Divas Don't Cry

by Ni-Ni Simone

  Heather really thought she was all that.

  “Aww, that’s horrible news,” Whiny Girl said. “I loved her reality show.”

  Her friend grunted. “Um. Hated it.”

  Whiny Girl giggled. “Oh, stop, Natasha. It was entertaining.”

  Oh, Natasha. Right.

  “It was more like a train wreck, if you ask me,” the Natasha girl stated with a tsk. “I don’t know which was worse: hers or that horrid Here Comes Honey Boo Boo TV series.”

  Whiny Girl snickered again. “Oooh, I loved that show too. Honey Boo Boo was adorably . . .”

  “Fat,” her friend stated rudely. She groaned. “The whole cast, a hot mess! Ohmygod! Another television show gone all the way wrong,” she continued. “TLC should have been shut down for ever airing that piece of trash of a show.”

  “Well, that’s your opinion. Still, I loved it. And I loved Kickin’ It with Heather,” Whiny Girl stated. “I thought the show was funny. And her mother is . . .”

  “A drunk,” the Natasha girl stage-whispered. “But any-whooo. . . I liked Heather better when she played Wu-Wu Tanner. At least I could relate to that girl.”

  “Of course you could,” Whiny Girl commented, “since you have two perfectly wonderful parents and you’ve lived such a perfectly wonderful life, everything perfectly in place.”

  “See,” the Natasha girl agreed. “Just like Wu-Wu.”

  Yeah, right. I rolled my eyes and bit back a grunt of my own. These L.A. hoes were so fake. They sadly didn’t know fact from fiction.

  “So when was her show canceled?” Whiny Girl wanted to know, her voice tinted with dismay.

  “Like yesterday, I think. Read the blogs,” the Natasha girl urged. “They’re quite juicy.”

  “Scandalous!” Whiny Girl exclaimed. “I’m so distraught.”

  The Natasha girl laughed. “Are we talking the-first-time-you-had-your-period distraught, or are we talking the-time-you-were-in-the-boys’-bathroom-stall-with-Corey- Marshall-and-looked-up-and-saw-your-name-and-number-on-the-wall-sprawled-in-black-ink distraught?”

  I frowned. Ohmygod! She’d been with Corey, too? What a man-whore that boy was. He’d sleep with anything wearing a skirt and a weave. He’d also been one of Rich’s many boyfriends here at Hollywood High, and he’d cheated on her with Spencer.

  Eww. See my point?

  “Ooh, you bish,” Whiny Girl hissed. “I told you that in confidence, you skank. But no. It’s more like an I’m-bloated distraught.”

  The two bimbos broke out in laughter.

  I couldn’t believe what I’d heard about Heather. I quickly pulled out my cell and punched in my password, then pressed the tab for the Internet. I typed in Heather’s name, and there they were—the captions.

  Tons of them.

  A hand flew up over my mouth in disbelief as I scrolled through a few of them.

  IS THIS THE END FOR

  HEATHER CUMMINGS?

  HEATHER CUMMINGS CANNED AGAIN!

  Probably from her drugging, I thought as I continued to scroll. God knows her C-list acting skills wouldn’t be the reason she was back on the unemployment line.

  WILL IT BE BACK TO THE FLOPHOUSE FOR TEEN STAR

  HEATHER CUMMINGS?

  LIGHTS OUT! HEATHER CUMMINGS’S STAR HAS BEEN

  SMASHED OUT.

  The tabloids and gossip sites were dragging Heather for filth. Mostly reporting, assuming, speculating that she was back to her druggie ways and with one foot back into rehab.

  Although I kind of felt bad for her, I was embarrassingly relieved that it was her being dragged by the media and not me.

  The rudest headline caption thus far read:

  FROM THE KITTY TRAIN TO THE DUMP TRUCK! HEATHER

  CUMMINGS FIRED FROM THE KITTY NETWORK! TOSSED OUT

  LIKE TRASH!

  This was simply too much to take in. I mean, it wasn’t, by far, the first time Heather had been fired from a television network. But, still, I had thought she would have learned her lesson from the last time. Her pill snorting and partying were what had gotten her contract as Wu-Wu Tanner terminated. Now this.

  When was that girl going to finally learn?

  Probably never, I mused, as Mr. Robinson whisked into the classroom.

