Divas Don't Cry

by Ni-Ni Simone

  I shrugged. “Sorry. I didn’t feel like talking.”

  She let out an exasperated breath. “London, darling, I’m your mother.”

  “I know,” was all I could muster.

  “Well, I hope you are feeling better. I bought you some wonderful gifts.” She lifted the Chanel bag. “Here, darling. Open it.”

  “Not now, Mother,” I said, getting up and walking over to kiss her on the cheek. “You really didn’t have to go shopping for me. But thank you.”

  She returned the gesture with a cheeky air-kiss of her own and then a quick hug. “Nonsense, dear. It’s not every day you have a birthday.”

  I shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”

  She scoffed. “It is a big deal and cause for celebration. Where would you like to go this evening?”

  Umm. Let’s see. To find Anderson, then follow Rich’s mother around.

  “Nowhere, Mother. I’d rather stay in.”

  “Darling, no.” She looked disappointed. “We must get out to celebrate. Your father’s made dinner reservations . . .”

  Why? To pretend like we’re some happy damn family?

  I sat on the other chaise. “No, Mother. Really. I’m simply not in the mood for a family dinner. Not tonight.” God, it felt good saying no. I no longer wanted her or Daddy planning my life.

  “Okay, darling. I will let your father know. Maybe you’ll be up for something this weekend.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Now tell me, darling. Why didn’t you mention that Gisella Grace had reached out to you a few weeks back? Imagine how I felt running into her at a charity event and she tells me this.”

  I knew it. It was always about her. I rolled my eyes and shrugged. “I can’t imagine. There was nothing to tell,” I stated nonchalantly. “And there still isn’t. Gisella offered me a spot in her next casting. And I declined. End of story.”

  “London!” she exclaimed. “What do you mean there was nothing to tell?” She clapped her hands together. “This is fabulous news. Why would you decline?”

  “Because I’m not interested,” I said firmly.

  And now it all made sense to me. Mother hadn’t returned to L.A. for any other reason than to try to convince me to take Gisella up on her offer—hence all the unexpected shopping bags. Well, maybe that wasn’t completely true, but it was partly true, and it made sense in my head.

  “After the way you nearly disgraced . . .” She stopped herself from continuing her sentence. “I’m sorry, darling. It’s just that after all that you’ve been through, the fact that Gisella wants to represent you . . .”

  “She won’t be representing me, Mother,” I said calmly. “I’m not interested.”

  “London, why would you throw away an opportunity of a lifetime? Don’t you see, my darling. This is what we’ve always dreamed of.”

  I sighed. “No, Mother. This is what you’ve always dreamed of.”

  My mother huffed. “Oh, London, stop with this nonsense. It’s a blessing that designers are still vying for you after that tragic mishap.”

  I blinked. “Mother, it wasn’t a mishap, as you call it. That tragic moment—although I regret it dearly—was neatly planned and thought out.”

  “However, darling, it’s a blessing to still have the eye of some of the world’s top designers wanting you to showcase their designs.”

  “Mother, please.” I shook my head, feeling myself becoming annoyed. She wanted nothing more than to have me caught back up in the trappings of glamour. “Do not pressure me about this. It is my life, and my choice. Please.”

  “Fine, darling,” she acquiesced, a little too easily. “I don’t want to bicker. But have you even considered what you might do after Hollywood High?”

  Yes. I know exactly what I am going to do. Become Mrs. Anderson Ford. Duh. What else? I gave her a dumb look, as if she should have already known this.

  “It’s not like you have suitors beating down the doors to marry you. At least when you were modeling you were more appealing.”

  I huffed, defiantly crossing my arms. “Gee, thanks, Mother. You talk as if I’m defective or something.”

  “No, darling. That’s not what I mean.”

  I gave her a blank look. “Then what exactly do you mean, huh, Mother?”

  She sighed. “London, a modeling career is good for you. You can potentially write your own ticket, darling. But I fear the longer you stay off the runway, the easier it’ll be for you to get, well, you know . . . chunky, like your father’s side of the family.” She shook her head. “Right now, you look fabulous, darling, maybe five, ten pounds overweight. But it looks good on you. I just don’t want you getting big and burly like your aunts. Modeling will keep you focused. Disciplined.”

