Put Your Diamonds Up!

by Ni-Ni Simone

  Save me?

  Before my legs kick this wench, let me turn away from her again.

  I turned and she carried on, “It’s not that I make a habit out of playing Captain Save A Crackhead. But I figured I’d make an exception this time.”

  I’m not a crackhead and you haven’t saved me, you cheap whore! This is an insult! You’ve torn up my life. Ruined my career. Called the police on my skittles party! And put a thirty-day disruption between me and my get-right. You were dead wrong for that, ole nasty dome licker. I should take a WWE clothesline to your head! Backhand your cheek to the floor.

  Three million dollars?

  Really?

  And you think you saved me?

  “Ah!” I jumped and spun around when her finger stabbed into my left butt cheek.

  “That’s really you?” Spencer looked at me in amazement. “Here I was thinking how outdated this wallpaper is, and it turns out that I’m looking at the back of you.” She sighed and paused, looking up at the ceiling as if she were deep in thought. “You know what I’m going to do for you, Heather?”

  “I couldn’t imagine you doing anything more than you already have,” I said, my tone dripping with more sarcasm than I intended.

  She looked at me and smiled. “I’m going to get you a Brazilian booty lift.”

  A what?

  “Don’t thank me now. Thank me after your first twerk.” She snapped her fingers.

  Twerk? Excuse you, Miss Knees On The Floor, I don’t twerk. I Tootsie Roll. “Are you serious? A booty lift?”

  “Yes!”

  Well, that’s the least you can do.

  “I also have something else for you,” she said.

  Hopefully it’s the other half of this check. “What could that possibly be?”

  “I’ve arranged for you to tape a pilot for your very own television show—”

  Pilot? Did she just say my own television show? “What did you just say to me, Spencer?”

  She gave me a sheepish grin and batted her lashes. “You heard me right, boo. You heard me.”

  Did she say my own television show?

  “I said your own television show,” she confirmed, as if reading my thoughts. “Now”—she tapped a heel—“who loves you, baby?”

  My heart dropped as I squealed, “A pilot?” I looked over at the bed where Camille was coughing and stirring beneath the covers.

  Spencer continued, “Yasssss, dahling!” She resumed her pacing. “You are to be in Brazil tomorrow. I’ll have my assistant make all of the arrangements. Just be at the airport first thing in the morning.” She handed me a business card with a Dr. Cortez and his information listed. “This is who you’ll be seeing. And when you return you will be taken to the set of the—”

  “New Wu-Wu show!” I jumped up and down. “The new Wu-Wu show!” I clapped my hands. “There’s a God after all.” I braided my fingers and shook my hands. “I knew God could never turn his back on Wu-Wu!”

  Spencer rolled her eyes extremely slow and then sprang them open, glaring at me. “What. Did. You. Say?” She shoved her purse beneath her arm and roughly grabbed my face. “Are you brain-dead?”

  “What?” I snatched away.

  “Or are you testing me?”

  “Testing you?”

  “I’m not stupid.”

  Depends on who you ask. “I never said you were stupid.”

  “So then why are you testing my memory? You know and I know that Wu-Wu was burned down to the ground.” She stamped her six-inch pencil heels into the carpet. “What? Did you think I forgot? Dear God, please don’t make me have to Mace you for trying to insult my memory! I’m trying to be good to you, Heather. Don’t make me get ugly.” She paused. “And in case you forgot what ugly looks like”—she pointed to the hump on the bed—“it’s Camille after a few drinks. Now, let’s try this again.”

  “I want you to listen to Godmother. Hear me, and hear me well. Wu-Wu. Is. D-E-A-D. Dead. You understand me? Forget her. Kitty has given me permission to let you know that you are to become Luda Tutor. Medieval princess storms New York. You are lost in a time warp capsule and have been dropped in the middle of the twenty-first century. Luda Tutor does Brooklyn. Now don’t let me hear you say anything else about Wu-Wu again.”

  I could hear Camille snickering from under the covers.

  Spencer continued, “Now, I have one last surprise for you. Close your eyes and open your hand.”

