by Ni-Ni Simone
Stage?
My eyes scanned the room. All eyes and camera phones were on me.
Click, click.
Yasss, honey! Catch all this fabulousness!
Click, click.
Rosita continued. “Yesss, doll, yesss! We ’bout to really get it lit up in here! Come on, everybody, let’s show Rich Montgomery some love!”
“You’re my girl, Rich!” someone shouted out.
“We love you!” poured from the back of the room.
Oh.
My.
God.
This was all Spencer’s fault. She was supposed to be here to help me eat and drink my pity away. But nooooooooo . . . she was somewhere in the lowlands collecting carpet burns. Meanwhile, I was being forced to get it crunked, as if I was in a constant state of turn-up.
It was levels to this.
But I wasn’t in the mood. This man-tramp had to know me and Justice had broken up! So she had to know I was in mourning. Grieving the loss of the love of my life. I hadn’t signed up for this. All I’d come to do was have me a few hot wings and a few pitchers of beer. Not do show tunes in the Lavender Lounge.
But the crowd kept chanting my name, and all I could think to do was, do it for the people. So I had to come through and do what I was put on this heavenly Earth to do. Be fabulous. And carry out what the goddess of all things great, juicy, and tender charged me with: to make those who were less fortunate feel good about themselves. So I had to give my Richazoids what they wanted!
What they needed!
What they lived for!
Me.
I wiped my hands until they were sauce-free, stepped back into my heels, and sashayed my way to the stage, told the DJ to play “Knuck if You Buck” and dropped the toughest boom-bop, make-it-hot twerk in the land!
Straight hit ’em over the head with it, baby!
Rosita rapped, “Clutchin’ pearls! Pop-pop-boom-bop, get it-get it! Drop that judy-drag on ’em and bust ’em wit’ it!”
I knew I was doin’ the Goddess of All Things Extraordinary proud.
The people were out of their seats, some clapping feverishly; some snapped pics, others recorded, and the rest twerked along with me.
And then when the song ended, everyone clapped and cheered and stomped the floor. Made the windows rattle and all the tables shake!
“Go, Rich! Go, Rich! It’s your birthday, bish!”
Rosita handed me the mic, and I said, “Thank y’all for the love!” I hesitated and looked over the sea of awed faces. “I know y’all Richazoids have read the blogs, and you see how they are spreading alternative facts, fake news, and dragging me.”
“Eff ’em! We love you, Rich!” Rosita said into the mic, draping her big muscular arm around me and pulling me close, her big hand dangled over my shoulder.
I stepped out of her—uh, I mean his—musty embrace. Yuck. Don’t put your hands on me! “I love y’all too, boo. But I’m here to tell you that sometimes when you’re pretty, fly, rich, and er’body loves you, it’s a blessing and a curse. Because there’s always a bandwagon of haters out there tryna do you.”
“Talk about it!” someone yelled across the room.
“You feel me,” was my response. “But I’ma be all right. Why? ’Cause divas don’t, whaaat?”
I pointed the mic to the crowd, and they shouted back, “Cry!”
I snapped my fingers. “That’s riiiiiiight! Divas don’t cry, bishes! We dust our shoulders off.” I flicked invisible dust from my left shoulder, then my right. “Put on some heels,” I said as I tapped my feet. “Slide on some lipstick.” I blew the audience a kiss. “And handle it!”
“Bam!” Rosita said, and the crowd clapped, with a few people yelling, “Yaaaassss!”
“I knew y’all would understand.” I said. “And the blogs are out there dying to be all in my business. Talking about a source close to me told them this and told them that. Lies and deceit! I am very shy, quiet, and private. I don’t tell nobody my business. I keep everything between me and my God. You feel me?”
“Amen!” somebody yelled.
“Yasss.” I stomped a foot, feeling good. “That’s the only way to be. How the blogs gon’ run a story saying me and my man, my JB-boo, was fighting in the street, when they weren’t even there! First of all, we weren’t fighting in the street. We were in his apartment. We didn’t have a fight. We had a li’l love battle.
