Divas Don't Cry

by Ni-Ni Simone

  Beneath the caption, there was another picture of London with said rapper, who had his big body folded over her back with his man basket pressed up into her cookie jar and his hands up the sides of her short dress.

  “YO, SON,” THE YOUNG RAPPER STATED IN AN EXCLUSIVE, “IT WAS

  LIT THAT NIGHT. THAT BROAD IS A TEASE, YO. SHE KNOW SHE

  WANTED IT; FEEL ME?”

  Ugh.

  I scoffed at the thought of London letting all that good, strong rapper-meat go to waste. Mmmph. How disrespectful. She couldn’t even get her T-H-O-T life right.

  Beneath the caption was a link for a video to capture London’s nightclub shenanigans. I clicked onto it and then watched in wide-eyed amazement. I didn’t even bat an eyelash or move an eye muscle at the sight of London being half-dragged and half-carried out the club. Then she was captured outside the nightclub, crouched by the gutter—where she belonged—puking her guts up.

  I frowned. Mmmph. These little-grown girls can’t even hold their liquor. Ole lightweight hookas.

  Someone’s camera zoomed in on London as she slurred, “Anderson, b-b-b-baby. D-d-don’t leave m-m-me t-t-this w-waaaay. Don’t y-y-you understand I c-c-can’t survive without you?” She grabbed him and tried to pull him into her. “K-k-kiss m-m-meeeeee. D-d-do me right here.”

  “London, chill,” Anderson said, trying to shield her face from the cameras. “You’re drunk.”

  “N-no, I-I-I’m not.” She belched. “Oopsie.” And then she giggled.

  Ugh.

  “I-I-I’m drunk in l-l-love with you, Anderson. Let me love y-y-you.”

  “Hey, get those cameras outta here!” Anderson yelled at someone as he lifted London and shielded her from the camera’s view. Then the video went dead.

  Bwahahahahahaha . . .

  I struggled to catch my breath from laughing so hard.

  Deargodsweetbabyjeezus! Hang me upside down and have your way with me. Right here, right now! London had really reached an all-time low offering that man-boy her crumbled cookie. Even he didn’t want them soppy crumbs.

  I shook my head. Having seen enough of London’s pissy-face drunkenness (she was an embarrassment!), I clicked out of my browser, then slapped shut my laptop, just as my landline rang.

  I glanced at the caller ID. L.A. County.

  I rolled my eyes up in my head. Oh no, oh no, ohhhhhhhh no!

  The second I answered and spoke into the phone, I was greeted with an automated recording: “You have a collect call from . . . Rich . . . at the Lorna P. Johnson Youth Detention Center. To accept this call . . .”

  Click.

  I hung up. That little dirty jail-birdie was not about to run my bill up with her lies and jailhouse tales. Served her right. Mmmph. Trying to use me for my good phone service. Not!

  Rich had another think coming. I was done with her. Again. No, really. This time I was emphatically done. Finished.

  My cordless rang again.

  I clicked TALK, then END.

  Rich was suddenly becoming worse than a pesky fly. Annoying. As far as I was concerned, she and I had nothing to talk about. And, besides, the last time I tried to be loving and kind to an inmate, the junkie-troll turned around and stabbed me in the back, talked bad about me, and disrespected my good nature after I’d given her money to get back on her feet and out of that filthy rat-motel she stayed in with her mother, given her a new car to ride around in so she could rest the bottom of her brick-hard feet, and then paid for her to get that big, bubblicious booty she now happily bounced and dropped every chance she got.

  I was the one who helped little Miss Flatty Patty retire them nasty booty pads she religiously wore to fluff up her flat back. But hmmph—whatever! I wasn’t ever messy, so I wasn’t going to mention any names.

  The landline rang for a third time.

  “Whaaaat?” I snapped into the receiver. The recording started again. I drummed my fingers and patted my cottony-soft foot on the rug, then started gripping fibers with my painted toes.

  I pressed ONE.

