becoming a staple backstage at all the concerts, to finally clicking her Cinderella heels into the right place at the right time—my daddy’s dressing room—and the rest is married-with-two-kids-and-smiling-all-the-way-to the-bank history.

  And sure, there was a prenup, but again, so what? Like my mother, the one and only Logan Montgomery, said, giving birth to my brother and me let my daddy know it was cheaper to keep her.