Divas Don't Cry

by Ni-Ni Simone

  Speaking of which, Rich and I were finally speaking—cordial to one another was more like it, but speaking nonetheless. Her daughter was adorable. I’d seen all the pictures of her on Instagram and Twitter all glammed—no, we still weren’t social media friends again. She was “friends” with one of my aliases, Rokeeta. Nevertheless, I was truly happy for her, even though I still couldn’t imagine her being trusted with a baby. The idea of Rich ever caring for anyone other than herself was frightening. Still, I’d reached out to her after she’d had the baby. And, for once, we were able to have a civil conversation. I apologized for everything that had happened between us. She didn’t, of course. And I hadn’t expected her to. Rich was Rich.

  You could fill in all the blanks for yourselves.

  I was done with the mean-girl life.

  Spencer, well . . . she was still crazy as ever. But, at least, we’d found a way to dislike each other without being disrespectful toward one another. I think. Distance away from her was definitely for the best, even if that old saying “Out of sight, out of mind” didn’t seem to apply. Spencer still “checked in” on me, as she liked to call it. I NEED TO MAKE SURE YOU’RE NOT DANCING WITH THE GRIM REAPER AGAIN, TRAMP, were her text messages to me once a week. Maybe she cared, in her own strange, annoyingly twisted way.

  Or not.

  Heather?

  Oh, right. Heather. Well, after her tragic accident, we’d found—surprise, surprise—a way to put our differences to the side. I’d visited her in the hospital twice and sent flowers to her. I even apologized to her for judging her without ever giving myself a chance to get to know her. I was wrong for that. Turned out, she was really a cool girl. And funny. Who knew, maybe she and I would be able to be—um, on second thought. Nah. We really had nothing in common.

  I blinked as several shoulders jostled me. No one apologized or gave a second glance. I didn’t take offense. The madness wasn’t personal.

  “Let’s go, ladies! Three minutes to showtime!” someone called out, and everyone started shoulder-bumping anyone who was in their way, out of the way as they scrambled to take their places.

  I smiled, my eyes quickly sweeping around the organized chaos. Pouty-lipped models fluttered around the tent changing, while hair people, makeup people, and assistants buzzed around, preparing to transform us.

  I took my place in the back of the line. God, I was so different from when I’d taken this spot the last time. I’d been so broken. I definitely wasn’t that same girl, thanks to my therapist. Yes, I was still in therapy—well, via Skype these days.

  But—

  I blinked back to the present as another model stumbled off the stage, rushing to get changed for her next outfit. There were now only two girls ahead of me.

  Dr. Kickaloo kept me grounded. She reminded me that we—Rich, Spencer, Heather, and I—were simply overindulged teenaged girls, all casualties of Hollywood, of the glitz and glitter. All addicted to the fame and the spotlight. Cursed by our birthrights.

  As I stood among all the beautiful models, I found my breath and slowly exhaled. Yes. This was truly my world, my life, where I belonged.

  Back straight. Chin lifted. Hip jutted forward. I stepped out from behind the curtain, focused on the photographers at the end of the runway. In my peripheral, I saw the people lining the edges of the stage—fashionistas and bloggers.

  Flashbulbs went off, nearly blinding me. Yet I pushed through the white lights and served my signature strut down the catwalk. And this time, as I turned my head left and right so the photographers could get their pictures of me, I didn’t have to pretend to be someone I wasn’t.

  I was fly, fine, and fabulous. A trendsetter. A diva. Born in London. Cultured in Paris. Molded in New York. A transplanted by-product of Hollywood High.

  I was London Phillips.

  A famous runway model.

  Heather

  Don’t be nervous . . . you got this...

  Deep breath in.

  Deep breath out.

  Now go . . .

  “Hello, my name is . . .”

  I froze.

  Solid.

  My heart thundered, and my stomach dropped to my feet. Here I was, in the center of this packed room, looking and now feeling like I had two stones stuffed deep in my cheeks.

  I couldn’t do it.

  But I had to.

  It was the only way I’d truly be able to say, “Eff this shit. I’ve been carrying it around for way too long . . .”

  There were at least fifty pairs of eyes on me.

  I tapped the arms of my chair and eased out two breathing techniques. Hell, I needed something to shake my anxiety. I wasn’t ready, but I was ready, if you know what I mean.

  I looked to my left and surprisingly spotted Spencer. Then I looked to my right and spotted Camille. Camille smiled, a real smile. One that was proud. She winked, then took her right hand and lifted her chin: a sign for me to hold my head up high and be strong enough to tell everyone just who I was.

