Divas Don't Cry

by Ni-Ni Simone

  And still I walked European runways and through the marbled halls of my elite school with my head held high, back straight, pelvis thrust, one foot in front of the other, poised and ready. Always ready.

  My mother, Jade Phillips—yeah, that Jade Phillips. Renowned supermodel. Yeah, her. Anyway, she’d drill into my head from when I was a little girl that a girl had to always stay ready. Be ready to snatch the moment. The spotlight. The click of the camera. And she’d taught me, very well, how to live the illusion, how to be the illusion.

  Fine, fly, and forever fabulous . . .

  At that moment, my phone rang.

  I stared at the screen for a second, then pressed IGNORE. It was Spencer. Why on earth would Spencer Ellington be calling me? That girl loathed me. And I wasn’t any fan of hers either. She was as cunning and sly as she was crazy. And someone I would never, ever, trust.

  From the moment I stepped foot into Hollywood High, Spencer and I hadn’t seen eye to eye. She was too obsessed with Rich and hated the fact that Rich and I had been close friends—for a very short while. Until that meddling bish, Spencer, ruined it.

  I’d had Rich wrapped around my manicured fingers, and Spencer couldn’t stand it. She’d be somewhere lurking, always in Rich’s ear, filling her pumpkin head up with lies and speculations. Okay, well, maybe not all lies. Well, okay, okay. There’d been no lies told. But I hadn’t been all that forthright with Rich either.

  But heck—neither had she.

  This was Hollywood, for Christ’s sakes. Everyone was dishonest and disloyal to a fault. Tinseltown was wrapped in the glitter of lies and deceit and illusions of happily-ever-after.

  A minute later, my phone beeped. A message. I sighed, rolling my eyes. But decided to replay it anyway.

  Spencer’s voice blared through my speakers, nearly piercing my eardrums. “Lonnnnnndon. Ohhh, Lonnnnnndon. I know you saw me calling you. Is that your hearse in front of me, driving like three-point-five miles a minute? Where are you off to now, the cemetery? Do you have another playdate with the grim reaper?”

  I held my breath.

  “Godjeezus! You’re so dang ugly, London. A travesty. A—”

  A horn blew. Then Spencer yelled obscenities at whomever had wronged her on the road. “Anyway, back to you, troll doll. Tell your driver I said pull onto the side of the road and let a real driver show him how it’s done. Oooh, Miss Low Money... Little Miss Broke Down Girl, I can’t wait to catch you slipping again so I can claw your eye sockets out.”

  Click.

  I pressed DELETE, hung up, and exhaled.

  Seconds later, a black, two-door Bentley coupe, with pink interior, sped by in the lane for traffic going in the opposite direction, horn blaring as it swerved, then cut in front of us. The last thing I saw before the car disappeared was the back of Spencer’s license plate.

  KISS IT.

  Now, I knew I had my own issues, which I was happily working on in therapy. My therapist, Dr. Kickaloo, was everything. She was showing me how to heal me, how to like me—and, most importantly, how to love me. And I knew I still had a lot more work to do.

  But, baby, mmmph. Spencer needed a permanent stay in a padded room. She was straitjacket cuckoo. I just didn’t quite understand how no one else saw it, except me.

  Here was the weird thing. Spencer had been the only one who’d been there for me at the lowest point of my life, when I’d felt broken. When everything inside of me had cracked open.

  God, what had I been thinking? Attempting suicide had been the craziest thing I’d ever done. And yes, that was a totally reckless and insensitive thing to do. But at that unbearable moment, I’d felt like I’d had no other way out of all of my hurt. I’d felt trapped. And all I’d wanted at that time was an easy escape. But what I really needed was for someone to listen, to hear me. And, for once, really see me.

  London Elona Phillips.

  Not the illusion.

  Not the mink lashes and hair extensions.

  Not the model on runways.

  Not the face on fashion magazine covers or print ads.

  Not the designer clothes and expensive handbags and heels.

  Just me.

  A teenage girl who wanted acceptance and love and friendships, who wanted to fit in and belong. A teenage girl who still yearned for her mother’s arms wrapped lovingly around her and craved her father’s attention. A teenage girl who was flawed, who struggled with body image and weight issues, and yet had dreams and fantasies of being swept up in romance.