  “Okay, class. Let’s get started . . .”

  Blah blah blah. I wasn’t even focused on anything Mr. Robinson was saying. And although I had more important things to obsess over, like what Daddy was doing in his free time over in London, Heather’s demise was a disturbingly nice distraction.

  Sadly, I almost felt sorry for her.

  Almost.

  “. . . I take it you are all prepared to discuss yesterday’s reading assignment . . .”

  I flipped open the book Outliers, by Malcolm Gladwell, trying to redirect my attention onto class. I knew Heather and I didn’t like one another. And yet I found myself sitting here, in this hellhole, my thoughts fixated on her. Wanting to do something nice for the poor wretched girl.

  Dear God.

  What was happening to me?

  13

  Spencer

  “Move, move, get out the way!” I yelled out the window of my sports car at no one in particular. Goshdiggitydangit! I was hotter than a jalapeño pepper. The traffic flow was horrific!

  The Mercedes-to-Bentley traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard was hellalicious! Front bumpers were nearly kissing the backside of other luxury vehicles. And I wasn’t in the mood for any of these trickeroos playing bumper tag with my car.

  Deargodbabysweetjeeeeeeeezus! Please don’t let me end up with a hemorrhoid from sitting for almost forty-five minutes in all this traffic. Please and thank you.

  Horns blared, so I pressed down on mine. Then I flipped some two-hundred-year-old-looking lady, with rocker-chick makeup plastered on her face, the bird for giving me the finger for trying to go around her. The old bat had the nerve to drive the speed limit!

  Who did that?

  “Sojourner Truth!” I yelled out of my window. “You don’t want it with me, you roadkiller! We can pull over and take it to the streets!”

  Woosah. Woosah. Woooooooosaaaaaaaah. I turned on the stereo. I needed to calm my nerves before I rammed my shiny new car into someone. Wooooosaaaah.

  The second Rihanna’s “Breakin’ Dishes” poured from the speakers, I started bouncing in my seat and singing along until the music faded and a call rang through.

  Rich.

  “Now good night, you mop head! You’re dismissed. Now go sop up some boy’s milk... !”

  That trick was nothing but fictitious storytelling, and she had another think coming if she thought I was about to chitty-chitty, chat-chat with her after she disrespected me at that man-lady club. Those big burly lady-boys were frightening. No, no, no. Miss Trixie had the wrong number. She’d turned her panty liner inside out with me.

  And I was done with her!

  Again!

  I let her call roll right into voice mail. And then I reached for my cell and texted: CALL ME AGAIN N I WILL BLOCK UR #!!!

  Less than a second later, Rich texted back: BIH, I DARE U.

  Then she boldly called again. I pressed IGNORE. Then blocked her.

  The music came back on, and I shimmied my shoulders. By the time August Alsina’s voice filled the cabin of the car—six songs later—I was still stuck in traffic, but at least I was bouncing my booty in my seat.

  “Yesssss, yessss! I’m a young diva who just lives life! It’s hell on earth! Pull up to my bumper, boo-boo!” I sang out, trying to turn this horrid moment into a sing-along. “Let me slam on my brakes and let you get all up in my tank! Let me break a dish upside your bubble head!”

  I dug my nails into the steering wheel.

  I was on the verge of a full-blown road rage attack. It was a quarter to three, and I had only fifteen minutes to get to my appointment. I was meeting with my dick. Heeheehee. I mean, my private eye.

  I needed to get to the bottom of all this Cleola Mae foolery once an
d for all. And today was the day that I would finally claw out the meat and bones of this madness and get down to the nitty-gritty and expose this invisible woman Daddy apparently was so—

  The music faded out again. The caller was from a 619 area code. I frowned.

  “Spencer here,” I said curtly. “State your business.”

  “You bone licking tramp! You hateful skank!”

  Dear Lawd Jeezus . . .

  “Rich?”

  “Yeah, hooker! Thought you could run, huh? Run, Homer, run! But you can’t hide! I will always hunt you down!”

  I sucked my teeth. “Um, Ugly Betty. I’m not running. I’m riding. And it’s Forrest.”

