by Ni-Ni Simone
I had to keep it together. I couldn’t afford to fall apart. Not now. I had to keep these bills paid. I couldn’t give the haters, including Camille, reasons to drag me any more than they’d already been doing lately.
No, no, no. I couldn’t end up back in some seedy motel room with all of my belongings stuffed in garbage bags and cardboard boxes. No. Not again.
I had to keep slaying it.
But with what money?
My coins were slowly evaporating. Between the six-thousand-dollar-a-month rent payments, the twenty-five-hundred-dollar light and water and cable bills—add that up with keeping my chef on salary along with my driver (although I really could drive myself, but that was so, so not cute—driving yourself around allll the time) and my personal stylist on speed dial, then times that with keeping Camille’s liquor cabinet stocked with three- to five-hundred-dollar bottles of scotch and maintaining my one-of-a-kind creations. Add it all up, and I had more money going out than I had coming in.
What was I to do?
I’d just spent a hundred grand on a new wardrobe. I needed to slay. I couldn’t be caught slipping, so I had my Korean designers hook me up with some sequined catsuits and several fitted bejeweled jumpers, along with several one-of-a-kind handbags.
The doorbell rang again.
“Heather Suzanne,” Camille called out, “who the hell is out there ringing my damn bell like that at this time of night? You know I don’t like my cocktail hour being disrupted. Now go get the damn door and tell whoever it is to get the hell on!”
I sucked my teeth. Lady, bye. Every hour is a cocktail hour!
“Heather Suzanne!” Camille screamed at the top of her lungs. “If I have to get up and get ugly up in here, it isn’t going to end pretty. Now go tell whoever is outside to get the hell off my doorbell!”
Lady, bye. You answer the damn door! I wasn’t moving from the confines of my room. Whoever it was would eventually get the hint. Nobody’s home!
I glanced around my bedroom. Clothes were strewn all over. My bed was unmade. And there were dirty dishes everywhere. I couldn’t afford to keep the maid, so we had to fire her. I stared over at my bag lying across the chaise, then stalked over to it, yanking it open and dumping out all of its contents until I came across what I was looking for—my little black velvet pouch, my party bag.
Just a pinch.
I pulled open the drawstring, then peered inside. Just a pinch. Yes, yes, to help me deal with Camille. One nostril, two . . . I closed my eyes, then sniffed. My veins slowly heated. I inhaled. Yes, girl, yes. You did that! See. That’s all you needed. A pinch.
I shook my shoulders, then pulled the drawstring closed, and—
Bam!
My bedroom door flew open, slamming back into the wall, causing me to jump. And then came a heel whirling in the air toward my head.
“Heather Suzanne! Didn’t I tell you to answer that damn door?”
I blinked. Camille had kicked my door in, and there she stood in her featured attire—the sheer nightgown, with sheer coat to match, a tumbler of scotch in one hand, and a Virginia Slim dangling from the corner of her thin lips, glaring at me.
“I told you if I had to get ugly,” she continued ranting, “that it wasn’t going to be goddamn pretty! Now you’ve gone and made me break one of my heels off in the door.” I frowned. There in the center of the door was one spiked kitten heel poking out from the wood.
“Get out!” I yelled, quickly slipping my pouch into my back pocket. “You go answer the door! Can’t you see I’m busy?” I was so sick of her. “And when you’re done doing that, how about you go find a job. Oh, wait . . .” I snapped my fingers. “No one will hire a drunk! It’s my money keeping you with a roof over your straggly-azz head, so you should be on your knees kissing the soles of my feet,” I said nastily. “Not giving me—”
Before I could finish my sentence, Camille had managed to leap in the air like Batwoman (or maybe my mind was playing tricks on me!) and catch me by the throat with her free hand. Scotch splashed over the rim of her glass—which she gripped in her other hand—like a tidal wave and washed over her fingers.
Ding dong.
Ding dong.
“Don’t have me send you to the morgue stuffed in a suitcase, Heather,” my mother said through clenched teeth. “Because I will. Now answer the door!”
She let go of my throat, but not before flicking her fingers at me, droplets of her devil juice splashing in my eyes.
