Put Your Diamonds Up!

by Ni-Ni Simone

  I nodded, still struggling to breathe.

  “That’s what I thought. I’m not playing with you. You are only sixteen, and that’s what you need to act like! No more chances. After this, you’re finished.” She released her elbow and yanked me from the floor. “Now get in the shower because you smell like a cheap alleyway slut!” She forcefully turned me around and all but drop-kicked me into the bathroom.

  I did all I could not to cry in the shower.

  I am sick of her! She’s going to kick me out? Really? Is that the game she wants to play? Ghetto wench!

  I quickly dressed, got my face right and tight, covering the small bruise left behind by my mother’s assault on me. I pulled my hair into a sexy fly ponytail and instead of stopping in the kitchen to eat breakfast with my parents and play my mother’s game of the perfect Huxtable family—who always ate every meal together—I left her and my father sitting at the kitchen table. Looking stupid. I purposely nearly knocked over the butler, sending his silver tray of hot tea and cream to the floor. I shoved open the servants’ door. Slammed it behind me. And took off, leaving er’body’s face cracked!

  I didn’t have to be mistreated and called a whore in my own house. I was going to school, where they knew how to treat a lady of my caliber. Besides, I had a red carpet ceremony waiting for me.

  I could hear my cell phone ringing, but I didn’t dare answer it. Judging from the ring tone, it was Mother.

  Trick, please!

  I gunned the accelerator and twenty minutes later, as I made a left to go into the school’s parking lot, a Honda Accord whipped from behind me and blocked my path.

  “What the—!” I screamed, honking the horn and sticking my head out of the window. The driver tossed open his door and I could’ve died. This stalker had struck again!

  It was official: This was the day from divafied hell.

  4

  Spencer

  My Father who art in high fashion and luxury spas, I hope that gutter tramp learned her lesson . . .

  With one hand on the trigger of a fresh can of Mace, and the other tightly clutching my Cesare Paciotti under my arm, I quickly slid behind the wheel of my dark sapphire Bentley Continental GT. Then I immediately locked the doors, slinging my handbag over onto the passenger seat. I reached up under my seat for my stun gun and laid it in my lap before revving the engine and screeching my wheels out of the parking lot and swerving west onto Century Boulevard. Away from the crack den my poor, ratchet friend Heather now called home.

  Ugh! If she wanted to live among trash and squalor, she could have just crawled into the Dumpster on the side of the building. Or better yet, she could have simply moved in with the trash queen, London. At least she wouldn’t have been living in some musty funk-box, but she would still be living in squalor. She didn’t have to squander money she didn’t really have on that ole nasty rattrap. It hurt my heart to see her living like some . . . some ole wild otter. Had she no dang shame?

  And the chipped paint and graffiti on the walls were enough to make me want to toss my guts out. Lord God! The window curtain looked like an old raggedy bedspread someone just tossed up and tacked over a curtain rod with safety pins.

  I’ll have to toss these Louboutin heels into the Goodwill bin when I get home after standing on that filthy carpet , I thought, rolling my eyes and sucking my teeth.

  “Oooh, I could spit fire! Hotjiggaboogaboo. I’m so god-dangit pissed!” I banged a gloved hand on the steering wheel. “That sidewalk hostess knows I don’t like wasting a good pair of heels in filth!”

  It’s a blessing I wore this disposable hazmat suit over my clothes before driving down to the slums. I wiped a lone tear that rolled down my cheek. Heather had better wake up and smell the Pacific Ocean before the breeze blows her by. This is her last chance to get it right before they lock her away in some padded dungeon.

  “Thank YOU, mysweetLordandSaviorofallthingsrichandwholesome!” I shouted, raising a hand in the air as I maneuvered through traffic with one hand on the wheel. “I give you praise, Lord God! Give you all the glory! You woke me up this morning and shined your penlight on me. You showed me the way to salvation... and a new shoe boutique. But right now, my prayer is for Heather. You are so kind and gracious. Please. I beg you. Smack the piss water out of her. Show her the error of her wicked ways. Keep her out of the whore barn so she doesn’t have to scallywag for dollars. Punch the taste of skittles and black beauties out of her ratchet mouth. These things I beg of you . . .”

  I hit a button on the steering wheel and waited for a little testimonial music to play low through the speakers while I journeyed down the boulevard. Stopping at a traffic light, I screamed at the top of my lungs. “Geezus-pleaseus . . . I need to exfoliate! I need a deep cleanse! Messing around with Heather’s ole rancid behind, I don’t even have enough time to stop for an Evian dip in the infinity tub at the spa.”

