I run my hands over my dress and adjust the belt one more time, then put on a wide grin as Daddy walks up. Just as I step forward, three other tall, slinky women in tight dresses and weaves down their backs step in front of me—one of them over me and on my foot—and begin calling Daddy’s name. I instinctively reach down to rub my violated pinky toe, which is throbbing after being stabbed by the groupie’s razor-sharp stiletto, but instead I lose my footing and stumble forward onto the floor, taking one of the groupies with me. We end up in a heap of chiffon and silk—when I look up, Daddy is being ushered up the stairs by VIP bouncers, while some of his boys, straggling behind him, fall out in hysterics. I’m so embarrassed I wish that I could turn into a pool of liquid and melt into the parquet floor.
“Damn, Daddy—get your girls,” one of his boys says to no one in particular.
“They ain’t none of Daddy’s girls,” another says, looking down and shaking his head, barely containing his giggles.
I scramble to my feet and adjust my dress. “Actually, he asked me to come here,” I say, trying my best to be charming in such an awkward situation.
“Please, he asked all of us to be here,” counters one of the groupies, a stunning light-skinned sister with hazel eyes and long auburn hair, as she steps in front of me. “How about we go get to know each other better?” she says slyly to Daddy’s boy.
He looks her up and down, and then does the same to me, as if we are on an auction block and he is considering whether to bid. “Turn around, let me see something,” he says, raising his chin to the groupie roadkill. She happily obliges—with a damn smile. By now, my mouth is agape. “Dih-zayum! Ay, Lou! Baby got back!” he yells, signaling to his friend. “Yeah, why don’t you come on up here to Daddy’s house and make it a home,” he says, grabbing her hand. She practically skips up the steps toward him, and tosses me a wink for good measure. “Maybe next time,” she offers.
“Damn, girl,” another one of the groupies calls out to me nastily. “Watch where you goin’ next time—ruined my VIP move. Shit, now I gotta wait for Snoop or somebody to roll up in here. Damn.”
My mouth still open, I watch her slink off with the other groupie girl in tow. I hadn’t noticed it, but once I look around and make note of who is standing in the area, I realize that I’ve positioned myself near the bar, in what can easily be taken for the groupie bench—where all the women who want to hook up with celebrities stand, hoping to get “chosen” for VIP treatment. I mentally picture myself kicking my own ass for not thinking of that before I stood over there. For not getting confirmation from Daddy before I showed up at this godforsaken place. For even coming. I could be at home, watching Law and Order and having a bag of Pop Secret popcorn. But no, I’m here, being embarrassed and dismissed like I am one of the dregs of the L.A. party scene—nothing but a buy-her-a-dinner-at-Roscoe’s-and-get-all-the-ass-you-want groupie ho. My bad, I’m not even that in Daddy’s boys’ eyes—I’m the fat friend of the groupie ho. Nothing worse than that. I don’t know whether I should be grateful or pissed. I settle on pissed.
“Um, everything okay here?”
My eyes follow the voice, but I know already who it is. As if Daddy’s boys haven’t already practically painted a neon FOOL across my forehead, here is the man I’ve gotten all gussied up for, standing in front of me, presumably having seen me get played. With the blonde. I am speechless. But what was I gonna tell him—I used a chunk of his child support on an overpriced piece of cloth and left my child at home with a sitter and a frozen pizza dinner so I could come out and make him jealous? I had no words.
“Viv,” Sean said, leaning in a little closer. “Everything okay?”
“Um, yeah,” I mumble. “Everything’s fine.”
He looks me up and down like he is checking me out, but his eyebrows are furled, so it isn’t a “good” checking me out. It’s a “damn— what the hell is going on with you” checking me out. “Was that Young Daddy MC going up the stairs?”
“Yes,” I say, hoping that one-word answers will make him disappear.
“You know him?”
“Not really,” I say.