  “Betty? Clutching pearls! Do I sound like a Betty to you, huh, Speeeeeencerrrr? I’m from the loins of Shakeesha Gatling! Pop, pop! It’s all Crenshaw over here! Get it right! Ain’t no Bettys in the hood! And the only ugly one is you. Wait. Forrest? I’m not about to run through no forest, girl. You know I’m allergic to jungles. My name ain’t Gretchen!”

  I sighed. “It’s Gretel, Rich. You know, from Hansel and Gretel.”

  “Trick! Don’t play word games with me. I’m too old for the playground, li’l girl. Did you block my other number?”

  I rolled my eyes around in my head. “Uh, duh. Yeah. I warned you that I would.”

  She snorted. “Ha! Shame on you! And you thought I was just two-one-three and three-one-zero . . .”

  “No, Rich,” I stated snidely. “I knew you were a ho with different area codes.”

  “Yaaaassss, honey, yaaaaasssss! I’m worldwide.”

  I clucked my teeth. “Mmm-hmm. A globe-trotting thot.”

  “Yes, yes, yes . . . wait! Are you tryna be low-key messy, Speeeeeeeeencerrrrr?”

  “Rich, are you stalking me?” I demanded to know.

  “Stalking you?” She scoffed. “Don’t do me, slore! You are not stalker-worthy! I stalk three-legged men, honey. Not some nasty meat juice lover.”

  Not today, girlie! “The number you have reached,” I began as I maneuvered around another slow-moving vehicle, “has been suddenly disconnected. Please do not call back again.”

  Click.

  I turned off my phone as the music spilled out of the speakers again.

  Lordjeezus! I had to focus. I was twenty minutes late. I pressed down on my horn, again, then quickly swerved out from between two cars that practically had me sandwiched in, nearly taking off the rear bumper of the hag in front of me.

  By the time I finally arrived at my destination (nearly thirty minutes late!), I was close to hyperventilating. I quickly slid out the car, shouldering my distressed leather and ostrich bag, and slammed the door shut before smoothing a hand down the front of my pleated miniskirt. I paired it with a cute black T-shirt with a gigantic pair of glossy red glittery lips that exploded over my chest. And then I paired my ensemble with a pair of strappy crystal-studded heels.

  No gaudy jewels. Just two diamond-encrusted bangles and a pair of diamond studs. Today it was all about the heels. Always, always kill them with a good heel! Heeheehee. My look was sassy, yet schoolgirl sophisticated. I tossed my hair, then stepped. My heels clicked with purpose as I strutted toward our arranged meeting spot.

  Sweaty and annoyed, even though there was a cool breeze whisking around me, I narrowed my eyes and swept my gaze around the area. I didn’t see him. I batted my lashes, then took another look around.

  “He’s not here!” I screamed in my head as I pushed my oversized Dior wraparounds up to the crown of my head and did another scan of the pier.

  I’d been driving on a traffic-jammed highway for over an hour and fifteen minutes, and at the very least he could have waited for me!

  Or—

  Oh. My. God.

  Purse now dangling in the crook of my arm, I plunged my hand into its depths, past brass knuckles, canisters of Mace, nunchuks, my wallet, Kleenex, wipes, a flyswatter, and binoculars. I pulled out my iPhone and quickly powered it up.

  There were nine messages. Seven from Rich, who’d called me back to back seven times. One from RJ, who’d called just to let me know he was thinking of me (awww, he was so sweet!). And then came the very last voice mail—from my P.I.

  “Spencer. Mike here. Um, listen. I need to reschedule our meeting. Had an unexpected emergency. My twelve-year-old daughter’s bichon poodle has been kidnapped and is being held for ransom. I’ll call you when the crisis is over.”

  I blinked. Blinked again. Then replayed the message. No, no, noooooo! This couldn’t be right. I played the message a third time. My teeth started chattering from the anger rapidly swelling inside of me.

  I’d been ditched for a dang poodle!

  14

  Heather

  Ding dong.

  Ding dong.

  I frowned, glancing over at the time. It was almost eight p.m. Who in the heck is ringing the doorbell all heavy? No one was expected. And I knew Miss Co-Co wasn’t coming through since I’d only gotten off the phone with him less than a second ago. He wanted to go out prowling, instead of coming over to comfort a friend.

  What a shady skank muffin!

  So what if Camille couldn’t stand him? So what if she called him crude names to his face? Or sneered at him every time he came around?

