by Ni-Ni Simone
I placed my face into my hands and sobbed again. And then, when I was able to pull myself together, I continued, “All I want to do is turn back time and make things right again. I want a do-over, that’s it. I want my father back—not just pieces of him; all you are to me now is a shell of who my father used to be. Ever since I left for Milan and cut myself, you’re here but not here. It’s like your mind is somewhere else, like on her.”
Daddy said nothing at first. He just looked at me. Silent. Pained. And torn. I could see it in his eyes.
“I can’t imagine what all this is doing to you, sweetheart,” Daddy said finally. He looked stricken. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how hard any of this must be for you.” He held his head down, then pulled in a deep breath. “Or for your mother,” he added after a moment. “I’m flawed, sweetheart. All men are. But that doesn’t make us all bad either. Many of us are still loving fathers and husbands; we just sometimes fall short. We screw up. And then we have to look into our wives’ and daughters’ eyes and see the pain we’ve caused them and try to figure out ways to make it right.”
Daddy pinched the insides of his eyes, trying to hold back his own tears.
“I apologize for shattering your images of me,” he said. “I never wanted to hurt you or your mother.” Now he seemed to struggle to look at me. “But I see now how badly I did. And it’s eating me up inside.”
I swallowed. “Do you love her?” I blurted out. Stunned that I asked the question. But I wanted to know. I had a right to know.
Daddy took me in for a moment, then reached over and brushed my hair from out of my face. He held the side of my face in his large hand. It was warm. And I felt myself on the verge of crying again.
“It’s complicated,” he offered. There went that word again. Complicated. I wanted to scream. What was so complicated with giving a yes or no answer? He either did or he didn’t.
More tears fell from my eyes. Unchecked.
“Is she leaving Mr. Montgomery?”
Daddy’s body seemed to stiffen at the sound of the name of one of his biggest clients.
“Probably not,” he said solemnly. “That’s not something we’ve talked about. And it’s not something you need to concern yourself with.”
I stared at him. “I see.” I shifted my body on the bed. “Well, Mother might be okay with your cheating ways,” I said, pushing myself farther away from him. “And she may not have any fight left in her.” I climbed off the bed. “But I do.”
Daddy frowned, giving me a confused look.
I looked him square in the eyes. “You don’t get to keep both of us in your life. You don’t get to be my father and keep her as your slut. Sorry.”
I stomped toward my bathroom.
“London, don’t—”
I cut him off, putting a hand up. “No, Daddy. Either she goes or I’m moving to Milan with Mother and never speaking to you again!”
I slammed the door, leaving Daddy sitting on my bed.
He had a choice to make. And so did I.
I pressed my back to the door and slid down it, sobbing.
43
Spencer
Do this, do that; take me here, drop me off there; clutching pearls this, clutching pearls that...
Rich was slowly getting on my last-mothersuckin’-flim-flammin’ nerve!
A few days had suddenly turned into one hellish week. My eyeballs ached from seeing her big wide face and that spreading nose of hers every darn day! All she did was eat and sleep and complain. Oh, and run off to be with that Justice boy every chance she could. Then try to wobble back in the wee hours of the night.
She was trying to turn my loving home into a flophouse. A one-woman brothel!
Twice already, Kitty demanded I keep her locked out and not open the entrance gates to let her back in. But I couldn’t. Kitty was evil. But my loving heart wouldn’t allow me to leave Rich out on the curb, like trash. Even though she was trashy.
Still, I refused to let her inside the main house—if she couldn’t get back from her boxer-and-panty play before the bewitching hour, then she wouldn’t get inside my home! Instead, I would show her the way to the pool house. However, a few times, Rich simply hopped back inside Justice’s car and returned to his rumpled bed sheets.
Jeezuslawdfather . . .
I was getting sick of her. And I didn’t know how much more of her I could take before I lost my mind and acted a fool out here in these streets. Rich was taking me all out of my Zen, just sucking every ounce of my positive light and energy out from my bone marrow.
And I didn’t like it one ding-daggity bit!
But I was trying desperately hard to stay kind and patient with this trickeroo.