  My eyes widened. I couldn’t believe this. And here I’d managed to trick myself into believing she’d changed. Wrong.

  “Mother, are you fricking kidding me?” I snapped. “How dare you! Modeling does nothing but keep me sickly looking and stressed—you keep me stressed—the heck out!”

  “Now, now, darling. Let’s not turn this into an ugly screaming match . . .”

  “Um. Who’s screaming? I’m simply making a statement. You made my life hell, Mother, with your scales, weighing me, weighing my food. It was all too much. So please. Stop.”

  “I’m sorry, darling. Really I am. I only want the best for you, darling.”

  I rolled my eyes again. “Mmmph. Well, right now, Mother. That’s not what I’m feeling.”

  She started messing with another shopping bag. “Why don’t I show you all the things I’ve bought you,” she suggested. “I don’t want you to be angry. All I was trying to say is, modeling is more of your world than you think. One day you will see exactly how much you miss the spotlight. But you will need to realize that in your own time, darling. Just as you will come to realize what an awful mistake you made letting Anderson go.”

  My body tensed; hearing his name hurt.

  “Had you done what I’d told you to do—learn to love Anderson—you’d probably already be engaged,” my mother insisted. “But instead, you pushed him straight into the arms of another girl.”

  I scoffed. “Like you’ve done with Daddy, huh, Mother?”

  She blinked. “I did no such thing.” Indignation coated her tone. “I never pushed your father away. He simply left. But this isn’t about your father or me. This is about you and your future, darling. Anderson was a good catch . . .”

  Was?

  Last I checked, he was still single, still on the market, and still . . .

  “That young man would have been on his way to becoming my son-in-law had you done what I’d instructed you to do . . .”

  “I know Mother. I know. I should have listened.”

  She shook her head. “You know your father and I adored him.”

  My heart ached. “Again, Mother. No reminder needed, please. I know I was stupid. Dumb little London! Why don’t you just announce it to the world? Confused London! Throwing away her entire life on some Brooklyn thug who ended up dumping her anyway, nearly destroying her.”

  “Street trash is beneath your station, darling. You simply snuck around with that boy to try to hurt your father and me. That Justice boy was nothing but trouble for you. And yet you defied my every rule where that hellacious boy was concerned. I’m glad he hurt you . . .”

  I blinked, stunned.

  “Face it, darling. It was bound to happen. It’s better you learned that very painful lesson sooner rather than later, before he ended up swindling you out of your entire inheritance.”

  I had no words.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, oblivious to my shocked silence. “I almost forgot.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a neatly rolled tabloid-sized magazine. “Here’s a little motivation to hopefully help you decide your future, especially now that you’re a year older. And, hopefully, wiser.” She flipped to a specific page, and then handed it to me.

  * * *

  HEIR
TO OIL EMPIRE SPOTTED WALKING OUT OF TIFFANY & CO. SPLURGES ON A 1.5 MILLION-DOLLAR BAUBLE FLOODED WITH EXQUISITE DIAMONDS read the bold headline. Underneath was a half-page photo of Anderson, walking out of the store flanked by security. And Ivina.

  My heart sank.

  “Mother, please go,” I said, dropping the magazine to the floor. How was seeing that motivation? How was anything that she’d said to me, thus far, since walking into my bedroom, robbing me of my peace, celebratory?

  I breathed in a deep breath, then pushed it back out into a swoop of agitated air as I schlepped to my bathroom and popped a couple of Advil, wishing like hell I had a bottle of vodka to chase them down with, to numb the early beginnings of a full-fledged heart attack.

  In a matter of minutes, my mother had ruined a birthday that I didn’t give one hot damn about in the first place.

  Yeah.

  Happy birthday to me . . . !

  50

  Rich

  Dear Diary,

  Logan called me today.

  And I answered.

  She asked me to please meet her for lunch at some li’l café called Sweet Teas in downtown L.A.