  “Sppppppeeeeencer! Were you hanging up on me? Tramp! Trick! How dare you try to do me! You know I’m on lockdown. You know I’m in here doing hard time. I’ve been in here fighting for my life. Fighting to keep my virginity intact. Fighting to keep my edges from falling out. Fighting to stay fabulous. And all you wanna do is play me! Take advantage of my love and light. Girl, these broke-down, bald-headed trolls stole my weave tracks! Anywho, Slowkeeta, I need for you to order me two trays of hot wings—extra blue cheese—and smuggle them up in here on visits. My stomach can’t handle this slop they serve us. It gives me gas. I think I have an ulcer . . .”

  Yawn. It was too late in the evening for this dumbness.

  “Ohmygod! I almost forgot,” Rich continued, unfazed by the fact that I hadn’t said a word since I’d accepted her call. “I need for you to send a money order—no, wait. Go online and transfer two thousand dollars into Knuckles—no, wait. That’s her street name because she has big hands and fights like a man. Her government is Unique Asia Mercedes Shay-Shay Jackson . . .”

  I blinked.

  “We were playing spades and I lost. You know I don’t gamble, and I don’t play cards. But when in jail you do what the Romans do. Play spades. You do what you gotta do to survive with the Spaniards. Girl, I’m petrified. Long story short, I gotta get that he-man her money by noon tomorrow, or she said she was gonna shank me, poke holes into my liver. Speeeencer! Are you hearing me, tramp? I’m too fabulous and too cute to be walking around with bullet holes in my kidneys . . .”

  I slid my tongue over my teeth.

  “Speeeeeeencerrrrr? Hello? Hello? Are you there?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said in mock recording, “but the person you are trying to reach has a number that has been disconnected . . .”

  Click.

  38

  Heather

  Wednesday.

  Eight a.m.

  If only... he knew me . . .

  I wonder if my name would’ve been Heather.

  I bet it would’ve started with the letter R too . . .

  And I would’ve been called Reese . . .

  Or Renee . . .

  Or Richelle . . .

  Or Rikelle . . .

  Or Ri . . . ch . . .

  Rich . . .

  And maybe . . . just maybe . . . the sun would’ve shone my way, God would’ve made up Her mind to be kind, and Richard Montgomery would’ve loved me too.

  And I would’ve been daddy’s little girl.

  His heartbeat’s sweetness.

  His heartstring’s weakness.

  The one he wanted.

  Then he would see that I was just like him.

  Strong.

  Solid.

  Bold.

  Took no shorts.

  Was a rose in the middle of the concrete.

  Then maybe . . . in a long string of maybes . . . he would agree to love me, and I could rein as teen queen again.

  Get my Wu-Wu back.

  Get Luda Tuda on track.

  Get on wax and not just iTunes.

  Be my own black beauty...

  Stop feeling like Hollywood slop.

  Stop trying to outrun my own shadow. And be strong enough to shove the weight that I should’ve been a creamy stream of blankness that ran down my daddy’s leg, instead of being bred into Camille, off of my shoulders.

  And maybe . . . just maybe . . . I would know what it was like to simply take a breath.

  But I didn’t.

  ’Cause mistake-babies like me didn’t breathe. We just held it all in and contended with the fact that we were what happened to a thot when a player hit it and quit it.

  I sat Indian-style in my bed, reached into my mirrored nightstand drawer, and took out my ball of foiled goodness, better known as One-Eight-Seven—Co-Co’s newest powered recipe of crushed Adderall and Xanax sprinkled with a li’l molly (pixie dust, as he called it).

  I sucked in a long string of air through m
y nose and blew it out of my mouth, then flicked my nostrils for good measure. I had to be sure they were clean, clear, and ready for my next mission: to be lifted up where I belonged, before I hit the steps of Hollywood High and was forced to deal with those pampered and bourgeois hood rats.

  * * *

  10:45 a.m.

  Whap!

  “Heather Suzanne!”

  What was that?

  I felt a stinging sensation blaze across my cheek as my eyes popped open wide. The place was a blur . . . but I knew I was in some kind of room . . .

  Is that a bed?

  Wait, am I sitting on a bed?

  Is that a TV?

  I smiled.

  I should be on that TV.

  Whose room am I in?

  Is this my room?

  Nah.

  I don’t think this is my room. Where am I?

  And how did I get here ?

  Did I fly here ?

  Can I fly?

  Yooooo, I think I got wings!