“No!” Rich shrieked when I flicked my blinker on to swing into a parking space. “Not there. Don’t park there. It’s too far. You know this horrid heat will melt all this sweet sugar.”
I scoffed, swerving away from the parking spot.
“Okay, how about this one,” I said, pointing to a space a few cars down. I was straining to keep my temper from flaring up.
“Clutching pearls! Don’t do me! That’s too close, girl. I can’t have them seeing me getting out of this with you. Ew. Not. My reputation would be ruined.”
I blinked. “Rich, your reputation was ruined the day you were born. So get over yourself. Next.”
“Clutching pearls, skank! Lies and deceit! Don’t have me slay you out here. My rep is on fleek, honey! But that doesn’t mean I wanna be seen riding in . . . this. I mean . . . unh . . . don’ get me wrong; this li’l car is cute and all, if you want a li’l knock-around car. But—psst, please—it’s not something I’d ever be caught driving.”
“Bish, shut it,” I hissed. The nerve of her! “You won’t be caught driving anything for the next eighteen months, so be grateful someone is willing to give you a ride. Otherwise, you and those Barney Rubble feet of yours can get to stepping.”
She sucked her teeth. “Play nice, Spencer. I can’t help if my feet are swollen. It’s from all this stress I’m under, being cramped up in a li’l room does a lot to a girl’s body. I’m not used to living in a cottage, girl. You know my home is humongous compared to yours; that’s all I’m trying to say. No shade.”
I glared at her. “Well, at least I have a home. Last I checked, you were tossed out on the street, remember?”
Rich waved me on. “Them haters. It was all a big misunderstanding. Once Logan and Richard get their minds right, they’ll be begging me back. Watch.”
“Ooooh, yippee,” I said sarcastically as I clapped. “I can’t wait.”
“Ah!” Rich screamed. “Hands on the wheel! Hands on the wheel!”
I rolled my eyes as I sped around the school’s enormous parking lot, nearly sideswiping a Maserati, then pulled up in front of the school’s entrance and slammed on the brakes, barreling over valet cones and nearly running down one of the valets.
The freckle-faced fool scrambled away mere seconds from becoming roadkill.
I quickly reached inside my purse and threw him a fifty for his troubles. “Sorry,” I said apologetically. Then I glared over at Rich. “Get out, freeloader! Miss I Can’t Drive Myself to School Because I’m Too Stupid Not to Drink and Drive!”
“Eww. Clutching pearls! That was so inappropriate, Spencer. Just hateful.”
I rolled my eyes. “Rich, your whole life is inappropriate. Now get out of my car before I forget my manners and knock your front implants out!”
“Tramp-whore!” she snapped. “You will not abuse me or disrespect me. I don’t need to ride in this ole cheap tin can! I can walk!”
“Then walk,” I snapped, furiously pointing toward the sparkling glass doors. “Go bounce right up those stairs and roll your roly-poly butt into class.”
Rich flipped down the mirror and checked her lip gloss, then blew herself a kiss.
“Ugh. You’re still ugly as ever, Rich. Now good day, ma’am!”
“Don’t ma’am me, slore,” R
ich crabbed. “It’s never a good day when I have to share air space with a troll like you!”
She swung open the passenger-side door, then slid out of the car and slammed her door so hard that my windows rattled and the whole car shook.
I threw my gears into DRIVE.
“Wait,” Rich called out before I could take off. “I need money for lunch, girl. You got me? And we’re still going out for hot wings after school, right? You know I need my beer and my bacon.”
“Lady, bye,” I said, flipping her the bird.
Rich gave the finger back. “Love you, too,” she said and then stomped off in her bejeweled Valentino flats, yanking down her blazer, trying to cover the butt-crack she’d managed to stuff inside her Dassault Apparel jeans.
Ugh. Ole flat-footed heathen!
All I could do was take a deep breath and sigh, and pray for a miracle.
44
Spencer
Two weeks later . . .
