by Ni-Ni Simone
“Well then, perhaps you should take your business elsewhere,” Blondie said, placing all the handbags and clothes back on the counter. “But here at Second Time’s a Charm, you show your ID or get shown the door. Now good-bye. And thanks for stopping by.”
Rich snatched up all of her things, stuffing them back into suitcases and duffel bags, cursing all the while. And then she started knocking over mannequins and display cases.
“You trick! I didn’t need your money anyway! I’m Rich, honey! And you can kiss my big wide fabulous azz!”
Rich stormed through the store, dragging her things with her, bumping into tables and knocking things over. The last thing I saw before she swung open the front door and stepped out onto the sidewalk was her getting swept up in a sea of paparazzi.
47
Heather
Eleven p.m. . . .
“Co-Co, turn that bass up. All the way up,” I said as I nodded my head to the thundering beat. We were at Co-Co’s hideaway, an abandoned building in West Hollywood where he’d squatted for the last month. He’d hooked up the first-floor studio apartment with dragon-shaped paper lanterns that dangled from the ceiling, two purple leather couches, metal folding chairs everywhere, a platform bed, a makeshift recording booth, and some engineering equipment for his new venture—Basement Records.
For the moment, this was the chill spot, where we partied with a few of Co-Co’s strays: straight, gay, trans, tall, short, fat, white, black, Mexican, and a vampire. Better known as hangers, or the background hype crew, who only wanted to be around when you were famous, yet were gone the moment the lights weren’t on.
But whatever.
This wasn’t about forever.
This was about now. And right now, we were all twerkin’, drankin’, and snortin’ powdered clouds of what Co-Co called Purgatory: black beauty, Xanax, and a pinch of meth.
Er’body was lit and waiting for the clock to lead us to one a.m. That’s when I was due to be thirty grips richer: ten stacks to walk through Club Tantrum. And twenty stacks to drop a pop-up concert at the grand opening of Queer Zone, a new club in K’town.
“Who shotcha, baby!” Co-Co screamed, as he spun around in the middle of the aged black marbled floor and went down into a split. He snaked back up, tossed his hands in the air, and shouted, “Wu-Wu!”
I tossed back a shot of tequila, then said, “Waddup, fool?!”
Co-Co rocked his shoulders to the beat. “Come on, bean flicker, and drop a free style.”
Bean flicker?
The hangers laughed, then egged me on to perform.
I sucked my teeth, peered through the tweekin’ crowd, and looked Co-Co over—from his plastic see-through vest, the taco meat on his bony chest, his denim booty shorts, to his six-inch red pencil heels, and said, “Bean flicker? Just what are you trying to say, Mr. Bottom?”
“Bottom today, sandwich tomorrow,” he snorted, then chuckled. “Now stop being so sensitive and hit us with a free style, so we can upload it to iTunes. Bust ’em over the head with a lemonade surprise!”
The hangers cheered and chanted, “Free style! Free style!”
I was irked and tired of Co-Co coming at me sideways.
But.
The beat bustin’ in the background was fire, and the thought of dropping another iTunes hit was sweet. Super sweet.
My eyes scanned the hangers, and seeing how hyped they were forced me to swallow the urge to drag this queen for filth. I smacked my glossy lips and said, “Hit the record button, nephew.”
Co-Co smiled as I walked into the booth and slid the headphones on. I made a hand motion for him to turn up the beat—which was a mix between Prince’s signature and high-pitched psychedelic guitar and a computerized keyboard.
I closed my eyes and went for broke, “Raindrops, drop tops, make it hot, why not?/Ain’t nothin’ else to choose, unless you wanna drown in Camille’s booze. But why lose when you can be Richard Montgomery?/He stays winnin’, and rollin’ in the dough./Goin’ from ho to ho/Droppin’ babies like snow./Then sayin’ no-no, you gotta go-go/Already got two I’m gonna show-show/Never lookin’ back/Leavin’ you feelin’ whack/Heart all jacked, tears always in your eyes, but you refuse to cry./You’d rather sip some sizurpt./Pour it down your throat like a wizard, and blow up like blizzard!”