“I can’t stand you!” I snapped, nearly elbowing her in her gut. On purpose!
“Well, I can’t stand you either! But you don’t hear me complaining about it,” she yelled in back of me. “No. I suck it up. I suffer through it. I drown my pain. And I pray for the day you turn eighteen so I can . . .”
Blah blah blah.
“Ole drunk,” I mumbled, stomping toward the door in my teeny-weeny pink boy shorts that were wedged up in between my booty cheeks and a pink wrap shirt that had my boobs practically spilling out of it.
“Who the fu . . . ?” I tugged open the heavy oak door. And there stood a bobblehead peeking around the side of a humongous basket, her diamonds sparkling under the porch lights, looking like she’d just stepped off the cover of another fashion magazine.
London!
God, I despised this girl. What the heck was she doing here?
“Hey, Heather,” she said so sweetly that I almost wanted to puke from a sugar rush.
I frowned, blocking the doorway with my body. “Can I help you?”
“Um, I just wanted to drop this off.” She thrust the huge basket toward me. “Here. I heard about—”
“Girl, bye,” I snapped, slamming the door in her face.
“Who was that?” Camille asked, walking up in back of me.
I huffed. “Nobody.”
Ding dong.
Ding dong.
“Then why the hell is nobody still ringing my door?” She pushed me out of the way and swung open the door. “Yes?”
“Um. Hi, Mrs. Cummings,” I heard London say.
“It’s Miss. Now how can I help you this evening? Who you with, the church missionaries?”
“Um, no.”
Camille grunted. “Mmmph. Then why you dressed like some holy-sanctified church lady?”
I was too pissed at Camille to snicker.
“Listen, ma’am. I only wanted to drop this off to Heather . . .”
“Oh, really?” Camille said, snapping her neck over her shoulder and glaring at me before giving that amazon her attention again. “And you are?”
“London.”
Camille widened the door. “Oh, you’re London. Come in.”
I cringed.
“Heather, why didn’t you let London in, huh, Pookie? You know I raised you better.” She stepped back. “C’mon in from that night air, sugah. It’s about time you made your ole fancy-self known. And why you wearing them old-lady pearls? You’re too young to be looking so matronly,” she said, snatching the basket from out of London’s hand. “And what is this we have here?”
I sucked my teeth.
“Oh, just some goodies.” London looked over at me, and I rolled my eyes at her.
“Well, we don’t need your so-called goodies,” I snapped. “So take your li’l raggedy basket and scat!”
“Heather! Stop! Don’t be rude!” Camille snapped, giving me a deadly look.
I was pissed. But I wasn’t stupid enough to give Camille reason to turn up in front of this fake-azz trick.
Camille sauntered over toward one of the white sofas and set the basket down. And then she began tearing open the purple cellophane wrapping, pulling out wheels of expensive cheeses, an assortment of gourmet olives, rolls of smoked sausages and salami, boxes of artisan crackers...
“Oh, no. You shouldn’t have,” Camille said, plucking out two bottles of very expensive wine. “Heather, sweetie. Why didn’t you tell me London was so sweet? She’s nothing like what you told me. I don’t know why you go around calling her
Bobblehead.”
London frowned. And I shrugged.
“No. You really shouldn’t have,” Camille said again, as she pulled a box of chocolate truffles from the basket. “But I’m glad you did.” Camille gave London another thorough once-over. “London, you’re cuter than I imagined. It’s a shame you’re so unstable, though.”
“Oh,” London said, her eyes widening, her hand on the door handle.
“And your head isn’t as big as it looks in all your photos,” Camille added, before giving the basket her attention again. “Heather, dear, show your friend to the door.”
I almost balled over in laughter. Ooh, the shade. Camille was being messy.
But before I could move my feet, London was already out the door, and it was shutting behind her. Trick.
“Oooh, lookie here, Snookems,” she said to me, “wine.”
I rolled my eyes up in my head. That troll knew Camille had a drinking problem, so why would she bring over wines?
To be messy, that’s why!
“Pooh,” Camille said sweetly as she pulled out a sleeve of sesame crackers, then peeled open a wheel of cheese. “Fix Mommy a drink to go with this cheese and crackers.”
