Lights, Love & Lip Gloss

by Ni-Ni Simone

  She rolled her eyes, sucking her teeth. “It’s not a bomb, London. Sweetholyjeezus! Somebody come take the wheel! If I wanted to blow you up I would have done it already. Don’t have me mace you up in here. Take the dang gift. Or have your eyes set on fire. The choice is yours.”

  Reluctantly, I took it. Shook it. Then set it beside me on the bed. “Thanks, I guess.”

  She pursed her lips. “I want you out of this bed, London. And back at school. I mean it. I’ll be back tomorrow, and the day after and the day after until. So if you want me out of your face, then you had better get your life back. And stop all this tomfoolery! Trying to like you and be nice to you is too much hotdang work!”

  I blinked. Glanced over at the large gift basket she’d brought with her, which was sitting on my chaise. Then stared at her in disbelief.

  “Oh, and buckle up. I’m bringing Rich with me tomorrow,” she said over her shoulder as she walked toward the door. “Let’s hope she plays nice. But if not . . . heeheeehee . . . you brought it on yourself. Good day, ma’am.”

  With that, Spencer was out the door, leaving me in a cloud of bewilderment as I slid my hand along the creases of my comforter, plucking up a piece of candy and quickly slipping it into my mouth.

  This was a day from hell!

  15

  Rich

  Dear Diary,

  I’m turning over a new leaf today.

  I’m done with dream killers.

  Cuttin’ ’em from my life and moving on.

  Scratch that.

  ’Cause when I die, I want my biographer to serve my Richoids with my forgiving spirit.

  So, let me change it up a bit and add forgiveness.

  Yeah.

  I’ma forgive ’em for tryna do me in.

  Right after I greet half-dead London in her hospital bed, take it to her face, and yank the stitches out of her newly sewn-up wrist, I’ma forgive her for sneaking me and tryna bring me down to her level.

  Thennnn . . . right after I meat-grind Justice’s pubic lifeline, I’ma forgive him too for tryna play me.

  I smiled as I placed my blue Tiffany pen alongside my new pink leather-bound diary, and locked it. Logan will never get her grimy hands on this. And if she does, she’d never guess that the verbal password was My mother is a beyotch.

  Boom!

  “Miss Rich, brunch is served,” my chef announced as he walked through my room and onto my terrace, setting a large silver tray on the café table. He lifted the dome and revealed crispy bacon, strawberry crêpes, piping hot, extra-creamy and -buttery blueberry muffins, and a gouda cheese and eggwhite omelet garnished with chives, sour cream, and cubed tomatoes.

  I swear I love this man. “You’re the best, Chef Jean!”

  “My pleasure.” He smiled and poured me a cup of peppermint tea, dropping in two sugar cubes and a splash of cream.

  As my mouth watered, I took a moment and got my proper lady on; flicked my pink linen napkin into the air and placed it carefully onto my lap.

  “Have a great day!” Chef Jean tossed over his shoulder as he turned to leave.

  I didn’t answer. I was too busy closing my eyes and savoring every bite of my muffin. The butter deliciously sank into my taste buds and glazed my tongue. All I could do was squeeze my thighs and shake my head. It should be illegal for food to taste this freakin’ good. I was officially gettin’ my inner fat girl on! Nothing was better than eating alone, with my eyes closed and head held back.

  Blindly, I placed my fork onto my tray, lifted a forkful of something, and slid it into my mouth.

  Mmm. Cheese omelet.

  Wait. Let me pause and say grace. “Dear God, thank You for the chicken coop where chickens laid their eggs. Thank You for the cow who made the milk. And the farmer who milked the cow! Thank You God for blessing me with this tongue to lap up this bangin’ food! Thank You for the nooks and the crannies of my blueberry muffin. Amen.”

  I opened my eyes and just as I reached for a slice of bacon I spotted my mother standing in my terrace’s doorway, gaze all screwed into me.

  Next time I write in my diary I’ll have to add forgiving this dream killer to the list. Although I really don’t want to. And to think that all week I’ve managed to stay out of her way and avoid her breakfast ritual, where she likes to play Clair Huxtable and her husband sits there like a thugged-out Heathcliff.