  I hesitated but followed her request. I felt her place something in my hand. My eyes popped open and there was a set of car keys. She pointed out of the window to a black Lamborghini Gallardo. “That would be yours. And you may thank Godmother now.”

  I looked up at Spencer and she wore the cheesiest smile I’d ever seen. “Go on, Heather. Thank me.”

  Thank you? Thank you? First this effen trick gives me three million dollars. A step above a welfare check. And now she has the audacity to give me a black car, when she knows I hate black cars! She knows that hot pink and leopard print are my favorite! Therefore, that heap of scrap metal should’ve been hot pink and leopard. But noooooo, it’s black! And then she left the factory rims on it. No spinners. No gold wheels. Real basic. You know what, I should take this douche bag by the hand, walk her outside, and bash her face into the windshield! Thank her? Really? No, what I should do is flatten her face with the wheels!

  I looked up at Spencer and just when I thought about knocking her front teeth out, I decided to be the bigger person. “Thank you!” I said and fell into her embrace.

  “You know I’m here for you, girl.” She held me tightly and patted my back. “Just don’t cross me.”

  3

  Rich

  Yeah, boo.

  It’s been magical: the lovemaking. The kisses: breathtaking. Your touch: like fire. But this is where I get off.

  I’m done.

  We’re done.

  It’s over.

  And last night was it.

  I know it’ll be hard for you, but you’ll have to get over me. Besides, you demand too much of my time. It’s been every other day, sometimes twice a day, with you. That’s overkill. Who does that?

  I can’t have you possessing my body all the time. Heck, even the times when we’re not together I find myself craving your touch, your mouth, the pulling, pinching, and sucking of your luscious lips on my . . . See, here I go again . . . Peeking over this letter, looking at your hard, sleeping body in the hotel bed and wondering if I should take my clothes off for a third time since last night...

  This is too much.

  And then you asked me to break up with my boyfriend. Why are you hatin’ on my relationship like that? In case you’ve forgotten, you know we had an agreement—which was: I call you. You don’t stalk me. Demand things from me. But over and over again this is what you do. You are out of control. Seriously, every time I turn around there you are—all up in my space and my face, casting spells on me. And being ridiculous. Touching my . . . squeezing my . . . whispering in my ear that you want to ease your tongue in my . . . leaving purple passionate evidence of your sweet sucks all over my body, forcing me to hide out for days from my man.

  And no matter how many times I tell you that MY hair—the hair that grows out of my scalp—ONLY reaches my shoulders, and the ends that travel to the small of my back are a five-thousand-dollar infusion weave of Brazilian virgin hair; no matter how many times I explain this to you, you don’t get it. And when we’re doing the naked twerk—you keep. Yanking. My hair. Back!

  Why are you doing that?

  You cannot be all up in my hair like that! That is sooooo whack. And I suggest you don’t do that with the next chick you get with, ’cause she may not be as kind as me and the next thing you know you’ll wake up with your face bashed in!

  Black women don’t play that!

  Anyway, boo, be easy. I’ve left five hundred dollars on the nightstand, just in case you spent all your money on me tonight.

  Sweet kisses,

 
Rich

  I placed the letter in the fresh indent I’d left on the mattress, carried my heels in my hand, eased out of the door, and prayed that the sound from the automatic locks clicking in place didn’t wake Justice.

  I had exactly twenty-seven-and-a-half minutes to make it home, be seen by my mother when she made her morning visit to my room, shower, change, and be dressed for school. And I needed to get to school early. Especially since the new red carpet was being laid today and I was head of the Red Carpet Committee. Hollywood High was red-carpet fabulous. And as I was chairwoman of the RCC, I liked to keep things fresh and new; hence the new carpets. Last time, the headmistress . . . well, the headmaster . . . well, same thing, tried to get away with keeping the same red carpet past its expiration date. Umm, how about no. Did he think I wouldn’t notice?

  Well, I did. The moment I stepped onto the carpet, my six-inch heels sank straight to the bottom and I could smell the filth. And I would not have it. After I threatened to call the alumni association, the board of directors, and the health department, he got his mind together. And promised me and my Richoids—a select few from my stable of fans—that the new carpet would be laid today and I could do the honors at the ribbon-cutting ceremony.