15
Rich
Dear Diary,
It’s been two weeks.
Four days.
And too many tear-stained nights to count since I’ve spoken to my man, my baby-boo, the mister to my missus, my Justice.
I wish I could pick up the phone and say, “Wassup, boo!” without him hanging up on me.
Show up at his door and be welcomed in, without being called a stalker. Or having his fat, triple-chin, six-hundred-pound life neighbor call the cops on me, when all I wanna do is see my man in peace.
So what if we argue, scream, bust out a right hook or a backhand, or yank each other’s collar every now and then? Everybody knows that’s foreplay!
Besides, anything worth having is worth fighting for. And maybe if double gut stopped snacking long enough to roll out of my love life and into her own she would know that . . . but nooooo, she wanna be a mad cow, call five-oh, and have ’em troll me.
I don’t know how much longer I can be without my man, though. Every day that drips by, this sinking knot in my stomach gets bigger and tighter, and twists more .
Some days I can’t breathe.
I just wanna lay my head midway on my baby’s chest and feel the ripples of his six-pack beneath my cheek.
Soak in the heat of his brown skin.
Rise and fall to the beat of his belly.
Have all my pop, drop, and make it hot come alive as he explores the inches of my curves, channels through my Mother Earth, and blasts my sea with a twinkling of forever.
I wanna scream out, “Daddy!” while he whispers, “Bae.”
I’ma keep hope alive, though, ’cause one thing I know, and I put this on everything I love, like my collection of pink diamonds and my vintage Chanel bags—oh, and my designer shoes—the next time me and my baby-boo are in the midst of cuffing season and the Goddess of All Things Petty orders me to go through his phone, I’ma do it...
But I’m not gon’ get caught.
“Well, well, well, if it’s not ‘Miss Teen Socialite, Pop Off on the School Steps in a Watts Minute’ Rich Gabrielle Montgomery.”
Oh.
My.
God!
Clutchin’ pearls!
I didn’t even have to look up to know that standing there, all uninvited, was none other than the original groupie gone wild, the one and only bourgeois hood rat herself, better known as my mother, Logan Montgomery.
Immediately, I stopped writing, slammed my diary shut, and dropped my gold Tiffany pen onto the bed.
Then I twisted my full lips to the side and pushed out a puff of air.
All I could do was shake my head. Here I was minding my black goddess business, taking a moment before school to collect myself, and up pops she-devil comin’ for me.
I swear, I can’t do nothing around here in peace.
Mmmph!
I promise you this, though: she can come for me if she wants to.
But.
It ain’t gon’ end pretty.
It took everything in me not to suck my teeth or roll my eyes, as I finally sat up in bed, leaned against my headboard, and shot my mother a look that clearly said, “What do you want?”
She blinked, then took two more steps into my room. “You better fix your face.”
I fixed it, but only because I wasn’t in the mood for her drama. Then I said, “May I help you?”
She batted her extended lashes. “Help me?” she chuckled. “You don’t have any money or skills to help me.”
Breathe, queen, breathe.
She continued, “The question is what do I need to do to help you understand how tired I am of you dragging your father’s good name down the media drain!”
Oh, no, she didn’t!
Oh.
No.
She.
Didn’t.
What in the tick-tick-boom was this?
I snapped, “Excuse you! Let me help you? Your husband and his bastard kids have dragged the Montgomery name down the media drain on their own! Check the seven-year-old, the nine-year-old, oh, and the latest claim to M.C. Wickedness’s loose loins, Heather Cummings—excuse me, I mean Montgomery?”
Silence.
Dead. Silence.
Obviously, my mother wasn’t ready for me because she stood there blinking all wild like her lashes were coming undone and her thoughts were all jumbled up.
I continued on, and this time I went in for the kill. “And let’s not forget about your super son, RJ, and his help in dragging the Montgomery name! You and Daddy talkin’ about he’s home on summer break! Psst, please. Last I checked, it was September, which is the winter, thank you.” I paused, giving her a minute to take that in.