“A little pushin’ here, a little shovin there. But he ain’t never in his life full-on put his hands on me. That boy is trying to make black history, not be black history. I ain’t that kind of ho. No. I’m an upstanding ho. You slap me, I’ma slap you back.”
“I know that’s right!” a lady with pink spiked hair yelled from the bar. “Tell ’em, sistah!”
“Me and my baby got a love thang goin’ on. And that last quarrel we had that the press can’t seem to let go of was not over his Facebook page per se. See, I’m gon’ tell y’all what really happened because y’all my people and you deserve to know. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the holy truth! See. It started like this . . .”
“ ‘Give me my damn phone, yo!’ Justice stormed out the bathroom, with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. He snatched his phone from me, but I ain’t care. I’d already seen what I needed to see.
“I hopped out of the bed and wrapped the sheet around me. ‘And who is White Chocolate-baby? And why are you liking all of her pics? And why is she loving all of yours? And why is she calling you boo on Snapchat and y’all following each other on Instagram?’
“ ‘I can’t believe you, yo! It’s always some drama with you! Dumb-azz! You so effen insecure it’s pathetic. Matter of fact, you’re pathetic! Questioning me, yo. Are you out’cha mind? I knew lettin’ you spend the night was a mistake!’
“ ‘And the mistake I made was loving you! The only thing that is pathetic is your singing career. Ole wannabe Trey Songz! You need to change your name to No Songz! Tryna be Drake, but you a fake!’
“He jumped up in my face. ‘Oh, word? That’s how you doin’ it, yo? That’s how you comin’ at me? Huh, Rich? Huh, fat girl? Hatin’-azz!’
“Okay, I’m fat. Whatever you say, Justice. Mr. No Career! Mr. Never Gonna Be Nobody! I should have never let myself love you! All you are is a user!’
“He huffed. ‘Use you? What I use you for huh, Rich? Sex? Hell, you was givin’ that away. Easy drawz! Ya stupid-azz can’t even spell! And the only thing you ever gonna be good for, Becky, is bobbin’. . . ’ ”
But instead of telling the crowd all that, all I told them was that he’d disrespected me, took my love for granted, and tried to play me and use me. He thought I was his meal ticket to stardom because I was Rich Montgomery. My name rang bells, and he thought I was gonna be ringing his.
Not.
I looked out at the crowd, who were clinging onto my every word, and finished off with, “So after he tried to bring it to me I reared my hand back and slapped the spit out of his mouth. After he tried to do me, he deserved that face slap. And so what if he grabbed me by the throat? That’s how real love is. That’s how it goes. But I’m over him. And it’s over between us.”
“Go on, black queen!” someone shouted.
“That’s right, girl! You deserve better!”
“You’re right I do,” I agreed. “Still, you gotta be a soldier for love. And ready for the battlefield; otherwise, you playing. And I don’t have time for games . . .”
“Ohmygod! Rich,” an unwelcomed voice invaded my inspirational conversation. I batted my lashes. Dear God no! It was Spencer. “Sweetgodbabyjesus! What in the hot hellfire are you doing up there?” She arched one brow and dipped the other. “Get. Down.”
I curled my upper lip to the right. “And who are you? Are you the same trick that was supposed to be here two hours ago, and now that I’m up here serving my Richazoids and giving the people what they want, and what they need, you wanna make like magic and appear. Chile, cheese.”
&nb
sp; “Boo, please!” the crowd yelled in unison.
“Snap, snap!” I said into the mic.
“Clutchin’ pearls!” the crowd roared.
“Rich!” Spencer hissed like she had lost every ounce of her mind. “You need to get down right now! Why are you telling these people that that ole trick-daddy, that that thug-boy in Timbs puts his hands on you, when you told me he didn’t?”
My eyes burned, and my jaw clenched. “Beyaaaatch. Lies and fabrications! Don’t do me! That is not what I just gave to the people. I gave them a testimony of strength, of courage, of black love! Black love matters, ho! Not you tryna be all up in my crotch life! You need to worry about your own hot pocket! Me and my ex-man are just fine! He loves me! He’d never put his hands on me . . .