  I cracked up, and just as a smile bloomed onto my face, I was met with another blaze across my left cheek, this one fierier than before, one that forced my neck to the right and left it stuck there.

  I reached my hand up toward my cheek, but someone snatched my face, cupped my chin, pressed their fingertips into my jaw, and said, “Heather Suzanne, look at me!”

  I blinked.

  Blinked again.

  First my vision was hazy . . . then whoever had set my face on fire was clear to me.

  I would know that look of disgust anywhere.

  Camille.

  And she had just blown every ounce of the best high I’d had in a long time.

  Damn!

  I should hop up and drag her.

  No.

  Let the drunkard live.

  I shoved Camille’s hand away from my face and said, “What the hell is wrong with you, lady?!”

  Camille leaned into me, her white gown hung loosely around her neck and shoulders, giving gross peeks of her lemon-shaped breasts and pink inverted nipples. I was two seconds from throwing up in my mouth. She snatched my face again and spat, “I’m so tired of being the mother to some li’l shameless junkie. I know you were in here sniffing some powdered Clorox mixed with cow dung and hog piss!” She narrowed her eyes. “Of all the nuts and bolts that Richard Montgomery had, why did I have to get the screw?!”

  Camille’s words stung, but the last thing I was gonna do was let her know she’d gotten to me. I closed my eyes, seconds away from putting this old bird into a headlock. Then slowly I opened them again and stared at her.

  “What do you want Camille?”

  She snorted, then spat, “What do I want? Little girl, I want my career back! I want to walk the streets of Beverly Hills and shop until my heels hurt and my toes ache. I want Chocolate Thunder from the Cheetahs strip club to grip my waist and rock my backside in the Champagne Room for free, because I’m tired of paying him to do it! I want you to stop being some low-level crackhead, in here snorting up donkey shit and killing what’s left of my gene pool! But you can’t give me any of that, can you? Therefore, at this moment, what I want is for you to get up and go to school!”

  School?

  School!

  Oh, my God!

  I looked over at the clock: 10:49 a.m.

  I was late.

  Mad late.

  But I had to go to school anyway. I hadn’t been in two weeks, and yesterday Westwick called here, in the middle of Camille’s afternoon cocktail, and threatened that if I didn’t come today I’d be expelled.

  The last thing I needed was to be expelled. Although Kitty had ruined me, she did say that if I got clean and did well in school, she would take another look at me.

  Though I could drink loads of water and eat herbs to rebirth my piss, I couldn’t control Westwick. And if I got kicked out, I knew for sure Kitty wouldn’t touch me with somebody else’s stick. And even though I hated Kitty with a passion, I needed her.

  I pushed past Camille, hopped out of bed, and took a quick shower. I didn’t even have enough time to match my heels to my catsuit, so I pulled out a pair of pleather-neon yellow shorts, a short-sleeve zebra print pullover sweater, and a pair of five-inch Timberland stilettos.

  I let my own sandy brown coils of thick hair hang wild, as I zipped out the front door, and into my red ’57 Chevy, cranked it up, and took off for the wood—Hollywood.

  * * *

  Noon.

  And who was the first face I saw:

  West. Wick.

  I rolled my eyes toward the marble ceiling. I swear I couldn’t stand this mothersucker! Why was he at the front door, standing guard, his chub-club-Judy body blocking me from taking another step into the school? Didn’t he have something else to do?

  Ugh!

  I blew out a hard breath and shoved both hands up on my hips. My pleather, neon-yellow hobo bag, from my exclusive Ching-Chow Korean collection, slid down my right arm and hung around my wrist.

  Instead of waiting for Westwick to piss me off by spewing some unreasonable and expensive request, I said, “I don’t have time for the ying-yang. You called and said I needed to be at school today, so here I am. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for my math class.”

  He clucked his tongue. “As if your bottom scrape, low money behind can even add beyond the price of a nickel bag.” He smacked his lips. And I could tell by the dumb look in his beady eyes, the smirk on his tight mouth, and the way he held his head down, forcing his double chin to slap into his fat neck, that he was amused with himself.

  Sucker.

  Westwick carried on, “In. My. Office, Gator.”

  Gator? As in some ancient and old crackhead?