  Chile, cheese.

  Bugger boo.

  Boy, bye!

  ’Cause one thing’s for sure and two things for certain. Logan and Richard, the ghetto-hood ex-convicts turned trophy husband and wife are anything but. Which would be exactly why I’ve cut them off. I don’t do fakes, flakes, and I stopped letting phonies kill my vibe.

  I picked up my muffin, took a bite, let the butter gloss my lips, chewed, and swallowed.

  My mother continued to stare.

  I sipped my tea, rolled my eyes, and then said, “Yes.” I swerved my neck to the left and paused it. “May I help. You?”

  She curled her top lip. “Every time I look at you. You disgust me.”

  I blinked.

  Relax. Ignore her. She wants a reaction. Besides, haters never prosper.

  I swallowed the sting of her words and tossed a look over at her that clearly said, Whatever. Then I smiled and took another bite of my muffin.

  She carried on. “I am so sick and tired of you.”

  Unimpressed, unfazed, and unmoved, I lifted a forkful of my omelet, twirled the dripping cheese, placed it into my mouth, chewed slowly, and did my all not to let this thot get to me. ’Cause for-real-for-real I just wanted to be left alone to pursue my dream of eating Chinese food, watching Netflix, and sipping on something bubbly.

  As my mother tapped her foot, I slid a piece of bacon into my mouth and sucked the salt out of it before chewing and swallowing.

  Her tapping became more intense and my eyes dropped down to her feet.

  Flats?

  Where were her heels?

  I looked back up and into her face. For a moment I wondered why she was so project greasy, and then it hit me that she had slapped Vaseline onto her skin. Dear God, she wanted to fight.

  She was so ghetto.

  Like really, did she come in here to boom, bop, and drop me? Her own child?

  I lifted a forkful of my crêpes, and just as I planned to suck the juice out of the strawberry, my mother snatched my tray and slung it over the balcony. I could’ve sworn I heard the pool boy drop. I’ma just pray it landed somewhere in the mountains. She then turned to me, snatched my fork out of my hand, and sent it flying behind the tray.

  My heart dropped and my eyes bulged open while hers became narrow slits, her jaw clenched, and she shoved her face into mine. “I am three minutes past the time I should’ve bashed your skull in and tore your throat out!”

  Stay calm.

  You already know she’s nuts.

  Just try and talk her off the cliff. “Umm, Mother. Did you forget to chase your happy pill with Cirôc today?”

  She tightly gripped my cheeks and I could feel her fingertips pressed into my gums, while her fingernails slightly stabbed my skin. “I will bust you dead in the mouth. Now. The next time you open your lips it better be to tell me how I’m supposed to tell your father that the family ho is knocked up again!”

  What did she say? What did she just call me? Family ho . . . ?

  She continued, “All week long I’ve been tossing and turning and pacing the floor. And all you’ve been doing is eating and getting all of your meals sent and served to you on your terrace like you’re Princess Kate! I don’t know what’s with you and this new bullshit you’re on, but I have not forgotten that you’re pregnant. And I have not forgotten that I told you to put it on Knox. Now, did you do that?!” She flung her hands from my cheeks, causing my head to jerk back and pop forward. She locked onto my gaze and waited for an answer.

  I bit the right side of my cheek and did everything I could not to fly-kick her off the cliff for putting her ha
nds on me! I can’t believe she just came at me all crazy! Put it on Knox? Like word? Really?

  First of all and forever more, I didn’t have to put it on Knox.

  This baby was his.

  Point blank.

  Period.

  I don’t know what time my mother thought it was, but Knox was the only one I let heat it and hit it raw. And the only one I laid and cuddled with, soaking up all his erotic juice.

  Justice never had the privilege or the pleasure to spread his mayonnaise around. I would never let some sidepiece blast up in me.

  Never.

  After Justice and I bit the pillows, clutched the sheets and called God, he always pulled out. And I always jumped up and ran to the bathroom. Peed. And flushed any little sneaky erotic bubble guts that may have crept up in me.