  He was still supposed to be my friend.

  The truth of the matter was that Co-Co was only good for a turn up. He was only really my friend as long as he was benefiting from said friendship. He was my ride or die as long as I kept him front and center—on the set, on stage, in front of the camera lens, in the studio, on the red carpets. As long as it was popping off, Co-Co was ready to twerk, werk, and slay.

  He thought I was stupid. Thought I didn’t peep his card. But I knew better. He was using me, but I was using him too—for his get-right. As long as he kept my party bag lined with crushed treats, we were besties ’til the end.

  Ding dong.

  Ding dong.

  I sighed. The only person who’d actually ever wanted me in their life without wanting something from me was . . . Nikki.

  She’d cared about me. She’d treated me like a person who mattered. She’d made me feel wanted and special. And somehow I’d managed to screw that up, like I do everything else.

  We’d gone from talking every day on the phone and FaceTiming to an occasional text with nothing more than one- or two-word replies back. Hi. Thank you. You too. K.

  And if I were lucky enough, she’d grace me with an emoji.

  Everything we’d shared—the long talks, the laughter, the secrets—in those very short months had become reduced to nothing more than a memory now, all because some stupid pap couldn’t keep his camera lens from out of my personal life.

  All because of that stupid photo captured of her and me outside of El Amor café, where we’d had our first ice cream date. Well, okay, maybe it wasn’t a real date. But that’s what the butterflies that had been beating in my chest had made it feel like. A date. With someone I really liked. And wanted to get to know more—a whole lot more. Nikki was someone who I was so, so happy being around and sharing my world with.

  We weren’t friends. We were special friends, with a special connection. She’d made my heart smile, and made me want to take her hand and skip through the streets and dare anyone to say something.

  Nikki had made me want to be bold and daring. Carefree. She had me giving thought to the future, the possibility of going to college (Lord knows how much I despise school!). She had me dreaming of being not only her secret boo, but pledging her sorority, AZT, and becoming one of her sorority sisters as well so we’d always be connected.

  “You’re kind, funny, sweet, pretty, and I like you.”

  I sighed inwardly, dabbing a tissue under my eyes as the tears fell. “I know you really cared about me, Nikki,” I whispered as I stood before the mirror and stared at myself. “Maybe one day we can be special friends again.”

  I lifted a finger to my lips and closed my eyes, remembering our first kiss. But
the heated memory was replaced with that photo of Nikki and me and its nightmarish caption:

  TEEN STAR HEATHER CUMMINGS CAUGHT MAKING OUT WITH

  COLLEGE CUTIE NICOLE ASHFORD OF SAN DIEGO STATE, BOTH

  PICTURED BELOW.

  All it had been was a kiss on the cheek. A take-care-see-you-real-soon-had-a-great-time kiss that had felt filled with promise. And the paparazzi took that innocent moment and tried to turn it into something dirty and scandalous. And then Kitty with her meddling-azz! Had she not sent the camera crew down to Nikki’s campus trying to monopolize on my personal life, none of this would have happened. And Nikki would still be in my life.

  My life? Ugh. I hated it!

  What a royal fuckup . . .

  Your one shot at happiness, and you couldn’t even get that right.

  You’re so worthless, Heather! So damn pathetic!

  I swallowed, hard, struggling to keep the tears that threatened to erupt from my eyes at bay. God, I didn’t need this crap—not right now. I turned from the gilded vanity mirror to walk away but turned back and stared at my reflection again. My aqua-blue contact lenses made my eyes look almost catlike. “Meow,” I heard myself say, trying to perk myself up to no avail. Psst. If only I felt as frisky as one.

  I continued staring at my reflection. Get yourself a pinch, Heather. Stop denying yourself. You know you want it.

  I shook my head. “No. I’m not a junkie. I don’t need it.”

  Girl, bye. You’re nothing without it. All you need is a little pinch. Two sniffs and boom-bam-wham! You’ll be good as new. Your super powers back! You know you’re always at your best when you’ve had a line or two of goodness.

  No! Shut up! Get the hell out of my head!

  I didn’t want a pinch of goodness. I just wanted to feel good about myself. I wanted to be able to look in the mirror—any mirror—and see something beautiful staring back at me. All I wanted to do was to see what Nikki had once seen in me.