“Rich Montgomery, who shotcha!” Co-Co shouted unexpectedly across my rhyme.
And I followed up with, “Now he wanna know who shotcha, and I’m just like hell I gotcha!”
Co-Co cut off the music, jumped up and down and everybody went wild!
“Yooooooo, that ish was fiya!” said the vampire, who was still groovin’ to the beat in his head.
“Yasssss, bish, yaasssss!” A few of the hangers congratulated me.
Co-Co screamed, ran over, yanked me out the booth, and into a hug, “OMG! You merked that, baby. Yes. You. Did. That. Shit! Whaaaat?! You know what this means, right?”
Before I could answer, he carried on, “This means you gotta hit this special treat before we head out the door.” Co-Co pulled out a velvet tiger pouch from his back pocket and emptied two small plastic packs of brown powder onto a small card table. “Heather, the first line is yours.”
My mouth watered, and I could feel my nose about to drip. “What is it?”
“China Doll, baby—OxyContin, coke, and a sprinkle of potpourri. Miss Girl, this buzz is gon’ make you torch the stage! Trust, Black Beauty was the appetizer, but this right here is the entrée!”
The following day...
2 p.m.
Where.
The.
Hell.
Am.
I?
And why does my head feel like it’s been hit with a ton of bricks?
I wiped what felt like dried milk from my mouth and stale bread crumbs from the corners of my eyes, and took the room in.
The bright afternoon sun shone through the curtainless and streaked glass windows, spotlighting the purple leather couches, the dragon lanterns that swung from the ceiling, and metal folding chairs. There were empty bottles of tequila, beer, and cherry-flavored Robitussin strewn across the kitchen counter and littered on the floor.
There was a vampire sparkling in the sun; his pasty white makeup was crackled and sank into the creases of his face. And next to him were two trans-boys, spooning.
I was still at Co-Co’s.
But there was no Co-Co. And why was I still here?
Last I remembered, we snorted a line on our way out the door to collect my coins.
Wait.
The walk-through!
The pop-up concert!
My coins!
Where are my coins?!
I snatched my purse, which lay open on the table next to me and rummaged through it. Car keys—check.
Phone—no phone!
Where is my phone?
Wallet—empty!
Where the hell is my money?
Panicked, I hopped out of the platform bed, which I didn’t remember lying down on, let alone sleeping in.
“Eww, what’s wrong with you?” said some oversized Goth girl, with raccoon eyes and black lips.
“I’m looking for... for my . . .” I paused and zoomed in on her hand. “Gimme my damn phone!” I snatched it from her grip. “What the hell? And where is my money?! Did you steal my money?” I snatched her by the collar.
She pushed me back by my shoulders, forcing my hands to fall. “Don’t be a douche! I make two of you, and I really would hate to beat you to a pulp. And I don’t know what money you’re talking about!”
“You stole my money!” I shoved her.
She hopped up and shoved me back. “What money? I was only using your phone to call my ride so I can get out of here!”
“Trick, you stole my money!” I lifted my hand to cop her across the face, but she caught my fist.
“What money?!” she screamed.
“The money I made from the clubs last night!” I wrestled my fist from her grip.
“You didn’t even make it to the clubs! You snorted one line, went in the bathroom, and passed out! Me and Co-Co had to drag you out of there and put you in the bed!”
The bottom of my stomach dropped, and my heart fell to my feet. “What do you mean, I passed out and I never made it to the club? Lies! Trick! You stole my money! You thief! Where is Co-Co?”
“I don’t know!” she said, before turning toward the door. She took off running.
I tried to run after her, but my head felt too heavy for me to keep up, so by the time I made it outside, she had turned the corner and left me in the dust.
I went back inside and did my best to get my thoughts in order. Did I really miss my walk-through? My concert? My coins? I needed those coins. I had bills, and I didn’t have any money!
This is wrong, all wrong! Why can’t I remember what I did for the rest of the night? And where the hell was Co-Co?! He had some explaining to do!
My phone’s battery was on three percent, and I didn’t have my charger.