  I was all of those things.

  And all I’d ever wanted was for people around me to see me for me. But what I hadn’t known then that I knew now was, all I ever really needed to do was open my eyes and really look at the girl staring back at me. I’d been right there, all along.

  I looked out the window, suddenly thinking about Rich. Part of me still hoped that maybe, one day, she and I wouldn’t be estranged, that we’d both discover a new way of being friends again. Although I really didn’t know how that would work out since she was now dating my ex. My past. My worst mistake. The boy I’d kept hidden from my parents and the world, the boy who had been my secret love for almost three years of my life.

  Justice Banks.

  The two of them—long story—were now all hot and heavy. At first, I’d been devastated. Hurt. That he’d dumped me for her. I’d driven myself nearly insane trying to figure out what it was that she’d had that I didn’t. But in the end, it never really mattered. What mattered then, and mattered now, was that he didn’t want me. So I had to learn to let him go. I had to stop obsessing over him and holding onto his lies and his abuse and all of his broken promises and just let it all go.

  Whew. It wasn’t easy. But now I can see the two of them together in a magazine or read about them on social media and not break down in tears. I haven’t seen them together publicly yet, so who knows how I’ll be then. But for right now, I’m no longer pissed at Rich, envious of her, for having what I thought should have been mine.

  So whatever.

  The so-called Pampered Princesses of Hollywood High were all in shambles. And from where I was sitting, Rich Montgomery was the biggest mess of us all. But she couldn’t see that. And maybe she never would. Whatever. Not my problem. I had to keep my focus on what I wanted my life to look like, not anyone else’s.

  I settled into the backseat of the chauffeur-driven Benz and scrolled through my newsfeeds. So far, there was nothing exciting or worthy of my interest happening in Twitterland or on Snapchat. The blogs were all atwitter with the news that Heather had been spotted giving an impromptu concert in the middle of the street as she was caught coming out of some ghetto-hood studio with a blunt and a forty-ounce. The gossip sites and tabloids had speculated that Heather was backsliding quicker than a California mudslide. And they were all probably right.

  Repulsed, I clicked into Come Get This Tea, a teen blog site that had all the dirty deeds of any-and-every-body who was somebody in the world.

  My lashes fluttered. I narrowed my eyes as one caption caught my attention. I scrolled on in the story . . . in . . . utter disgust as I read.

  The Bad Girl of hip-hop royalty, Rich Montgomery, seems to have been bitten by the green-eyed monster we all know as jealousy. Yaaaas, my little chickadees, yasss. The boom-bop-and-drop-don’t-stop-get-it-get-it party girl, in all of her exquisite jewels and Parisian couture, was seen late last night, during the bewitching hour, being dragged out of her mouthwatering beau’s Manhattan Beach condo by men in blue, yelling out obscenities and making threats of violence toward anyone she catches the hunky heartthrob looking at.

  A source noted that Rich and the bare-chested lounge-singing R&B crooner were spotted struggling in the hallway over a cell phone. The couple could be heard arguing over his Facebook account, with Rich demanding access to his webpage and accusing him of giving all of his stud-boy eggplant to someone else.

  The anonymous source reported that the Brooklyn transplant tried to flee from Rich�
��s tirade. The source alleges Rich Montgomery clawed at her lover’s face during the 1:00 a.m. altercation and he’d mushed her. Police were called, but so far no charges have been filed.

  Fighting over Facebook? What’s next, busting windows out his car? Oh, wait. She’s done that already, too. Can we say, psycho lover?

  A check this morning of the love-crazed Turn Up girl’s Twitter and Facebook pages revealed posts of a girl madly in love without a care in the world. So tell me, my sweet chickadees. . . what’s love got to do with it?

  Suddenly Justice’s voice haunted my headspace. “. . . you dumber than dumb, yo. Real spit, London . . . you don’t love me. You don’t even love ya’self . . . You crazy, London... You make me sick, yo . . . you so effen worthless, yo . . . Pig. Hog . . . wit’ ya ugly self. You insecure. Fat. Nasty... stupid-azz trick . . . Look at you, six-foot-tall giraffe-neck self. Big-foot amazon. Don’t nobody want you. I was the best thing you’ll ever have . . .”