  I started to tell her no.

  But I was desperate.

  I needed some money, and after the way she let her family drag me, she owed me. So I told her I would be there, but that she had to leave her goons at home, and her dogging my man was off limits.

  Surprisingly, she agreed. And she offered to send a car for me. I accepted.

  I just hoped she kept her word and didn’t mention Justice. After all, there was no way I could admit to Logan that although black love was still sweet, chocolate still tickled my panties, and I still loved my sugar daddy...

  Well, scratch that.

  Justice really couldn’t afford to give me no sugar.

  He was more like ah . . . ah . . . a Splenda daddy.

  He looked good, tasted good, but it wasn’t the same.

  Why?

  ’Cause my baby-boo had only one dime, and that he spent on rent.

  Simply put: There was no way I could confess to Logan that she was right and that I really didn’t know how bad Justice’s pocket situation was until I moved in here. Then I got to see firsthand how the low-grade lived.

  Now I understood why Logan called him a smoky-lounge, YouTube singer. A downgrade. Because he is.

  I love him, though.

  And the only person I would trade him for is a richer version of himself.

  But.

  That’s not possible.

  ’Cause he’s broke. And he comes from the bottom-scraping loins of a janitor and an LPN, better known as a street sweeper and home health aide. So he can’t even borrow any money from his parents.

  And yeah, Justice can sing, but he’s no Drake, Bruno Mars, or even Chris Breezy. He’s more like . . . like . . . Mario. A one-hit wonder, who by the time anyone has really heard of him, he’s played out, or a homeless beach bum singing for quarters.

  But that’s it.

  And that’s all he gon’ ever be.

  Which would explain why all of these clubs and sets that he does amount to no more than a bunch of time-consuming . . . nothing.

  And being the loving and kind, compassionate woman that I am, I tried to be his ride or die.

  But.

  The ride has no more gas. And I don’t wanna die; it’s not my time.

  Straight up, I’m not built for this. I’m used to a château and an English garden. This place was Bates Motel with a personal parking space. And the furniture up in here, dear God, I think it came in a box shipped from Jail-Mart.

  Chile, cheese!

  Boo, please!

  Honey, I need my luxurations back! I craved my three-feet-high, with handcrafted mahogany steps, four-poster, king-size bed.

  I needed to roll around on my twenty-two-karat, 2,000 thread-count Italian linen. Take steamy showers beneath my gold rainspout without worrying the hot water would run out.

  And my chef! Dear God, I missed my chef! I was dying for a taste of strawberry crepes, goose eggs with Gouda, and my diamond-studded pimpette cup filled with beer-mosas in the mornings!

  Dear diary, I just needed to click my heels and bounce.

  I loved Justice, but there was no justice in this relationship. Clearly, I was the prize, and he was winning, but where did that leave me?

  I was upstanding.

  Classy.

  Elegant.

  Graceful.

  A lady.

  Meant to be taken special care of.

  Not some ratchet thot born to live in the hood-swamp with Dr. Welfare. Which was why I didn’t know how long I could do this. And usually I wouldn’t dump one boy until I had another to take his place. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and in a minute, I was gon’ send out a social media SOS and change my relationship status from “Booed-Up” to “Need to be freed from bondage.”

  “Baby,” poured from behind me.

  My heart thumped. I jumped and slammed my diary shut. I turned around to face Justice, who stood along the side of the bed, with a white towel wrapped around his waist and another one draped behind his neck and over his shoulders. I used to melt like butter when my chocolate thug-daddy stood before me, practically naked with his eight-pack gleaming and his pipe print bulging. Now I was aggravated. “Are you for real?”

  He arched a brow, clearly taken aback. “For real about what?”

  I twisted the lock on my diary and slid it into the nightstand drawer. “Why are you sneaking up on me?”

  “How I’ma sneak up on you in my crib?” he asked, annoyed.

  Boy, bye, this is not a crib; this is a cradle. “Look, what is it? Wassup? What do you want?”