I dialed Co-Co’s number anyway, only to get his voice mail. I left a message. “Co-Co, what the hell happened here last night? Somebody stole my money, and you are nowhere in sight?!”
I hung up and called again.
Voice mail. “Co-Co, did you steal my coins? Ho, you know I need my money! I’m not playing with you, Co-Co! I gotta pay my rent! Where are you? And why did you leave me here with these freaks!”
I hung up and called again. This time the recording announced that his voice mail was full.
Tears beat against the backs of my eyes and streamed down my face. I felt like I was drowning in space.
Had this really happened?
Did I dream it?
Yeah, that was it.
I dreamed it.
I pinched my wrist, and pain shot through my arm. I wasn’t dreaming. This was real.
Beep-beep.
I looked down at my phone. I had a text message . . . from Co-Co. It read: I C U KEEP B/U MY PHONE. NOBODY COULD WAKE U LAST NITE SO U AIN’T MAKE NO $$, BEAN FLICKER. ANYWHO I’LL HIT YOU LATER.
WTF?
My head ached. My body ached. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t get the sound to come out!
I jabbed my fingers into my phone, but as I attempted to type my reply, my phone died. And for a moment, a split second in time, as I leaned against the wall and slid to the floor, I felt like I had died too.
48
Rich
Dear Diary,
Love is good.
Love is kind.
Love is important.
And sugar is sweet, but not like this.
Trust.
I wake up every morning, roll over, look at my chocolate Adonis, and know that true love does exist. Unlike a lot of these thirst-bucket squirrels—like London and Spencer. I would include Heather, but Heather wouldn’t know love unless it was sold in a five-dollar rock. But those other two pampered thots have tasted the sweetness of love makin’, and they both envy my panty drop. But little do they know that the hatred in their hearts is the reason they’re single and I’m not.
And yeah, Justice, well, we live in a section-8-like sweat box. But so what? As far as me and my man are concerned, it’s a love palace by day and a sex dungeon by night!
Okay!
Snap-snap!
Hot damn!
Give it to me one time, diary! Yaaaas, bish, yaaaas!
Er’body was soooo busy sleeping on me. Er’body thought that Rich Montgomery was gon’ fold and run back home to ole granny-drawls-wearin’ Logan. Psych!
And speakin’ of Lo-rat. She’s been calling my phone, leaving voice mail after voice mail, and sending text message after text message. Ev. Ver. Ry. Day. Begging me to come home.
Chile, cheese!
Boo, please!
Talkin’ ’bout, “Mommy misses you, Richie-Poo. We’re a family, and we can work this out. We can make it through anything.”
Girl, please!
All Lo-zilla can do for me is reopen my credit cards. Deposit my ten-thousand-dollar monthly allowance, with interest. And step off.
And all she can get from me is a middle finger emoji. She should’ve thought about how much she loved and would miss me when she had her scrotum-swingin’ husband and his mini-me of a son, RJ, attack me, and in front of that white woman in a black body! Gon’ accuse me of all sorts of things! And I’m just supposed to forget or pretend that drag-fest ever happened? Never! Now Logan wants me to care that she’s feeling guilty?
I wish I would.
But I don’t.
And I’m not gon’ raise one ounce of my blue blood pressure being worried about it. She made her bed of shade, now she gon’ have to snuggle on it.
Anywho, next!
Now, diary, brace yourself. A few weeks ago, I was almost murdered. Yes. Murdered! The media tried to kill me. Let me explain. Being the giving person that I am, I went to a consignment shop . . . to visit . . . well... to check out the scenery, sort of. And perhaps even see how I could make some extra money, maybe sell them a few things, you know, since Logan and her family tried to do me and shut my funds down.
Of course, the cashier and the manager were both in there hatin’ on me and accused me of trying to sell them knock-offs! As if I would ever carry something that wasn’t real! I break out in hives when I get next to something fake, so I know my designer wears were one thousand percent authentic. Well, you know, I turned it out. Cussed, screamed, and threatin’ to have their heads.
Still.
They had no right to sic the paparazzi on me!