  I grimaced. What a nightmare it had been being with him, trying to love him. Sadly, I’d almost believed his every word. Almost.

  I took a deep breath and shook his foiled attempts at trying to brainwash me from my thoughts, clicking out of the blog’s browser before shoving my phone back into my handbag as my driver turned into the entrance for Hollywood High.

  I ran a hand along the nape of my stylishly tapered hair, then took my hand and swept my bangs from out of my eye. Long gone were the weaves and hair extensions. These days, the new me embraced a short, sassy do.

  Deep in thought, I stared out the back seat window, taking in the campus’s beautiful scenery. The grounds were immaculate. On the outside, the world looked calm, and all was right.

  My driver neared the school’s circular drop-off area.

  And then I saw her.

  Rich.

  Standing up at a podium—hair done, face done, in her sparkly jewels and all of her fabulousness. And then went the flash of several zealous photographers’ cameras, momentarily blinding her. But Rich kept smiling, as though everything in her world was picture-perfect.

  The driver stopped where the red carpet met the curb, and I waited.

  Moments later, the car door swung open, and I stepped out.

  “London! London! Over here, beautiful!”

  In a flash, the attention flew from Rich to me. All the paparazzi were shouting for me, wanting me to turn in their direction.

  “What are your thoughts on Heather Cummings’s latest iTunes hit, Hoes Gone Wild?”

  I shrugged. “She is what she sings.”

  “London! Over here, darling!”

  “Is there another catfight brewing between you and Spencer Ellington?” one of the paps barked.

  I tossed my bangs. “Only if she strikes first,” I replied, allowing the handle of my one-of-a-kind Dior handbag to drop into the crook of my arm.

  “What about you and Rich? Will the two of you ever make up and be besties again?”

  At that moment, my eyes caught Rich’s. I forced a smile, tossing my bangs again, and strutting up the red carpet as though it were a runway. She returned a fake smile of her own. And then the cameras clicked.

  3

  Rich

  Click!

  Flash!

  “Your thoughts on the state of the Pampered Princesses, Rich!” said a reporter from Glamdalous magazine as she turned her back to London and faced me.

  Click!

  Flash!

  “Everyone wants to know!” shouted a Ni-Ni Girlz’s correspondent. “Will you, Spencer, London, and Heather ever be friends again?”

  I blinked.

  Blinked again.

  Then shivered and gripped the sides of my dazzling pink podium, making a daunting attempt not to step out of these six-inch, cobra skin, red bottoms, take off my diamond hoops, and beat these raggedy reporters to the ground! ’Cause I know freakin’ well these silly tricks didn’t just click and flash all over that bald-headed bird London and then turn to me.

  Like I was nothing.

  Sloppy seconds.

  Something to be dismissed, then picked up when London, scratch that, when Leyoncé was done with them.

  Oh, hell to the no! Never to the not!

  I am the Rich Gabrielle Montgomery! Socialite. Role model. Fashionista. Made of brown sugar, locker room magic, black glitter, and gold!

  Hip-hop royalty!

  Bluer blood than Blue Ivy.

  Better direction than North West.

  From the loins of all loins.

  The DNA of hood style and street grace.

  A unicorn, baby!

  My mother, Logan Montgomery, née Shakeesha Gatling, is the fearless leader of all the groupies. Better game than Blac Chyna, Amber Rose, or Melania Trump could ever dream to play. Hailed from the streets of Watts to backstage after backstage after backstage, until she laid and slayed my daddy—hip-hop sire turned founder and CEO of Grand Records, M.C. Wickedness, better known as Richard Montgomery Senior. All of which makes me a what? A who?

  Well, I’ll tell you: the seventeen-year-old queen of these Pampered Princesses, baby!

  El lady of these Hollywood streets.

  Boom!

  Bam!

  Snap, snap!

  And these reporters that I called here better recognize and put some respeck on it!

  Gon’ talk to London and then speak to me!

  I don’t think so.