“Spencer,” Kitty sneered, “when is that gremlin upstairs going home? I’m sick of seeing her. I don’t know what’s worse. Your father picking inside his diaper and humming old Negro spirituals or having that little double-chinned barbarian girl here.”
I rolled my eyes up in my head, brushing by her. “Rich doesn’t have a home, Mother. And stop talking bad about Daddy. I won’t have it.”
She grabbed me by the arm, and spun me around to face her. “And you won’t have your face in a minute, little girl, if you don’t show Orphan Annie to the door. I’m not running a runaway shelter here.”
I threw my head back and laughed, then said as I snatched my arm from her grasp, “You silly duck. You quack! Rich didn’t run away. She was thrown out on the streets.”
Kitty scoffed. “Spencer, shut it. As hoodlicious as that Logan Montgomery is, that gold-digging woman would never throw one of her meal tickets out. You can believe the lies Rich has told you if you want. But that little troll doll upstairs walked out. Why? Because, one, she thinks she’s grown and doesn’t want to follow her parents’ rules. Two, she’d rather spend her life spread eagle than studying for the SATs. Three, because she’s loud, obnoxious, and utterly rude. Four, because she drinks like a fish . . .”
I sucked my teeth. “All right, Mother. I get it. It’s no secret. Rich is troubled. And loose. And she loves to drink. Still, I can’t put my good-good—”
“That girl is not good for anything except a romp in the sack,” Kitty snapped.
“That’s not nice,” I said. “You’re being messy. Rich can’t help herself.”
“No, Spencer. Messy is that trap queen upstairs. I want that beast girl out of here, Spencer.”
I blinked. “No,” I said as I shook my head. “I won’t put Rich out. Letting her stay with us until she can land back on her hoofs is the charitable thing to do, Mother. How humanitarian of me would it be to put Rich out? To turn my back on someone less fortunate?”
Kitty tilted her head and gave me a deadly stare. And then she balled her fist. “I should punch you into the next millennium. I want that girl gone, Spencer. Three weeks is enough. She’s overstayed her welcome. Mmmph.” Kitty swiped hair from out of her eye. “Flouncing around here like she has a free stay at the Four Seasons. No, dearie. We are not here to accommodate her. That sneaky trick is wandering all through here at wee hours of the night. I can’t even bring my boy toys home or have a late-night romp down here on the kitchen table without her walking in on me. I can’t—I won’t—live like this, Spencer. I refuse to live in fear that some little hot pocket might try to offer up her little nasty self to one of my stud muffins.”
“And the Mother of the Year Award goes to—drumroll, please—you, Mother.” I sighed sarcastically and then shook my head. She was so disgusting.
“Save the mockery, Spencer. That pygmy girl upstairs is cutting into my late-night playtime.”
I grunted. “Well, maybe you should get a room somewhere else instead of whoring in my home. Or, better yet, how about you conduct your slutty tricks in your bedroom. No, no. Better yet, how about you find yourself someone your own age instead of stalking college campuses.”
She roughly grabbed my face, digging her nails into my cheeks, nearly breaking skin. “As long as they’re over eighteen, my darling Spencer, they’re fair game. And it’s legal. But don’t you dare try to make this about me, little girl. I’m the adult. And, like it or not, until you turn eighteen, I still have the say as to what does or doesn’t go on in this house. Period.”
She let go of my face. Oooh. She was so, so, lucky Rich was upstairs; otherwise, this whole downstairs would have instantly turned into a battlefield. Kitty and I were due for another mother-daughter brawl. But...
Not today.
“Now, like I was saying,” she continued, narrowing her eyes, “I want that girl gone. I’m sick of seeing her wide back and that floppy behind of hers walking up out of this kitchen with a plate, like this is some all-you-can-eat buffet.”
I huffed. “Oh, shut it. Rich can’t help it if all she does all day is eat. She’s a moose. She grazes, Kitty. That’s what mammals like Rich do! Graze.”
Kitty sneered. “Well, then, you had better find said moose a zoo or farm to send her to, because the one thing I won’t tolerate is you trying to operate a refugee camp up in here. It’s bad enough to have your father here, like this is some rehabilitative nursing home.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but Kitty shut me down before I could get a word out.