  Justice paused and completely took me in, from my sleeveless and oversized gray Gucci T-shirt and gray Gucci jeans to my bare feet. He looked over at the clock: 11:30 a.m. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Out.”

  “Out where?”

  “Outside.”

  He folded his arms across his chest, and his pecs pumped, like they always did when he was pissed. He took a step into my personal space, then took the tip of his index finger and mushed it into my forehead. “Wassup with you? All week you’ve been laid up in here with a funky attitude.”

  I pushed his finger away and spat, “I don’t have an attitude.”

  “Really?” He arched a brow and pumped his pecs again. “Then what would you call it?”

  Pissed off. Frustrated. Tired of you being broke, busted, and disgusted.

  He carried on, “And in case you forgot, you can’t afford to be catching no attitude with me.”

  “Bzzzz, annnnnt, wrong answer, because an attitude is the one thing I can afford. Can you say the same?”

  He hesitated. “What are you tryna say?”

  “I’m not trying to say anything, I said it.”

  “Yo,” he snorted, “are you tryna call me broke on the low?”

  “I didn’t whisper.” I rolled my eyes.

  He arched one brow, then the other. “Last I checked, you ain’t have no dough. Yo’ fat ass didn’t have a job, and no place else to go. So from what I see, you need me. Not the other way around.” He snorted and mushed his index finger into my forehead again. “Gon’ call me broke. For real, for real, you need to learn to watch your mouth and get your mind right. Because what you about to catch is these hands.”

  “Boy, bye, puhlease. We both got hands!”

  He narrowed his eyes, and his gaze burned through me. “You better shut your dumb behind up before I bust you dead in the mouth. I can’t believe you, yo. You really gon’ disrespect me where I pay rent? You ah ungrateful ass trick!”

  “Trick?! Who you calling a trick?! You a trick and your mama and daddy are two tricks!”

  Justice took the palm of his right hand, placed it over my face, and pushed me into the bed. “Say something else about my parents, and see don’t I take my Timb and stomp yo’ mouth shut! Now
try me.”

  Silence.

  “Thought so,” he said.

  “Whatever.” I mumbled.

  “Didn’t I tell you to shut up?!” He stepped into my personal space, like he was looking for a reason to put his boot in my face.

  I pushed him back and stood up. “Move!”

  He reared a closed fist back, and immediately I ducked. He huffed, then put his hand down and said, “Know what, before I end up bustin’ yo’ fat nasty behind, I’ma do you a favor and step.” He snatched a pair of True Religion jeans and a red T-shirt off the edge of the bed. “And to think I wanted to take you lunch today, but you know what, screw yo’ retarded ass. You don’t need to eat anyway.” He threw on his clothes and slid his feet into a pair of worn Timbs.

  I jumped up and blocked the doorway. “Where are you running off to, to see London? Kaareema, huh? Some slum-slut?! So we get in an argument, and you wanna run to the side ho?”

  “Move, Rich!”

  “No.”

  “A’ight.” He brushed past me, causing me to stumble backward. I didn’t fall, though. I caught my balance, turned around, and grabbed the back of his shirt.

  He pushed me, and this time I fell to the floor. I hopped back up, and he snatched me by the collar. “Don’t make me slap the ish out of you, yo! You think this is a game? You think I’m playing with you, yo? I’m laid up in here living with you, claiming you, loving you, and you’re trippin’ on me?! You buggin’. Instead of being worried about some side jawn, you need to take your fat behind and look for a job. ’Cause you eat up everything in here, you can’t cook, and you don’t clean. So the least you can do is stop stressing me and bring some money up in this piece! I should turn you out and put you on the track. That’s all you good for anyway!”

  “Justice!”

  He didn’t answer; instead he stormed out the apartment door, slamming it behind him.

  Before I could figure out what to do next, the bell rang. I knew it was Gary, my old driver. I’m sure Logan sent him for me.

  I snatched open the door and said, “Hey, Gary . . . I just need . . . a minute.” I paused.

  “Hey, Richie-Poo.”

  Dear goddess of all things surprise, what in the black Jesus was this?