Divas Don't Cry

by Ni-Ni Simone

  “I’m innocent!” Mr. Westwick screamed into the camera as the police dragged him down the stairs.

  “Samantha,” the Janice newscaster said, “what do you think this means for Hollywood High?” She swiped strands of hair out of her face as the wind blew.

  “Well, Janice, we shall see. So far, no one on the board of trustees has been willing to make a statement. But from what I have gathered, the police, along with the FBI, acted on a series of tips from a reliable source who provided the authorities with everything they needed to begin the six-month probe leading to Westwick’s arrest.”

  I pursed my lips. Then licked them. This was so juicy. Ooh, I loved me some juicy tea.

  “Thanks, Samantha,” Janice said. “Now back to you, Julie . . .”

  “Swiiiiiiiing looooooooow, goshdiggity-danggit. Sweeeeeeet . . .”

  “In other news,” bleach-blond Julie said. “Los Angeles County detectives seized more than twenty-five hundred packets of heroin, along with six thousand pills, including oxycodone, Xanax, Adderall. Also seized were steroids, one loaded handgun, and nearly one hundred thousand dollars in cash . . .”

  In back of the reporter was an inset photo of Co-Co Ming and some tall, dark, chunky hunk of chocolate dipped in lots of heavy gold jewelry.

  I tilted my head, and smirked. Mmmph.

  “Co-Co Ming, son of five-star Sushi King, Ying Ming, was arrested late last night along with Kevar Reynolds—known as Dope Boy—in what authorities call a major California drug raid. The arrests took place at an abandoned warehouse, where the two men sold and manufactured dangerous street drugs to teens across the southern and northern regions of California . . .”

  “Dope pushers,” I hissed. “Dream killers!” And then I did a little nasty hip twirl and pumped my pelvis as I popped my fingers and sang, “Shut ’em down, shut-shut-shut-shut . . . ’em down . . .” I bent over and made my buttery-soft flapjacks smack.

  Heeheehee.

  The newscaster continued, “Authorities executed several search warrants throughout Los Angeles County as the result of the eight-month-long investigation. Investigators seized numerous drugs from multiple locations . . .”

  “Serves you right,” I spat at the television as the reporter stated that Co-Co and his cohort were both charged with possession of controlled dangerous substances and possession with intent to distribute. And they were both being housed at the Los Angeles County jail on million-dollar bails.

  Mmmph.

  I’d seen and heard enough. My charity work was done. I reached for the remote and clicked the power off. I had dropped three nickels and two dimes on those two drug-dealing coots. Shut their little candy shop right on down. They were lucky I hadn’t greeted them with a canister of Mace and my two besties, nun and chuk, before doing them in.

  Mmmph. Co-Co should have been charged with attempted murder after what happened to Heather. God! Heather—I shook my head, placing a hand up over my aching chest... It was too painful to even think about her. Her accident was horrible.

  I cried like a—

  “Damn, bae,” RJ said, snatching me from my thoughts, walking up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist. “You did that. You ruthless, baby.”

  I giggled. “Mmm-hmm. I sure am. Don’t test my gangster.”

  He grinned, dipping his head low and planting a warm juicy kiss on my neck. “Remind me never to get on your bad side,” he teased.

  “Oh, you’ll be wise to remember,” I playfully warned, looking up at him. “That’s if you want to keep your man parts intact.”

  “Ouch, bae. Daaaaaayum.” He kissed me on the neck again, then nipped at my ear. “You drive me wild.”

  I slammed my fatty-pack into his groin and giggled. “And I’m about to drive you wildly into the mattress.”

  “Then let’s do—”

  Rihanna’s “Man Down” interrupted RJ. I rolled my eyes, glancing over at my cell phone. It was Kitty. No, heeheehee—she wasn’t calling from a jail cell. Although that was probably where that wild cougar needed to be—off the streets, caged and away from the playgrounds where she stalked her eighteen-and-up prey.

  “I just shot a man down . . .” rang out again.

  I sighed. Kitty was still my mother, so I stayed loving and kind. That horrid night after she’d spilled her raggedy guts out to me, I shouldn’t have called the police on her; tattling on her would have not only ruined her, but Heather’s mother too—and, most importantly, me.