“Why were you trying to go upstairs with him—you working on a story or something?” he asks. Just as he does, the blonde reaches for his hand and signals to him that there is an opening at the bar. I guess the trick wants a drink.
“Why are you with her—you looking for another client?” (I know, I know—perfectly venomous, but hey, he took me there.)
She shoots me a look (clearly, white girls in L.A. are getting bolder by the minute—I know this heifer didn’t just roll her eyes at me), and I shoot her one right back, then focus again on Sean.
“I don’t think that’s really any of your concern,” Sean says tartly.
“Well, what I’m doing here is really none of your concern either, but that didn’t stop you from asking, now did it?” I respond nastily.
“Whatever, Viv,” he says, signaling to the blonde to head with him back over to the bar. He doesn’t say another word; all I see is his back. I am so livid at how horribly wrong everything has gone I actually consider walking over there and beating her ass—you know, as consolation. Just as I’m debating whether showing up in tomorrow’s gossip pages is worth my chance to show this blonde how we get down in the ’hood, someone taps me on my shoulder.
“What!” I say nastily, before I even turn around to see who it was.
“Reporter lady,” Daddy says, a smile spreading across his lips. “You made it!”
I was so busy focusing on Sean and the blonde that I hadn’t seen Daddy come back down the stairs, and so he kind of took me by surprise. I am not quite in the mood to talk to him, particularly since he’d left me hanging while his boys summarily dismissed me. My greeting is tepid at best. “Hey,” I say, uninspired.
“My assistant tried to ring you up but she said she couldn’t get through,” he says, still enthusiastic and not quite catching on to my attitude. “I knew you’d get your way in here, though. I’m glad you came.”
“Oh really?” I ask. “Didn’t seem like that when you pushed through here and your boys snatched up some of these girls to give you some VIP company,” I respond, nodding to the bevy of beauties who had started to crowd us while we talked. One actually put her hands on his shoulder in an effort to get his attention. To his credit, he doesn’t pay her any mind. He focuses only on me.
“Why don’t you come upstairs and have a glass of champagne?” he says. “It’s getting a little crowded down here, if you know what I mean.”
His mentioning liquor makes me look over toward the bar and I remember the reason I’m standing in the middle of this club on a Thursday night in the first place. The beauty of it all is that Sean is staring dead in my mouth when I finally spot him curled around a Heineken, his bimbo trying her best to get him to focus on her. I milk my moment for all it’s worth.
“Sure, sure, let’s go upstairs for a drink,” I say.
“Okay—I just have to go to the bathroom before we head up. I hate that about this club—no bathroom in the VIP. What’s the point of VIP if you gotta break up your buzz and run the groupie gauntlet to take a leak?” he shrugs.
“Yeah, awful design,” I say, trying to pretend like I know what he’s talking about and am actually paying attention. I’m really trying to see whether Sean is still watching us. He is. “How about I wait for you by the bar until you come back? They’re not going to let me up in VIP unless I look like one of the groupies you invited up.”
“Fo sho,” he says, “but you ain’t no groupie, so let’s get that straight right now.”
“Yes, let’s,” I shoot back.
“But you sure wearin’ that dress,” he says. “Not in a groupie kinda way, though,” he stammers, trying to back off the oomph he gave his remark, which made my brows furl. “I meant it’s beautiful, and you look tasteful, not like some of these other birds.”
“Birds, huh? I’m just going to go over here and wait by the ba
r,” I say, laughing at his attempt to get back into my good graces. “You go on ahead and do what you have to do. But do it quick; I’m thirsty.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, saluting me before walking away.
I saunter over to the bar and squeeze in a few bodies away from Sean and the blonde. I have to keep telling myself not to look over in his direction, but my peripheral vision is in full effect. Sean is burning a hot hole in my profile, and the blonde is burning a hot hole in his ear, no doubt trying to get him to stop looking at me. Finally, he gets out of his seat and walks over toward me. I brace myself and try to come up with something to say. But he doesn’t stop. He just stares at me as he walks by, the blonde following close behind. He’s halfway out the door when Daddy returns, a group of girls in tow.