  Ohhhhhhh, I’m ’bout to cuss this fool all the way out!

  Deep breath in.

  Deep breath out.

  Just go into his office.

  Let him run his mouth.

  Write him a bad check, and then head to class.

  Don’t nobody have time for Westwick!

  I walked past the team of receptionists in the main office and into Westwick’s dungeon. He took a seat, slapped his feet onto his desk, pointed to his credit card machine, and said, “You know the routine. You want in? Well, you have to pay. Now, credit card, please.”

  I didn’t have any credit cards. Actually, I didn’t have any credit.

  Before I could tell him he better take a check and shut up, he spat, “And don’t even think about writing me a check. Everyone knows all the banks have shut you down.”

  Blood rushed to my face, and the fine hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I blew out a hard and heavy breath, then snapped my fingers in a Z-motion and said, “Lady, bye. Who you think got time for this?” I paused and looked him over, from his shiny bald head to the black red-bottoms on his feet.

  I continued, “This is a school, and you’re supposed to be the headmaster! Not up in here money laundering, tryna snatch my wig off and take food out of my mouth. So peep this: I ain’t giving you crap! Not one dime, not even a penny. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t give you an ounce of spit if you were on fire and needed something wet.

  “I’m tired of you coming for me. And what you not gonna do is try and choke me for another moment. Now, like I said, I’m going to class.”

  Westwick blinked. Cleared his throat. Blinked again. Then stood up and clapped.

  That’s right, that queen stood up and clapped. Like I’d just given him the performance of a lifetime. “Bravo! Bravo! Splendid! Now are you finished? Or is there more to that ratchet sonnet?”

  I hesitated, and instead of him letting me get my comeback together, he carried on. “Looka here, Lady Confusion. Hear me and hear me well. If you think you’re going to come up in here, run me, and stroll through Hollywood High anyway you choose to, you’re high and mistaken. Little lost girl, this is my world, and I run this universe anyway I please. No one told you to be out there in the streets, steps away from being Miss Two-dollar-
drop-to-her-knees. That was your decision. You had the whole world at your feet. A number one television show, a chance to be a Disney princess. Hollywood’s doll. But you wanted to be a wild child, the new millennium Lindsey Lohan and Britney Spears. A follower.”

  He paused, like he dared me to say something. But for some reason, what with the massive verbal kicks he’d just landed in my gut, I couldn’t quite get my words together.

  He continued, “And now you wish to come for me, like I owe you something. I don’t owe you a thing, sweet cheeks. Not even a second chance. Now, had you come in here humble, perhaps with some ownership of your unhinged and jungle behavior, along with a li’l gift card, a fruit basket, or something, I may have allowed you a payment plan. But nooooooo, you came up in here with those broad shoulders squared and that plastic behind wagging like a horse, trying to check me.

  “Well, tsk, tsk, tsk, that’s not how this works, darling. Now either you hand over your credit card or you are expelled. And don’t think Ms. Kitty hasn’t informed me what expelling you will do for your cancer-stricken career.”

  My heart raced, and my chest heaved. I was beyond pissed, hurt, and embarrassed. I couldn’t believe this had happened to me. I felt like Westwick had sliced open my throat and ripped my mouth out.

  I felt dizzy.

  Out of control.

  My palms were sweaty, and all I saw was Westwick standing there, judging me, looking down on me, like I was nothing.

  Without thinking twice, I reared a hand back, brought it down, and swung it straight across Westwick’s desk. His family photos crashed to the floor; causing shards of glass to shatter and glassy pricks to pop into the air. His fresh yellow roses went everywhere, and the water from the vase ran all over his desk, drenching his stacks of important papers and school files. And that stupid credit card machine hit the wall, then fell onto the floor and smashed into broken pieces!

  Westwick’s mouth flew open, and now he was frozen and speechless.

  I shoved my bag up on my shoulder, straightened the hem of my sweater, fluffed my curls, and said, “You can’t expel me because I quit! Out. Of. Here!”

  Then I wagged my behind, just like the horse he accused me of being, storming out of his office. And a few moments later I was in my ride. I cranked my hydraulics, dropped my top, and took off toward the sun, leaving Hollywood High and Westwick’s shitty face in a cloud of dust.