  When the police showed up, ringing the gate buzzer, I’d had to scramble around the house, smear my clawed-up face with face cream, wrap myself in a robe, then peer through the surveillance screen and tell them that it was one big mistake. That I’d thought Kitty was missing, but that I’d found her out in the pool house, drunk and passed out.

  I wasn’t one for telling lies, but one teensie-weensie lie to avoid public scandal was okay. Right?

  Anywho, anyhow, anyway...

  Kitty was back to being her messy self. And I promised to keep her horrible secret between us. I hadn’t even mentioned it to RJ, my boo—because it’s none of his beeswax. Besides, sometimes a girl had to keep a few secrets to herself.

  Now moving along . . .

  Oh, what’s going on with me?

  Heeheehee.

  Well, you know. I’m starting my freshman year at the University of Oxford, majoring in law and international economics, while I host my own gossip-talk show Sip the Tea, airing on the Kitty Network next fall. It was Kitty’s gift to me for not dragging her secret through the media. Besides, she thought being messy was my calling.

  And the best part about of this was the fact that I’d be closer to RJ, while he headed up the A&R department for his father’s label, Grand Entertainment—their UK division. Mr. Montgomery was grooming my sugar-boo-boo to take over the reins in the next few years, while he and RJ’s mother traveled (eye roll!). That lady was already a well-traveled road, but I wasn’t messy. So I wasn’t going to spill tea on the queen of Ratville. But, ooh, I was so proud of my sexy chocolate-drop boo-daddy. Heeheehee. Besides, you had to know I didn’t trust any of them British scallywag ho-dogs to not try to get their paws on my man’s meat stick. Not on my watch.

  I came prepared. Armed with a purse full of arsenal—brass knuckles, mace, nunchuks, darts, and my trusted jeweled flyswatter. I’d swat a hooka down if I had to over my RJ. Heeheehee. Ooh, Rich hated me more than ever, now that she knew RJ and I were madly in love. And I loved every second of her haterade. She really couldn’t help herself. Hateful was that man-eater’s middle name.

  Rihanna sang out again. I frowned. And this time I pressed IGNORE.

  Daddy passed on four months ago. I missed him. But I was relieved that he’d made his way up to those pearly gates in the sky. I didn’t know the man he’d become. And he dang sure didn’t know me. So saying bye was bittersweet. But I had my trust fund, and I had the boy of my dreams. I was young, rich, and in love. And I was on my way to becoming the next force to be reckoned with.

  So watch out, world. Spencer Ellington, the Ace of Spades of Messy, is coming to get you!

  Rich

  “This way! That way! Look here! Look there! Stand straight! Yes, baby, come through for the camera! Come through, doll!” shouted Valentino, my celebrity photographer, as he whizzed from one side of the eighteenth-century ballroom to the other.

  Click!

  Flash!

  Went the buzz of Valentino and his many assistants’ cameras, followed by the shuffling of their feet as they angled for the best heat. Which of course was me, dressed in a custom-made Marchesa. A champagne-colored, strapless mermaid gown that gripped every ounce of my double melon-D’s, my round middle, and my curvaceous hips, then swept into a bustling bottom and a fifty-foot train.

  Yassss, bish, this Hollywood diva had arrived, and I was on my grown woman grind!

  Click!

  Flash!

  And it doesn’t matter what you may have heard, or what any of those other
wannabes Spencer, London, or Heather may have already said or will open their lying mouths to say about me, I was still queen. I still reigned supreme. And I was the greatest success story Hollywood High’s Pampered Princesses had ever seen.

  And yeah, over the course of my high school years, you may have witnessed me as the sacrificial lamb, surrounded by phony friends. Disloyal relatives. Liars. Deadbeats. Users. Fake news. Even those who tried to strip me of my beauty... but no more.

  Why?

  ’Cause God was good, honey! And black Jesus was not to be slept on! Now touch your neighbor and tell ’em that!

  The last anyone knew of me, I was spotted under Justice’s feet and left for dead. My nose was broken, my eye sockets fractured, and my right jaw collapsed. My face was a devastating bloody explosion.