  Therefore I was not about to let my mother—of all people—play me like Maury. Swerve. My baby had a daddy. And Christian Knox was his name.

  I’m sick of her always coming out the side of her face with something slick. Calling me the family ho? How about we talk about the original ho. Her azz. And since we’re on the subject of babies, let’s talk about the one she gave away at fourteen.

  You know what. I’m not gon’ even take it there. I’ma do her a favor and save her life.

  I eased up out of my chair and slowly backed into my room, securing my safety.

  Then I turned to her, placed a hand up on my hip, wiggled my neck from left to right and said, “Don’t do me. ’Cause you wouldn’t want me to do you. Trust. And furthermore, I resent what you’re trying to imply.”

  She snickered, like something here was funny.

  This trick is loony.

  “On your best day you couldn’t bring it to me,” she spat. “And furthermore, I don’t do implications. The proof is in your stomach. I don’t have to imply anything when you’re carrying around your sixth child. By the sixth baby daddy. Whoever he shall be.”

  “See, there you go again being messy. You too old for that. For your information, I’ve only had five pregnancies and four baby daddies because I’ve been pregnant by Knox twice and—”

  “Shut your stupid mouth! You reckless floozy! Loose hussy! I didn’t raise no gutter trash. Nevertheless that’s exactly what you’re acting like. Every time you spread your legs open to some boy! And here I have to be the one to put my life on hold. Mess up my household because you can’t keep your legs shut long enough to get out of the eleventh grade! You have had umpteen abortions! Your uterus is paper-thin and can’t be scraped ever again!”

  “That’s not true and you know it!”

  “It may not be true, but you know what is true? I’m not paying for or giving consent for any more freakin’ abortions! You’re bringing down the Montgomery name—”

  “What? Relax. Fall back. I got this. There you go being extra. Why are you bringing up the past? You’re supposed to be able to move on. I changed my ways and you need to work on your grudges! Forgiveness goes a long way. Yes, I made a few mistakes. But nobody’s perfect! You up in here sweatin’ me. Calling me names and just being plain hurtful and disrespectful to your only daughter while RJ is over there in England infiltrating the British race! It’s probably a whole lot of beige Montgomerys! But you don’t care because it’s RJ! So you know what—”

  WHAP! SMACK! DROP!

  “Maaaaa!”

  She backhanded me so hard that I fell onto the bed. She pressed her knees on the sides of my arms and pinned me down onto the mattress. “I will effen kill you!” Her spittle covered my face. “Do you understand that I brought you into this world and I will stomp you out of it! I’m not the one. And yeah, I called you the family ho because that’s what you are. Everybody knows it! It’s no secret. Even the gossip rags that you love and adore have named you one of the top ten hottest hos. Thanks to you, Kim Kardashian stopped trickin’!

  “You have always been a problem. When you were five I was dragging you from beneath tables. When you were nine and ten years old you were pinning boys up at their lockers. I swear I should’ve kept you fat and your teeth bucked. And you always talking slick at the wrong time! This is not a game and no baby should have an irresponsible mother like you, and now I have to raise it! I can only hope and pray it turns out to be a boy and not some fast girl! Hot in the box like you! Now for the last time—get yourself together. Go to San Diego and tell Knox that he is about to be a daddy.”

  Silence.

  “Do you hear me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you need me to go with you?”

  I swallowed, “No.”

  “Good. Now get up. And the next time I see you, you better be saying something that makes some sense!”

  16

  Rich

  I’m soooo tired of Logan telling me what the eff to do.

  Sick. Of. It!

  I got this.

  This is my life.

  My freakin’ body.

  My freakin’ baby.

  My goddamn decisions!

  How can Logan even look at me with a straight face and blame me for abortion after abortion?

  I never made one appointment.

  I never chartered one plane.

  And the last two babies I wanted to have.

  She knew that.

  She knows that.

  But what has she always done? Dragged me to the middle of Nowhere, Arizona, and forced me to abandon my secrets on a steel gurney.

  And now she wants to act like this is all my fault? My fault? Really?

  I’m ruining her life?

  Excuse me?