  I couldn’t wait! I had my publicist arrange the press coverage.

  I had my Parisian stylist fly me in the flyest and the sleekest maple-brown Louis Vuitton stretch leather leggings and sleeveless A-line eggshell-colored blouse—that flowed with the L.A. breeze. The collar was a large, flimsy, chic bow that tied to the side and the loose hem stopped at my hip. My earrings were five-karat pink diamond studs, my stack of beaded bracelets were all pink and brown sapphires, and of course my handbag was an exclusive Louis Vuitton clutch. From the private collection. Don’t hate. That’s just how the gawds have blessed me to do it.

  Fabulously.

  I raced to my custom-made, crisp white Hennessey Venom Spyder, tossed my heels onto the passenger seat, floored the accelerator, and took off for the highway, never looking back. The Justice part of my life was behind me. Literally. Besides, I met this Latino cutie the other day at the Pink Lounge, and have mercy—sweet angel over sex appeal—this sugar pop was right and ripe. Ready for the plucking. We kicked it a little. He twirled a few curls in my hair. We tossed back a few shots of tequila. And with tequila being my weakness, I gave in to one of my damsel-in-distress fantasies and allowed this sweet butter-pecan Puerto Rican to melt all over me.

  I placed the air conditioner on full blast as I felt a heated rush take over my body.

  Mary, Joseph, and Raheem! After that night I had to say at least twenty Rosaries and go to three separate confessions—and I’m not even Catholic.

  If only I remembered his name and had gotten his number, I could call him again. But I didn’t. I told him my name was Sasha Fierce and that I was passing through on my way to Africa.

  Needless to say, after that I was bored with Justice and realized that I needed to be a faithful virgin again. Which meant I needed to only be with my boyfriend, Knox. Well, Christian. But everyone called him by his last name, Knox.

  And starting today—at this moment—that’s exactly how things were going to be.

  The electronic gates squeaked as I pulled onto the long, winding road that led to my parents’ estate. My mother, an ex-groupie who was reared in the hood, had a thing for European charm—which explained the cobblestone driveway, English garden, the massive Greek fountains, and the fifty-room French château we lived in.

  I pulled around to the servants’ entrance. I had two minutes left to make a mad dash for my room. I eased in through the back door, skipped the elevator, tiptoed up the back stairs—taking two at a time—and made it to my room with a minute to spare.

  My heart revved like a crackhead passing a collection plate. The last thing I needed was my mother, Logan Montgomery, known as Shakeesha Gatling when she doesn’t take her medicine, walking up on me.

  I leaned against the back of my closed door and my eyes scanned my suite, from the sitting area to the king-size canopy, to the crystal chandelier, to the balcony overlooking the very cliff my mother threatened to throw me off of if she ever caught me sneaking in the house again.

  I ran over to my bed, pulled the sheets back, dived onto the mattress, and rolled from one side to the other and back again. I hopped up, flung off my clothes—leaving on my panties and bra—and walked toward the bathroom.

  “Rich Gabrielle Montgomery.”

  I froze.

  My heart fell out of my chest and my stomach went right behind it.

  My mother’s voice rose again. “I suggest you turn around slowly because any sudden moves will not work out for you.”

  Dear God . . .

  I turned around and there she was—her face lit up on my computer screen!

  What kind of . . .

  I shifted my eyes from side to side. Was she serious? Maybe I was dreaming. Yeah, that’s it. So I turned and took a step toward the bathroom. “I know you didn’t just give me your back!”

  Freeze!

  I can’t believe this! I had a minute to spare. What happened to my minute to spare? Was she doing digital rounds now? Why was she on my computer screen? I swear this woman was put on this Earth to drive me crazy!

  Breathe. Breathe.

  Okay. Okay... but breathe.

  Dang!

  How long has she been watching me? Has she been on my computer all night? Spying on me. Jesus! And to think when I went to confession the Father said prayer works. Yeah, right!

  I pushed a plastic smile on my face and turned back toward the computer screen. “Ma, I would never disrespect you like that.” At least not to your face. “But, umm, why are you on my computer?” I squinted. “Did you hack my system? Break and enter into my Skype account? Really, Ma, who does that? I thought your life of crime was over.”