  I closed my eyes and began, “Hello, my name is Heather, and I’m an addict.” I exhaled, opened my eyes, and felt as if a ton of bricks had tumbled off my shoulders.

  “Hello, Heather,” everyone said, practically in unison, “Welcome.”

  I drank in another deep breath and blew it out. I continued, “Umm . . . I’m not sure where to start or where to end, but I’m going to do my best.”

  “Take your time,” someone yelled out, and it brought about a calming chuckle from the crowd.

  I said, “For as long as I can remember, I’ve either been drinkin’, snortin’, smokin’, or poppin’ something. I’ve never had one particular moment that I can pinpoint and say, ‘Yeah, that’s it. That’s the first time I got lit. Or that’s the high I’ve been chasing. As far back as I can remember I was sippin’ my mother’s scotch, sniffin’ crazy glue, Listerine, cough syrup, crushing Sudafed, smoking weed, snortin’ black beauty, bath salt, Xanax. You name it, and I have turned up on it.

  “And sure, people would look at me and say, ‘You got it all. Fame and fortune, and people at your beck and call.’ But the truth is, those people I hung with didn’t give a damn about me.

  “My fortune came and went, mostly went. And my fame, mmmph.” I shook my head. “The only thing fame did for me was make me a well-known junkie with no place to hide.

  “Truth is, I had nothing. My mother was an abusive alcoholic who berated me, and my father pretended I didn’t exist.

  “Well, one day, I got tired of the bullshit and decided that I was going to confront my father and let him know that I would no longer be ignored. So I stormed into his office. And you know what he did? He sat there, listened to me, and then told me he had nothing for me, called me reckless and a junkie. Then he told me to leave. When I wouldn’t go, he had two of his security guards drag me out of his office and ban me from coming back.

  “I was hurt, enraged, and out of my mind! I think I snorted five lines and took off for the wind, trying to outrun the sky, I guess. I raced up the highway, around curves, sped up the mountain, swerved in and out of lanes—and all of this on an open highway. There was this car in front of me, going too slow. I whipped around it, and by the time I spotted the eighteen-wheeler, it was too late.

  “I woke up three months later with third-degree burns on my back, a broken femur, two shattered knees, an injured spine, and I couldn’t feel my legs. That’s how I ended up in this wheelchair.

  “For months, I just wanted to die. Many nights I would think about how I needed to end my life. Would I blow out my brains or take a bottle of sleeping pills?

  “But God had the last say. One of those low days, my mother, Camille, came to me and said, ‘That’s it. My drinking and your drugging has to end. We can’t keep living like this. I won’t have you give up. I love you and I need you. And I know that we can do this.’

  “That was the first time my mother had ever said that to me. She asked me then if I would go to rehab, and I agreed. We’ve both been
clean and sober for six months, three weeks, and two days.”

  The audience clapped and I felt like . . . like I could conquer the world!

  I continued, “God has really blessed us. And just so you know, some mysterious donor—who I don’t think is really all that mysterious—gave us fourteen million dollars . . . But more than money, we have each other, we have our sobriety and are able to live our lives the way they’re supposed to be.”

  The crowd erupted into a furious applause.

  “So anyway, I won’t go on and on, I just wanted to tell you a little bit about me and let you all know that no matter how cold the world may seem, and no matter your circumstances, it’s never too late to turn your life around and be whoever you want to be!

  “Just look at me!”

  DON’T MISS

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  All sixteen-year-old Yvette Simmons wanted was to disappear. Problem is: She has too many demons for that. Yvette’s life changed forever after a street fight ended in a second-degree murder charge. Forced to start all over again, she’s sentenced to live far from anything or anyone she’s ever known. She manages to keep her past hidden, until a local cutie, known as Brooklyn, steps in. Will he give her the year of her dreams, or will Yvette discover that nothing is as it seems?

  Chasing Butterflies by Amir Abrams

  At sixteen, gifted pianist and poet Nia Daniels has already known her share of heartache. But despite the pain of losng iher mother and grandmother, she’s managed to excel, thanks to her beloved father’s love and support. Nia can’t imagine what she’d do without him—until an illness suddenly takes him, and she has no choice. And Nia’s in for one more shocking blow. The man who’d always been her rock, her constant, wasn’t her biological dad. Orphaned and confused, Nia is desperate for answers. But what she finds will uproot her from the life she’s always known . . .

  Available wherever books are sold.