  Do they not see that London’s freak-wear is overrated, outdated, and straight from The Gap? And that my hot pink D&G blazer with my personal crest (an embroidered music note with a blingin’ tiara on it, centered on the left breast pocket), Gucci wife beater, and navy-blue Secret Circus jeans, has bodied every tramp on this scene.

  Plus,

  I got a ring on it.

  London is man hungry. Parched mouth. And thirsty.

  I’m well rounded.

  She’s insecure. Unsure.

  I have edges.

  Her dome is a half globe.

  You see where I’m goin’ with this?

  Zero comparison between Londog and me.

  But you know what...

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  I’ma be the bigger person and let it go.

  ’Cause clearly Satan is trying to bring the Petty LaBelle out of me.

  However.

  Don’t sleep.

  Though I may worship in the church of Love-and-kindness, I ain’t Jesus.

  He forgives.

  I don’t.

  I batted my extended lashes, cleared my throat, and forced another smile to bloom onto my round face. Then I curved my right hand over my button brown eyes, and looked out and into the sea of paparazzi gawking at me. “What is that I hear on the wire, honey? Will I partake in a friendship with whom? With what? Chile, cheese! Boo, please! Clutchin’ pearls!” I paused and took them in again. “Did you all miss the memo?”

  Before any of them could answer, I turned to the left, where the vice president of my red-carpet committee stood. “Clara, will you let the people know that I no longer discuss tacky and ill-mannered hoes. That I have turned over a new freakin’ leaf, and all I want around me is positivity. That the new Rich is all about balance and synthetic energy. Puhlease, make the people aware of my new and improved malnutrition.”

  “It’s mantra, Rich,” Clara whispered.

  I gritted my teeth. “That’s your problem, Clara. You stay reachin’, these people don’t speak French.” I pulled in a deep breath. Pushed it out. “Know what, I’ll speak for myself.” I flipped my fabulous mane of thirty-two-inch, grade 8A, Malaysian kinky curl over my shoulders, and said to the paps, “I have called you here to denounce a Trashy Teen Trend’s headline, where they have come for my throat, again. This time by saying that washed-up and cracked-out Heather Cummings is my sister.”

  “Well, Rich,” a Vogue’alicious reporter jumped in, “we have all seen the video of Heather giving one of her infamous and impromptu concerts at your birthday part
y, where she delivered this information on the mic. What do you have to say about that? What does your father have to say about that?”

  The hairs on the back of my neck pricked. I shoved both hands up on my hips and spat, “Lies and deceit! How dare you drag my upstanding daddy into this! Have you seen Heather’s mother, that musty dragon! Mmmph, before she and Heather go around spreading lies, tell Camille Cummings I said to step her slut level up, ’cause my daddy doesn’t do low budget or curbside!”

  The Vogue’alicious reporter continued, “But you’re not saying no. Which means there’s a possibility?”

  “Didn’t I just tell your whack azz?” I paused.

  Breathe, queen, breathe.

  My eyes scanned the crowd, then settled on London, who posed in the center of the red carpet, with her chin held up and one long foot in front of the other, like she awaited drum rolls, rose petals, and a serenade.

  Our eyes locked, and Londumb took her big mouth and smiled. It took everything in me—or, better yet, out of me—not to jump over this podium and stomp out her gag reflexes. The only reason why I didn’t leap was because today’s media marquee was to be my statement about how Heather played herself at my party, and how Trashy Teen Trend needed to stop coming for me. Therefore, moi was not about to give another ounce of my shine to this self-absorbed and deranged amazon.

  I took my right hand and brushed invisible dust from my shoulder.

  London’s smile grew wider. Then she hit me with a small wave.

  Deep breath in.

  Deep breath out.

  I returned my attention to the Vogue’alicious reporter and said, “Looka here, homie. I’m trying to get my kind lady on, but you’re working my nerves.

  “Now, check this: All of y’all need to hear me, and hear me well. My daddy, Richard Montgomery Senior, may be a gigantic-energizer-Romeo, but I can assure you that that over-the-rainbow, vile, sloppy spawn of a drunk, Heather, who shall remain nameless, is not one of my daddy’s bastard by-products. Now tell Camille I said to call Maury and try again. Moving on, as I—”