“I mean it, Spencer.” She stomped her foot. “You tell that girl she has three days to either go back home where she belongs or to find herself a nearby flophouse.”
I bit my tongue. Kitty was right, though. This situation with Rich was slowly becoming a bit much. She was sloppy—lawdjeezus—and lazy. She didn’t make her bed. She kept clothes strewn about the mini-suite I’d so graciously set her up in, even leaving her panties dropped in the middle of her private bathroom floor a few times.
Like, ugh . . . who did that?
Where were they teaching that level of nastiness?
Apparently at the Montgomery estate!
Rich really thought she had live-in maids at her beck and call. Not here, punkin. Not here. Oh, no. Our housekeeper was for the rest of the estate, not for Rich’s personal use. I mean, as loving and kind as I was, Rich was taking advantage of my generous ways. She was disrespecting my positive energy and light with her uncouthness.
Consequently, I was struggling to stay classy and humble. Rich was homeless. I had to keep reminding myself of that. And nearly destitute—well, okay... she was broke. Flat broke! Her parents had cut off all of her credit cards and access to her three bank accounts, so mooching off me was the only thing she could do.
And I had to keep reminding myself of that too. Miss Mouthy, Miss Piggy-Wiggy was broke! And yet she didn’t know when to shut her trap and show a little gratitude for having a warm, clean place to lay her head and a kind, loving friend to always save the day. Ole ungrateful slob.
Even though Rich had streetwalker tendencies, it was dangerous on those streets. And I couldn’t see her on some corner holding up an empty coffee can, panhandling for her next shopping spree. Now what type of good-good friend would I have been putting her out on the ho-stroll, even if that was what she was most good at?
I wasn’t heartless. I would never drag her name or put her out. Well . . . uh, um . . . unless she tested my gangster or totally violated my kind and loving ways. Then I didn’t know what I’d do to her. I could be like a wild alley cat when crossed.
Until that time, I would simply shut off—no, no (I wasn’t that cruel)—I’d put a timer on the water system on her side of the wing so she couldn’t run the shower all hours of the day and night. It would cut her off after fifteen minutes. Next, I’d seal up the cabinets and put dead bolts on the refrigerator and freezer. She’d only be allowed three meals and two snacks. And her last feeding would be at seven in the evening.
And, finally, to keep he
r from prowling around here, I’d lock her in her suite from the other side of her double door and set the alarms on her windows and balcony door after eleven p.m.
There. Problem solved.
Still, Kitty had no goshdang right trying to stomp her heels at me and give me deadlines. Rich was my GGFEBF—my good-good-future-ex-bestie. And she needed me. So who would I have been to turn my back on her?
“Wait one ding dangdiggity minute,” I said, pointing a finger in her face. “You do not run this household. And you do not run me. Rich stays until—”
Kitty grabbed my finger and bent it all the way back. “Ow, ow, owww,” I yelped, trying to pry her hand from my finger.
“You wanna rumble, Spencer, huh? You wanna get down and dirty, huh, you little twit? Then try me, little girl. I will chop you in your throat and break your whole hand off if you ever point a finger in my face again. Do you understand me?”
She bent my finger back more, and fire shot through my whole hand. Tears sprang to my eyes. “Aah, aah . . . yesss! I heard youuuuu. Now let m-m-my finger go.”
After several long moments of staring me down, Kitty reluctantly let go of my finger, and I immediately grabbed it and held it in my other hand, pressing it to my chest, thankful she hadn’t broken it.
Her nostrils flared. “Now get upstairs and do what I told you to do, or you and your little pet project will be out on the street together.”
45
Rich
Picture it:
Saturday afternoon.
3:32 to be exact.
I was laid across a white mink chaise lounge.
Feet up.
Head held back.
Face covered in an Egyptian mud and lotus-petal facial mask. Cucumbers concealed my eyes. My juicy birthday suit was draped in a crisp, white terry-cloth Chanel robe, and I was talking to the goddess on high. Asking her highness to swing down low and come see about a queen. Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, I was attacked!