  The nerve.

  Her life.

  Eff her stupid life!

  Last I checked this was my life, and if I was going to have a baby it would bust out of my socket. Not hers. So why is she so desperate and concerned?

  Fall. Back.

  Shyt!

  I’m the one driving up here to Knox and forcing myself to look him in the face and tell him I’m pregnant.

  And having it.

  And now my mother, who never liked him but is willing to put up with him, has to please my father and expects shotguns and wedding bells.

  Never once did she ask me if I was still feeling Knox.

  If I thought he was still the one for me.

  If I still wanted to be with him.

  Not once did she ever ask me what I thought or what I wanted.

  Instead, she had the nerve to threaten to kill me if I didn’t do what she told me to. And now the command of the day was for me to have this baby, put my boom, bop, pop on pause, and be stuck with Knox.

  I need Jesus.

  This was the longest ride of my life. And as I passed the Manhattan Beach exit it took everything in me not to turn off. But. The last thing I needed was Justice trying to diss me again. I couldn’t stand the thought of him telling me to step, or get out, or anything else mean and nasty. I understood he was hurt. He’d become like everybody else trying to tell me what to do. I wanted the old Justice back. My ride-or-die. Who I could tell anything to. Do anything with.

  That’s who I needed.

  I needed my quick fix.

  My stress reliever.

  But after one night too many gripping the sheets, he was turned out, and now, like they all do, he had lost focus . . .

  I sucked in a deep breath and pushed it out as I parked in Knox’s parking lot and walked up the purple brick steps of his campus apartment building.

  Should I flat out tell him that we’re having a baby? Or should I hang around for a minute and then tell him?

  Maybe I should cry.

  No.

  Maybe I should . . . umm . . .

  What the eff am I supposed to do?

  I haven’t spoken to him in a week.

  He works every one of my nerves.

  I know he’s good for me and he’s the type of boy every girl should marry. But. I’m tired of him. He bores me. He’s not fun. He’s not funny. He’s whack. And I’m sick of being Mrs. Whack
. Really, what I need to do is be a woman about mine and end this charade. Stop the games. Stop the acting and be like, “Knox, it was good while it lasted but I gotta go. I’ll see you in ten years when I’m ready to get ball-and-chained. But until then... deuces.”

  No.

  Wait.

  I can’t do that.

  Suppose I change my mind; then he may not take me back. He’ll be all in his feelings. All sensitive. And then when I’m ready to be old lady cuffed he’ll be holding on to the past.

  I can’t play my hand like that.

  Just chill, ride this wave. Behave. And just take it one minute at a time.

  I knocked on the door to his apartment and I could smell Midnight’s cooking. I hadn’t had any morning sickness all week, but the sweet aroma of his homemade barbecue sauce, which I usually loved to lick off my fingertips, suddenly smelled like hot piss and made me feel sick. I sucked in a breath and banged on the door harder.

  “Dang, big jawn!” Midnight snatched the door open. “Er’ time I cook, here you come drooling.”

  I couldn’t say a word. Instead I rushed to the bathroom, slammed the door behind me, turned on the water to drown out the sound, and lost my breakfast in the toilet.

  After a moment of washing out my mouth and pulling myself together, I walked out of the bathroom toward Knox’s room. I placed my hand on the knob and Midnight said, “Did you call first?”

  “What?” I spun on my heels and faced him. “This is my man. I don’t have to call.”

  “Er’ man needs a call. You can’t just run up on him.”

  “Watch me.” I flung the door open a little harder than I expected to. Knox jumped up from the edge of his bed and looked over at me, while Nikki, who was sprawled across his bed with a PS4 remote in her hand, blinked and forced a phony and suspicious smile across her lips.

  My heart thundered. And I paused for a moment. My eyes scanned the room and everything in me told me that this was nothing. Absolutely nothing. They were truly playing the game. Nothing more. Nothing less. But. At the same time everything in me forced me to lose it. This was just the mothersuckin’ excuse I needed to bounce-baby-bounce in peace and not have the ish be about me or anything I’ve done. Finally. Mr. Perfect had effed up.