I continued, “So what did your golden offspring Richard the Second do? Wait. Don’ tell me. Is he back to bedding all the French white girls from England? Or was he suspended from his British Ivy League school for being a Dominican weed broker, or is he the Irish CFO of a meth lab?”
Still no response, so I capped off what I had to say with, “Always blaming something on me! If anything, I’m keeping the Montgomery name clean!” I tossed the covers off of me, and just as I stood up, my mother rushed over to my bed, gathered my pajama top’s collar in her hands, and pushed her pissed-off face into mine.
She blacked, “I don’t know who the hell you think you’re talking to, but don’t make me haul off and slap the shit out of you, because I will, and you know it! For the life of me, I don’t know why you insist on trying me. Do you want me to toss you over that balcony!”
Clutchin’ pearls! She is so freakin’ dramatic! “Really, Ma? Really? Why are you always gunnin’ for me?! Meanwhile, RJ gets away with everything! But whatever, I’m used to being treated like nothing around here! So would you just let me go?! I have to get ready for school!”
She batted her lashes wildly again and screamed, “Get ready for school! I don’t know what for! You’re not learning a damn thing! And don’t think I’m cutting Westwick another check for your grades this year! You wanna be grown, you wanna buck up at me, then you can be stupid on your own! We try and give you the world, and instead of acting like you have some freakin’ decency and manners, you’re out here droppin’ your panties all over the concrete, acting like a used coochie sex fiend!”
Used coochie?
I spat, “I resent that! I haven’t used my coochie in years, and I have never dropped my panties on the concrete. They have always hit the floor!” I paused, because I also wanted to tell her, I don’t have sex! I make love! But judging by the blood that rushed to her eyes, I changed my mind and instead said, “Now can you let me go? Like I said, I have to get ready for school, and it’s important that I be on time!”
“Important?” she said. “Little girl, bye. The only thing important to you is whatever ca
n be shoved between your legs or comes by way of a shopping bag!”
I don’t believe she said that! “Well, it must run in the family, because the only thing important to your son is dumping his seed between some chick’s cheeks!”
“Rich, you better shut the hell up. I’m warning you I have dropped li’l loudmouth, no-hand bishes like you before. Don’t do me!”
“Oh, real classy, now you wanna let loose the Crip on your own daughter!” I was tired of her having me hemmed up, so I boldly flung her hands from my collar and stepped to the side.
Just when I thought I was free, my mother took her right arm and forcefully pinned my left arm behind my back, then swiftly took the crook of her left arm and snatched me into a headlock.
“Ouch!” I managed to scream. “You’re hurting me! Mommy, let me go!”
My mother pushed her lips against my ears and said, “Oh, now I’m Mommy? You thought this was a game? When I tell you to shut the hell up, I mean it! ’Cause I’m not that bum-azz smoky lounge singer, wannabe YouTube sensation you out here trickin’ for and trippin over! And you will not disrespect me! You wanna be a woman so bad, but can’t even handle your damn man! Out here chasing him around like he’s the prize. Don’t you know your man is a direct reflection of you, so if he ain’t worth a damn, neither are you! I’m ashamed to even call you my child! Here I tried to teach you the game, yet your thirst level is on an all-time high! I will not—”
Bzz . . . Bzz . . .
Thank God, my mother’s cell phone rang; she lightly loosened her grip, but not much, as she focused in on her ringtone.
Bzz . . . Bzz . . .
Without warning, she shoved me away and dusted her hands. “Let me tell you something, sweetie, the next time you even think about coming for me you better step your hand level up, ’cause I will end you. Understand?”
I didn’t say a word.
She stepped out of her heels. “I asked you a question.”
Still no words.
She took a step forward. “Is that a no?”
“Umm-hmm.” I mumbled, “Yeah, I understand.”
“Thought so.” She stepped back into her shoes, smoothed the invisible wrinkles from her cream-colored blouse, and walked toward the door. “And another thing.” She stopped in the doorway and tossed over her shoulder, “I don’t know what’s going on with your body, but you better make a doctor’s appointment and have him figure it out, and quick. Now get yourself together. Your brother’s home, it’s breakfast time, and the chef needs to know if you want one strawberry crepe or two.”