  “No, it’s not,” she said evenly. “I have one more murder to commit.”

  I swallowed. Hard. A vision of me rolling down the cliff to my death danced before my eyes and I did all I could to keep my knees from buckling. “I have to get to school.”

  “No. You have to stand right there. And you better not. Move. An inch.”

  A few wobbly seconds later, she was off of my computer screen and in my room, standing toe-to-toe with me. At any moment, I expected her to toss up gang signs and spit razor blades out of her mouth.

  I was careful not to breathe too hard—because whenever she was this pissed off, everything that I did was a problem, including breathing. So I took light sips of air and smiled as I looked into her brown eyes.

  Her glare shot a thousand bullets into me as she pushed an index finger into my forehead, forcing my neck to jerk with every move. “Where. Have. You. Been?”

  Think. Okay, I got it. I’ll cop to the truth. Yeah, that’s it, she always tells me that if I tell her the truth she will be understanding.

  “I was with Knox.”

  Bam!

  My mother slung a fiery backhand across my cheek, forcing my rickety knees to give way and fling me to the floor. For a moment I thought about playing dead, but that would only aggravate her more.

  I looked up at the dungeon dragon standing over me. “Ma!” I lifted my arms and crossed them over my face.

  She shoved a hand through my shield, gripped my cheeks, and pressed her fingers into my dimples. “Lie again and you will be over that cliff! You were not with Knox because he called here looking for you. Now. Where. Were. You?”

  “With London!”

  Slam!

  My cheek was scorching again.

  “London’s in Europe! Now, I suggest you tell the truth before I rip off your face!”

  I could feel her flaying my skin with her eyes. “I was . . . I was . . .”

  “You know what, Rich. You are two seconds from being cut off and disinherited. I don’t know why you keep doing this to me! And it doesn’t matter how hard I’ve worked for all that we have. You don’t care! Why can’t
you just listen and be more like your brother? Instead, you’d rather piss on my accomplishments!”

  “Accomplishments? Last I checked you were a hood rat groupie who stalked the locker rooms! What have you accomplished other than marrying my father and pumping out two kids and being all in my business?”

  Whap! I expected that slap. But I didn’t care. She knew I couldn’t stand being compared to her RJ, her sick wonder boy! He may have been overseas at Oxford, but she was still express-mailing him her tittie so he could breast-feed. RJ this. RJ that. Eff RJ!

  Nothing was ever about me! I take that back. Some things were about me—her slaps, her stress, her feeling unappreciated, her anger, her frustrations, her constant arguments with my father: all about me.

  What. Ever.

  All I needed to do was get up and off of this floor so that I could change my clothes and get back to being the boom-boom-bop of happy!

  “I don’t know why you hate your brother so much! But if you stopped hating him, maybe you could be more like him instead of being a Hollywood whore!”

  “I’m not a whore!” I spat and scooted back, somehow making it out of her clutches. I quickly stood up.

  She looked me over. “Oh, I know you’re not trying to fight me!”

  What? “Fight you?”

  “You heard me!” She walked up close to me and I took a step back. She snatched me by my shoulder and I had no choice but to stand still. “I’m soooo sick of you. Sick. Of. You. You have everything you could ever want and all I ask is that you stop sneaking out of the house and doing God knows what! That’s all I require. But noooo, you can’t do that. You want to be in the street. Well, you’re on punishment!”

  Although my life was on the line, hearing the word punishment made me laugh. “Punishment.” I all but flicked my wrist, twisted my neck, and said, Girl, go sit down. But since I knew better than to take it there, I said, “You can’t punish me! What you need to do is back up and stop sweatin’ me! I’m almost grown and you need to respect that!” She raised her hand and I flinched. “Ma!”

  Wham! I was back on the floor with her elbow in my throat. She looked into my face, and as I struggled to breathe she whispered, “Make this the last time you say anything crazy to me. And make this the last time you sneak into my house. You better make sure it doesn’t happen again because if it does, I’ma pack up all yo’ things, Miss Almost Grown, and you gettin’ outta here! Do I make myself clear? And you better say yes.”