“We’re happy, whore!”
“I thought you just said it was over,” she questioned.
“Lady, bye! It is over! But that’s none of your business! God, Spencer. You’re so pathetic! So weak! We’re still in love! Real love doesn’t just die! It lives on inside of you for months before it finally withers away and leaves you! It takes time! Something you know nothing about, Speeeencerrrr, because no one loves you! Because no one will ever love you! When I needed you, you were somewhere baggin’ tea . . . !”
Spencer’s eyes widened as if she was in shock, but she should have known not to come for me while I was doing community service, while I was testifying to the people. I was tryna save lives, save love. Real love. Good love. Sweet love. Not fight with this slore.
I dusted my hands and simply glared at her. “Now good night, you mop head! You’re dismissed. Now go sop up some boy’s milk!” Then I turned to the DJ and said, “DJ, drop that ‘Knuck if You Buck’ one mo’ time!”
10
London
Meeeeeeeeow!
Can we say catfight, my little kitties?
Looks like it was a war of words that turned ugly at Hollywood High yesterday. Sources who witnessed the café food brawl between hip hop’s ratchet Rich Montgomery and runway train wreck London Phillips say that the melee erupted after tempers flared, and London gave Rich Montgomery a dirty piece of her mind...
I tossed the article to the floor, but not before I glanced at the hideous photo of me with cocktail sauce dripping from my face and eyelashes. They’d zoomed in on me! Caught me with half-bitten shrimp in my hair and chilled condiment in my face.
Ohmygod! I wanted to storm over to Rich’s first thing this morning, drag her out of her house by her weave, and bang my fist into her oversized face. I wanted to beat her eye sockets in. But since I had no intentions of trespassing on her property, I reached for my smartphone and called my mother. I hadn’t spoken to her in almost two days, and a part of me was still angry with her. I wanted to pick a fight.
“Why, Mother?” I snapped the moment she answered her phone.
“Why what, London?” she said, her tone sharp. The hairs on the back of my neck rose. She sounded irritated that I—her only child—had called her. Disrupted her carefree life over in Italy. The life she chose over her family, over . . . me.
But why was I not surprised that she’d flee the first chance she could?
Because being a mother had always come in second, maybe third or fourth—or fifth—to modeling and building her own fashion empire.
She’d told Daddy several weeks back that she was leaving him and that she was taking me with her. But he’d forbidden it. Told her she could leave if that’s what she wanted, but taking me out of the country to live was out of the question.
“ You aren’t taking London with you . . .”
“I most certainly am. Try to stop me, Turner!”
Well. He stopped her. How, I don’t know. But in the end, Daddy had won. And for once in my life, I’d been given the choice to go or stay. I chose to stay. Here, with Daddy.
“Why are you pretending like everything is okay?”
She huffed. “Pretending? What on heaven’s earth are you talking about now, London? No one’s pretending about anything.”
I took a deep breath. One of the things I’d been working on in therapy was saying what was on my mind. Not holding things in, which is what led me to light into Rich at school yesterday. And now this call to my mother.
As Dr. Kickaloo said, “If it doesn’t feel right, then it isn’t right.”
And so nothing about my mother living in another country—not keeping a watchful eye on her man, allowing him to roam wild and free with some other woman—felt right with me. Not one dang bit. Yes, my father was a cheater! A low-down, dirty...well, it wasn’t his fault. It was my mother’s.
Even I knew a woman was supposed to be there for her man. Stand by him. Love him. Keep him satisfied. Keep him happy. Keep him wanting her. Missing her. Needing her. Not push him into the arms of another man-hungry woman.
“Why are you not back here trying to fight for your marriage, for Daddy?” I snapped, feeling myself slowly becoming overwhelmed with emotion. I was angry with her for leaving him, and me. And I was mad with Daddy for rolling around in the sheets with some high-priced troll. Some, some reformed men’s locker room stalker.
God. Men, like boys, could be so stupid. Insensitive. Thoughtless. Oh, and did I say stupid?