  I had to have emergency reconstructive surgery. And two days later, when I came to, I had one good eye I could flutter open . . . and are you ready for this? . . . I opened that eye and, honey, there was Logan holding a baby!

  “Mommy,” I asked, “whose baby is that?”

  Before she could answer, the doctor rushed to my bedside and said, “Well, well, young lady. We are glad to see you have come around. You are quite a lucky young woman. And by the way, congratulations, you had a baby girl.” He said this in a casual tone, like he’d just told me it was sunny outside.

  “Lies and deceit!” I screamed. “I didn’t bring no baby in here with me!” I looked over at my mother and asked her in a more forceful tone than before, “Whose dang baby is that?!”

  “Calm down, Richie-Poo.” She walked over to me and said, “Rich Gabrielle Montgomery, meet your daughter.” She pulled the receiving blanket completely out of the baby’s face. The baby looked to be at least eight pounds, with smooth milk chocolate skin and a full Afro of thick black curls. “Oh, Rich!” My mother gleamed.

  All I could think was that I had died and was in the twilight zone part of hell. “Maybe you’re not hearing me, but I did not come in here with no baby! I came in here with a footprint across my face, no eyes, and a missing jaw!’

  I did my best to sit up in bed. “Shakeesha,” I said, “you have already been in the slammer, and you know about that three-strike rule, don’t you? So you better take that baby back where you got her from.”

  “Rich, you didn’t know you were pregnant?” the doctor asked, now sounding concerned.

  I snapped. “How the heck was I supposed to know I was pregnant?! I never been full pregnant before, just a little pregnant, so, no, I didn’t know.” Now all of my weight gain, heartburn, and cravings made sense. Still, I couldn’t believe it.

  But.

  The more I stared at the baby, the more I knew she was mine. She had my eyes, my mouth, my hair, and my dimpled cheeks.

  “Is Justice her father?” Logan asked.

  “Yes.” I rolled my eyes, pissed that here I was on my sick and shut-in bed and my own mother had called me a ho on the low. Instead of poppin’ off, though, I held out my arms and asked to hold my daughter.

  After my baby, who I named Rich Gabrielle Montgomery Number Two, of course, and I got out of the hospital, I found out that Justice had been arrested and the state of California had charged him with aggravated assault and battery for what he’d done to me. And to think I loved Justice. But he was a sick boy who needed help, my help. And I did just that.

  I helped him go to jail by pressing charges, testifying, and doing my best to make sure the book was thrown at him. Which the court didn’t do. All the judge did was find him guilty, bang her gavel, and sentence him to three years of boot-camp time. But not once did Justice get hit with a book, which completely pissed me off!

  I got over it, though.

  Besides, I had more important things to worry about, like my newborn chocolate sunshine.

  Life was different, but I adjusted to being a mommy.

  I also got my snap back. With the help of my bariatric surgeon, I lost a hundred pounds naturally. And thanks to my glam squad, cocoa-butter, and my plastic surgeon, all the scars left by Justice stepping on me were removed from my face, and my skin was cleared.

  After seeing how I had bloomed, my mother, who finally got her mind right and became my bestie, taught me the score on how to get in heaven’s door and turn my life over to God’s loving and tender touch.

  Rewind that: turn my life over to the mega super star, televangelist, make T. D. Jakes look like a traveling Wednesday tent, dumb-stupid and filthy-rich God’s Loving and Healing Touch’s founder and senior pastor’s only child, Otis Stackhouse. The Otis Stackhouse, the one with three capital eyes behind his name. How boss is that, baby!

  Chile, cheese!

  Boo, please!

  And how did I snag him?

  Well... a tigress never panty-drops and tells. But I’ll give you a little hint. Three months into the judge breaking me and Justice up, or something like that, I met Otis Three Eyes at his daddy’s church and found out that our fathers grew up in Compton together and knew one another.

  And that convo led to another, and on to another, and on to one lovely Sunday afternoon stroll that ended with him calling my name and clawing my back to heaven.

  A month later I found out I was pregnant—with twins!

  Bingo!

  My mother said for once that I had knocked something out the park, baby! Two homeruns at once.