“Reporter lady—you ready?” he asks. “Let’s get outta here.”
And with that, I follow him up the stairs.
If Amaya were standing in front of me, I would plant a sloppy wet one square on her cheek.
7
TRISTA
I snap my cell phone shut and tuck it back into the plastic clip attached to the waistband of my nylon running shorts, then kick my Nike Cross Trainers up in the air.
“Yes!” I squeal. A pair of joggers making their way along the Santa Monica pier turn to look at me. I raise my water bottle in a mock toast to myself and take a long sip. If I wasn’t so rhythmically challenged I’d break out in the running man right now.
I had been in the midst of my morning run when a call came in from one of the guys at Paramount. They were trying to attach talent to a new action picture about a Secret Service agent who gets framed for the assassination of the president and must find the real killer to avert a nuclear disaster of apocalyptic proportions. Admittedly the plot is a stretch, but it’s the perfect starring role for Jared. The overseas receipts alone would cement his future—and my partnership. Paramount wants him to come in and read with the already-cast female lead, Kimberly Springfield, to test their onscreen chemistry. I wasn’t psyched to be working with Cassidy’s Oscar competition, but this is the type of action role that could make Jared’s career, in a Will Smith–Men In Black kind of way. Ka-ching! Almost makes working on Saturday worth it.
Just as I finish stretching my legs on one of the weathered wooden benches and cue up my favorite song on the iPod strapped to my arm, Jeff Redd’s “I Found Love,” my cell vibrates. I answer the phone without looking at the caller ID.
“Trista?” It’s my sister Tanisha.
“Oh, hi, Tanisha.” Shit, I wasn’t in the mood to go twelve rounds with my sister today. My call with Paramount had gone well, and I’m scheduled to meet Viv and Amaya for a spa date this afternoon. Turning around on the pier, I head back toward my condo, and brace myself for hurricane Tanisha.
“Hey, yourself” she says as she coughs into the receiver, her voice husky from her morning Newports. A strained pause rests uncomfortably in the silence.
“Is anything wrong?” I ask. “Did you get the check?” I hope the only reason she’s calling is because the monthly check I send her and Daddy to cover the mortgage and expenses on the new house I bought them two years ago has not appeared in her mailbox.
“We got your check,” she snaps between drags on a cigarette.
“How’s Daddy?” I inquire, ignoring the absence of a thank-you and hating myself for not using caller ID for its intended purpose: to send unwanted calls from people like my sister straight to voicemail.
“I know you’re busy,” she says mockingly, “so, I’ll get to the point. The doctor says Daddy needs some tests and Medicaid don’t cover ’em.” Our father has been battling prostate cancer, and over the last six months his health has started to deteriorate.
“Did you make an appointment with the specialist I told you about last month?” I ask with exasperation, knowing the answer to the question already.
“We don’t need no damn specialist; the clinic is fine,” she snaps. “We just need these tests so Dr. Wills can get his diagnosis together.”
“Tanisha, he needs to see a specialist,” I say through gritted teeth. I’m fed up. I’ve been telling my sister that the doctors down at the South Central clinic don’t know what they are doing half the time, and the other half they’re just getting rich off of poor black people by running bogus tests to collect insurance money. Tanisha thought that my giving her the name of the top oncologist at Cedars Sinai, whose name Viv got from Sean, was my way of flaunting my success in her face.
“Look, Tanisha, Daddy isn’t going to get any better unless we get him the appropriate medical care. Dr. Wills is just giving you guys the run-around,” I snap back. “He probably doesn’t even need any tests.”
“Well, well, well, you a doctor, now, too?” she snorts into the phone.