My mother blew out what sounded like an aggravated breath. “You are kidding me, right? You’ve called me at this ungodly hour to ask me this nonsense? Really, London?”
I pushed out a breath, trying to bite back my temper. “Yes, Mother. I did. Early or not, I want—no, need—to know why you have given up on us. Me. Daddy.”
There was a shocked silence.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, London.”
“I do so, Mother. I know all about Daddy and his mistress. Mrs.—”
“London, not another word.”
“Can’t you see, Mother . . . you’re letting that groupie whore win?”
“Watch your mouth, London. And stop with this foolishness. No one has won anything. And as far as your father goes, he made his choice long before I boarded my flight. So don’t you dare—”
“I want a divorce!”
“Fine! Go be with your mistress, Turner! London and I will move to Milan...”
“I know everything, Mother. So stop.”
“And what exactly, London, is it you think you know, huh?”
“About why you really left. About Daddy’s cheating with—”
“London, you stop right there. Don’t you dare say another word . . . I’m warning you.”
“No, Mother, you stop. I overheard everything. That night you and Daddy were down in his study arguing, the night I’d had my meltdown at Nobu’s. I’d come downstairs to—”
“Shut your mouth, London,” my mother warned again. “Or—”
“Or what, Mother? Are you going to cut off my allowance? Punish me? You walked out on me, so you don’t get to give me any ultimatums,” I said boldly.
My mother gasped. “London—”
“No, Mother. Tell me why you never wanted me.”
“London. Just stop with this madness. You have no idea what you are talking about. I never said I didn’t want you.”
I huffed. “Well, you sure as heck didn’t want to carry me, now did you?”
“Fine, London,” she snapped. “Let’s get it all out in the open and finally be done with it. Here’s the truth: Your father wanted children. I didn’t. Not right away, anyway. I was young, and my career was really taking off, and that was what I wanted more. I wanted children later in life. Not right then. But I loved your father, and I wanted to make him happy. So I gave him what he wanted most. A child. And, yes. I used a surrogate.”
I felt my chest tighten. Hearing her admit this was, was . . . hurtful. And so, so very telling. That she’d never really wanted me.
“I couldn’t stop doing what I loved. Modeling was everything to me . . .”
Mmmph. It still is...
“I was a rising star,” she continued. “I’d becom
e the fresh face of the runway, and I just didn’t want to give that up. I didn’t know how I would do both: be a mother and have a career. It was all too frightening. So a compromise was made. One that your father agreed to. So I paid to have someone else carry you, then give birth to you. I was there with your father to watch you come into this world. Do I regret it, London? Do I wish I could do things differently? Well, the answer is no, absolutely not. And I will not allow you or anyone else to try to make me feel any less of a woman for doing so. I loved your father. He’d been my first, my everything. And I wanted more than anything to be his wife . . .”
I took a deep breath.
“And I’m sorry, darling, that I couldn’t be the type of mother you wanted. I was the best that I could be. Could I have been better? Yes. Could I have done better? Yes. Did I make some mistakes along the way? Of course I did. But I tried to instill in you the best morals and values I could so that you would flourish into a young beautiful woman.”
I blinked. In my mind’s eye, cameras flashed. The camera clicked and popped as the photographer moved around the floor capturing my image from different angles. “Magnificent, darling. Yes, yes,” my mother had called out to me. “The camera loves you.” The photographer continued snapping photos of me until he had about thirty frames.
“ You were born to be in front of the camera . . .”
I blinked again. I was suddenly transported to another place. I was eight.
“Back straight, London, darling. Now walk. One foot in front of the other.”
And I did.
Walked.
The weight of a phone book balanced on the top of my head. One, two, three, four . . . three more steps and the phone book toppled from my head and hit the floor.
“No. No. No. You’re walking like a slew-footed klutz, London. Poise. Grace. That is what I am trying to teach you. Pick your feet up off the floor, darling. Do not drag yourself like some baboon. Now again.”
Eight hours later, I was still walking. Over and over and over, up and down the long hallway until my body ached, until the back of my legs burned, until fire burned through the soles of my feet.