  I glanced at the digital clock. I only had thirty minutes to get to school before the homeroom bell rang. And I had no time for games. I took my education at Hollywood High very seriously. See, unlike those other Pampered Princesses of Hollywood High—Rich Montgomery; the fifty-foot, beetle-faced London Phillips; and Heather—I’m a straight-A, advanced honor student with perfect attendance. While the rest of those hookeroos spend their time trolling the halls, the cafeteria, the girls’ lounges—and on occasion, the boys’ locker room—I’m the only one at Hollywood High there for my education. Unlike those trampettes, I do all of my prowling during breaks and after school.

  Mmph. Silly tricks.

  See. Bubbles. He-he-he. I mean Rich, with her beautiful chestnut skin and those sparkling brown eyes of hers, was only good for one thing. Lying on her back. That ditch digger had more graveyards in her walk-in closets than a cemetery. Think I’m lying? Mmph. Open up those French doors of hers and see how many skeleton bones—or clinic receipts—fall out. All I’m saying is, she didn’t keep her womb vacant for long before something was moving up in it. He-he-he.

  And that Lorax, London. Not. A. Mumbling. Word! That snake! That lot lizard! That . . . that animal waste! That pile of rotted horse manure! She’d been nothing but problems ever since she got chased out of her Upper East Side New York penthouse and flopped her flippers into Hollywood High. She manipulated Rich. Then turned her against me. My dearest bestie, gone! Snatched away by a bunch of lies spewed out of the gullet of some whiskered mongoose in six-inch platform heels. And I wanted nothing more than to strap that roadkill to a concrete slab and torch her eyeballs out.

  And then there was Heather. Now she wasn’t the dumbest Pop-Tart in the toaster. And her GPA wasn’t the lowest or anything like that. That award went to Rich Montgomery. No, Heather Stank Cummings was really, really smart. But she was broke. And she was too dumb to say no to drugs. She was weak! A nothing! And nobody liked her.

  Except me, of course!

  Yet that flat-back barracuda didn’t even have the decency to be grateful for my generosity. She should have been on her knees bowing down to me. The Goddess of All Things Good to her! But she didn’t! Then she had the nerve to eyeball me with them ole wiggly eyes of hers and act like I owed her more than what I was gracious enough to give her in the first place. Money I gave her. Not loaned her. Gave!

  Mmph. Where they do that at?

  Oh, wait. I knew where. Over on Century, in the Piss Motel where Miss Rank-A-Dank Crack-A-Lot had taken up residence. The gutter. The low-lowlands. Mmph. Lest we forget from whence the trash got dumped. Straight to the bottom!

  But I couldn’t even hate on Heather or say anything mean and nasty about her because I knew it was nothing but pride that kept her from showing her true feelings. I knew she appreciated my thoughtfulness. Underneath, she knew I’m the only one who’d ever be there for her. Yeah, okay, okay . . . I’d tear her panties down too. But I was still her only real friend. While everyone else talked about her behind her back, I’m the only one who had the decency to talk about her to her face. And I was the only one
who visited her while she was in druggie jail. And I told her what her drunken mother wouldn’t. I told her who her father is. Now, that was a true friend for you.

  I glanced up in the rearview mirror as if I were looking at someone in the backseat, but I was thinking of Heather’s appearance. “LordGodinallthingspureandtrue! Did you see what she had on? Oochiecoochieyahyahnoodledoodles, she had her cavernous boobs all bunched up in that itty-bitty tube thingy, looking like two tanks of stank-a-dank!”

  Waaait! Pull over! Stop the tramp stamp! And those shorts she had on! Bendoverandspreadthetoejam! She had them things all twisted up in her lunchbox like she was ready for a stroll down Yeastville Central. Ugh!

  And like I said, I wasn’t going to hold that against her because I had a forgiving heart. And I didn’t harbor ill feelings toward her. But I didn’t forget. And I might remind you. But I wouldn’t ever hold it against you. Well, uh, um, not after I did you in first. Which is why, once again, I had to thank the High Heavens for making me—me!

  The kindest, most gracious, most fabulous beauty of them all.

  Whew! With all of my giving and the charity work I did, it took a lot of work to be me. I was loving to the lonely and shutout on Monday evenings. I was kind to the needy on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I was always sympathetic to the plight of the downtrodden. I was thoughtful. Generous. Humble. Pure. Sinless. Oh, wait . . . did I say fabulous? Yes, yes, he-he. I was obedient. Wait, wait... let me get back to you on that. Tee-hee.

  I burst out laughing at myself, stopping at a traffic light. Whew, I crack myself up! Ha!

  Another lone tear rolled down my cheek as I thought about Heather again. Sweetmercifulhandbagsandsixinchheels, she was one Hefty trash bag full of hot gutter wreckage. Pretty as a pickle, but Flatty Patty had no diggity-dang class whatsoever. Do you hear me?

  None.

  Nada.

  Nooch.

  And she couldn’t find her way out of a sewer drain with the help of a GPS tracking device if it were hot-glued to her forehead. What a pathetic soul!