  Otis had to marry me and, as per his daddy, quickly. Otis also agreed to adopt my little pudding-poo Richie Number Two and be her new daddy.

  Yasssss, honey!

  I was now the soon-to-be Rich Gabrielle Montgomery-Stackhouse, with three capital eyes behind my name.

  And so what if this was a forced marriage with a little under-cover sin mixed in! I didn’t give a damn!

  I was on my way to being wholesome!

  Plus, Otis loved me. And on top of that, I’d finally made my parents proud. My daddy said he was happy to give me away, and my mother said she had faith that her legacy was finally safe.

  And so, a year later, after Justice tried to do me, the double doors of the ballroom opened, I stepped over the threshold of my new Humbly Hills estate, and onto the white sands of my private beach.

  There were hundreds of guests seated in white-fabric-covered chairs, on both sides of a hand-sewn and embroidered runner.

  And with all eyes and camera flashes focused on me, my daddy and I walked arm and arm toward my perfect and well-played destiny.

  London

  Milan, Italy

  “London, darling,” my mother’s voice rang out, “isn’t this exciting?” She gripped my shoulders and then pulled me into a tight embrace. “I’m so happy for you, my darling.” She kissed me on the cheek. And then took a step back. “You look beautiful, darling.”

  “Thank you,” I said, smiling at her.

  “London, love! Save the chitchat for later!” yelled one of the assistants, flamboyantly clapping his hands to move me along. “Let’s go! Showtime in fifteen!”

  “Well, my darling London,” my mother said, “I’ll let you get to it. See you on the runway.” Then with one last hug, she was gone.

  It was Fashion Week. And, yes, I was back. Right back where I said I never wanted to be again. But here I was, a slinky pink dress (part of Valentino’s Pretty in Pink collection) being pulled over my head and down over my hips.

  Ready to hit the runway.

  I had nothing left back in the States. No life. No real friends. And no real purpose, just lots of painful memories. So right after graduation from Hollywood High, I packed my things and flew to Milan, never looking back.

  Anderson and I, well . . . we eventually had our talk. Unfortunately, there was no reconciliation. And, interestingly, I was okay with that. Finally. Besides, I was seeing—sort of, kind of—someone else. Devon Blade. He’d recently signed a fifteen-million-dollar contract to play for the Portland Trailblazers. Who woulda known? I’d truly had no clue. Still, he wasn’t Anderson. But he was the next best thing. And he was g
ood to me. And like my mother had once told me when I hadn’t wanted to be with Anderson: “You will learn to love him.” And she was right. I was learning how to do exactly that. Love him.

  As for my parents, let’s see. They were still not divorced (shaking my head!). After having my bat-wielding, window-smashing meltdown, I’d swung the bat at Rich’s mother, to only end up bashing out her car’s headlight. She and I fought. She’d won, of course, because there was no way I was going to beat an ex-gang-banging street rat. And, yes, she and Mr. Montgomery were still married. She’d made it very clear that she wasn’t leaving him. In fact, I’d learned (okay, overheard) later on that he’d been the one who encouraged her to go out and find her a side piece to keep herself busy and out of his face. Wow. Adults were sometimes more crazy than we were.

  As for the recording of her and my father, well . . . I still had it. I wasn’t sure why I held onto it as a memento, but I did. Anyway, after Rich’s mother attacked me, things with her and my father became, well . . . strained . . . as he claimed.

  Whatever. She would always be a man-stealing whore in my eyes.

  “Places, dolls! We’re live in five, four, three, two . . .”

  It was almost time for the show to start. The atmosphere was crazy tense, but thrilling. Excitement and nervous energy hung in the air like a glittering lariat.

  My mother had been right. This was my world. This was where I belonged.

  On the runway, in front of the cameras . . . right smack in the spotlight.

  Not for bad press—even though bad press sometimes came with the territory, but for the publicity and—yes, for the attention.

  Rich, Spencer, Heather, and I were all attention whores for different reasons, and we all sought it in different ways.

  For me, it was the runway.

  I couldn’t speak for the rest of the so-called Pampered Princesses. But I was a princess. And I was pampered. However, I never needed to be in a clique, with a group of girls who defined themselves by a title. Pampered Princesses.