I’m talking TMZ, Trashy Teen Trend Travesty, People magazine, E! News, and Ni-Ni Girlz.
Yes, honey, they tried it.
I texted Justice a nine-one-one emergency and the address where I was. A few minutes later, my black man stepped up in the spot, wearing an invisible red cape, and saved the day! Yes. He. Did.
He looked into the cameras and yelled, “Get out of her face!” Then he gripped me by the forearm and practically carried me through the crowd. He said that he would’ve picked me up, but since I’d gained about forty pounds, he had to train to lift that much weight.
It’s all good, though, because with all of this good lovin’ we’ve been makin’, I’m sure I’ve burned off at least ten pounds of bacon-wrapped hot wings and beer. And in no time, I’ll be back to being a dime; as for right now, I’ll have to settle with being a fifty-cent piece.
But you get the point. Me and my baby are everything brown sugar love is made of.
He takes me bowling. To play pool. Roller skating. Cooks for me and gives me money to shop. This boy loves me like a fat kid loves cake.
There’s only one thing he expects me to do: get a job.
But I’m not.
I am the job. You have to work to take care of me. I see I’m going to have to slow-walk him to understanding that any man with me has the ultimate trophy, but all of this can change if Justice puts another unrealistic demand on me or doesn’t come up with more money.
But other than that, we are stellar over here.
Anyway, diary, I need to bid you good day. It’s nine a.m., which means it’s time for me to turn over and wake my bae with some knee-buckling kisses.
Ciao!
49
London
“Happy birthday, my darling London,” my mother nearly sang out, barreling through my suite’s doors without knocking. I frowned, making a note to myself:
Lock door.
Yeah. Happy birthday to me! Yippee! Oh, joy!
Mmmph. Not.
There were no candles to blow out. No cake to slice. No elaborate party to look forward to. No guests to thank. It was just another day.
I was seventeen now, but I felt old. Older. Like I was a twenty-seven-year-old woman watching my life clock aimlessly spin. I shook the image, my mind settling on the idea of having a rich, decadent slice of cake. No, scratch that—the whole cake.
God, I would kill to have a huge piece o
f cake. With dark chocolate frosting. And raspberry mousse filling. With a delicious ganache topping. That used to be (no, it still is!) one of my favorite desserts. But I couldn’t have any of that—birthday or not. Just like I couldn’t have a box (because one pack would never be enough) of Drake’s Devil Dogs—chilled, please—or Little Debbie Swiss Rolls or them scrumptious little round oatmeal cakes.
None of that I could have for fear of relapsing right back to binge eating. Still, my mouth started watering. Stop, London. Enough. Dr. Kickaloo had been working very hard with me on managing and respecting my urges to overindulge. I simply did not have the willpower to enjoy all the fatty, sugary, carb-loaded treats without gorging on them, without eating myself into a coma—so, no to sweets.
No to temptation!
And hell no to gas and bloating!
“Your father thought it would be a great idea if we . . .”
I blinked, bringing myself back to the present. Here, looking at my mother.
Suddenly, my chaise was covered in shopping bags—Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Hermès, Gucci—and the room filled with the scent of Tahitian vanilla; her nearly nine-hundred-dollar bottle of Clive Christian’s No. 1 was one of her signature perfumes.
“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” I mumbled, turning my iPad mini facedown (I was on Rich’s mother’s Instagram page) and glancing over at all the designer bags. Had this been another time, I would have leapt in the air and begun tearing open each bag. But I had too much going on to give thought to what was in those coveted bags.
Like what the heck Logan Montgomery was up to. Who else’s man was that trick scheming on? So seeing my mother surprised me. I wasn’t sure if it was unwanted, but it was definitely unexpected. She had only been gone for a week, which was so unlike her. Usually she stayed weeks at a time.
“It’s your birthday, darling. Of course, I’d be here for that.”
I gave her a why look. But said nothing. “Besides, your father’s been worried about you . . .”
Mmmph.
“He said the last week you’ve not been yourself,” she continued. “What’s going on, my darling? And why were you not returning any of my calls?”