“Of course not.” I rip out the elastic band holding the ponytail on top of my head in frustration and rake my fingers through my hair. “All I’m trying to say is that he needs to see another doctor. A specialist. We can arrange for all of Daddy’s records to be sent over to Dr. Tanya Irby, at Cedars Sinai, and she can give us a more thorough assessment.”
“And I told you, they done all that and more down at the clinic. But of course you know best. I don’t know anything, I’m just your ignorant sister who takes care of Daddy by my damn self while you stop by every once in a while, so don’t tell me what he needs.”
“Tanisha…” I try to interrupt her rant but she cuts me off.
“Forget it, I’ll call Aunt Brenda and them and get the money. We don’t need your help.” She slams down the receiver and the sound makes me jump as if struck.
Snapping my phone shut, I realize that while arguing with Tanisha I’ve made it back to my condo. I leave my dirty sneakers outside before unlocking the French doors and stepping into my living room. I take a deep breath. This beachfront condo I snapped up in a foreclosure auction last year is my sanctuary. Normally, just walking into it puts my mind instantly at peace. It’s been renovated from top to bottom and meticulously decorated with the help of Viv—that girl has a serious eye for what works. My broker tells me I’ve more than doubled the value with the work I’ve done. And the natural palette of soothing creams and beiges, with burnished gold accents, has a calming influence. I run upstairs to my bathroom and turn on the shower, in the hope that its multiple heads will relieve the tension in my neck. As I step inside, I slip on my shower cap, and then flop down on the cold terra-cotta seat built into the shower. No, those powerful jets won’t work their magic today. Tanisha has struck a nerve.
Though born just three years apart, my sister and I were never what anyone would call close. In fact, Mama used to say we didn’t have the sense God gave us to appreciate each other. By the time I came along, TeTe was used to being the only child. She threw a fit every time Mama made her bring me with her when she went out to play. Didn’t matter to me, though. I would just read a book outside until it was time to race home to beat the streetlights coming on.
By the time she hit sixteen, Te was the neighborhood fly girl, sporting a sandy blond asymmetrical bob copied from a Salt ’n’ Pepa video, and with a body shaped like a Coke bottle stuffed into too-tight jeans. Girls envied TeTe and could be heard sucking their teeth and muttering, “She think she cute,” whenever she walked by. Not to mention all the threats to jump her. But the guys? Brothers couldn’t get enough of my sister. They were always buying her presents, so much so that she had a Members Only jacket in damn near every color yet never let me borrow any of them. Guys used to come to pick her up and snicker when they looked at my skinny frame, asking, “You sure you TeTe’s sister?”
When Mama’s drinking got really bad, Daddy (who had never been able to stand up to his wife, let alone his fast-ass daughter) watched as Tanisha used her frequent absences as a license to run wild. She barely graduated high school, and instead of getting a job, she rolled with the Crips in our neighborhood. And then, to no one’s surprise but her own, TeTe got knocked
up by her boyfriend Darnell at age nineteen. When my mother found out about the pregnancy, she threw Tanisha out, over my father’s protests. So Te moved in with Darnell’s family. Once my nephew Tyquan was born, Tanisha begged Darnell to quit the gang life, but he wouldn’t listen. When he got shot over some beef with the Bloods, Tanisha moved back home. She threw out all the blue bandanas and got a job at the post office. She straightened up just in time to watch Mama drink herself to an early grave (she died during my freshman year in college).
I immersed myself in school and only came home occasionally. This served to further piss off my sister, who never missed an opportunity to rag on me. Over the years we’ve managed to remain civil enough to be in the same room on holidays, but nothing more. When Daddy got sick, our relationship became even more strained, as a bleak prognosis, the stress of the clinic’s ineffectiveness, and the complexities of Medicaid policies threatened to overwhelm us both.
Tanisha knows that Aunt Brenda, my dad’s sister, and her broke-ass twin sons Jason and Jamel—thirty-nine years old and still living at home—don’t have a dime to spare for the tests. She knows I’ll send the money.
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