  But I don’t judge. No, no, no. Not Spencer Ellington. I might be the ace of spades of messy, but I was never trashy and gossipy with it. I’m too classy for that. I simply made my observations and kept my thoughts to myself. I threw Heather a lifeline because I was good like that. If I was your friend, I was your friend. Loyal to the end. Ride or die rodeo get-down style. The best friend you wish you had.

  Yes, yes, yes, y’all! Mic check. Check-a-one, check-a-two . . . I’m the best friend you wish you had! But don’t do me.

  Don’t. Do. Me.

  Get out of order and watch me. Do. You.

  You’d better check my credentials. Ugh! I rolled my eyes the second the music faded from the stereo and a call rang through. I sucked my teeth, glancing at the name flashing across the screen. I begrudgingly answered. “Yeah?”

  “Spencer, darrrrling. This is your mother. Did you see Heather?”

  I gave a blank stare at the console. I swear. As wealthy and successful as the multibillionaire media mogul Kitty Ellington was, she could be such a ditz-ball sometimes. I mean, ditzier than a bucket of truffles. Like, didn’t she know I knew who the heck she was? Her name came up on the screen every time she called. Sea witch. And her name hadn’t changed in the last fourteen of my sweet sixteen years of life. So what would make her think anything would be different now? I mean, really. What a Dumbo! And I was supposed to be the slow one in the room. Ha! Mirror, mirror on the wall, who was really the dumbest of them all? Miss Shitty Kitty! I mean, geesh! How could I forget who she was when she didn’t stay her meddling behind out of my face and life long enough for me to?

  Sweetjeezuz! Take the wheel! I needed a dang cigarette! “What do you think, Mother?” I snapped, sliding my hand down into my handbag, feeling around for my pack of ProVari Mini cigarettes. “Where do you think I’ve been allllll morning? Jeezus! Did. I. Not. Tell. You. Last. Night. Where. I. Was. Going?”

  Ohslutwagonsandhookertrains! Now where are those cigarettes?

  I lifted up the console. Oh. Here they are. I pulled a sleek chrome cigarette out of the pack, then pressed the small button to spark up the blue LED. I cracked the window to keep the vapors from smelling up my car.

  I took a deep pull. “Yes, sweetFatherGod!” I shouted, making a sharp left turn onto Crenshaw Boulevard. “I came through in the nick of time and saved Heather’s wretched soul!”

  “Spencer! Don’t you hear me speaking to you? Sweet heavens. What in the world are you shouting and praising about? I asked you a question and I’m waiting for an intelligent response. One with some substance and meaning.”

  I took another pull on my cigarette. Rolled my eyes real slow in their sockets. I am really, really trying to be nice. But this mugglyfuggin’ sea monkey is really pressing me to get it stunk this morning and air her panties out real good! I counted to ten in my head.

  “Mother, brown bag it, okay! You ole wet mop! Don’t you have some little boy-toy you can slog around with instead of badgering me? Jeezus! I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, don’t speak to me until noontime when I can stomach you.”

  “You will not use that tone with me, young lady. I am your mother. Not one of them little snot-nosed Pampered Princesses whom you can’t seem to keep on a leash long enough to do as you’re instructed. Now keep it up. You’ll find yourself confined to your suite for the rest of the week if you don’t watch your manners when speaking to me.”

  “And you can find yourself locked out of my house, Mother. Or have you forgotten that the estate I graciously let you board in is mine? Now you keep it up. How about that? Now before you get the dial tone, how can I help you? You’re giving me cramps.”

  She huffed. “Spencer! Focus! I don’t have time for your histrionics, or any of your silly antics. Now get over yourself, my child, and tell me what’s going on with that little brat Heather. Did you give her the check?”

  I blinked. “Yes, Mother.”

  “And the news about her new pilot show?”

  I sucked my teeth. “Yes, Mother.”

  “Was Camille there drunk?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Mother.”

  I took two angry pulls from my cigarette, feeling myself about to swerve off the road and run down the nearest telephone pole. As loving and kind as I was, this joy killer had a way of bringing out the worst in me. I swear she did. Mother or not, she was the epitome of a Messy Bessie. She was slicker than a fox in a henhouse. She was cutthroat, vicious, and downright nasty! I had to always keep my blade sharp and ready when dealing with the likes of Kitty Ellington.

  God, I hoped I didn’t end up anything like her!

  I gripped the steering wheel, flooring the accelerator, zipping through traffic on the freeway, blowing the horn for drivers to get out of the dang way.

  “Have they found a place to live yet?” Kitty pressed, agitating me even more. “You know that Camille siphoned out all of Heather’s measly savings while she was away in rehab, for no other reason than simply being her old jealous, spiteful self. There was no reason for that conniving bottom-feeder to do that when I’d given her a million-dollar advance for those television and radio interviews I’d set up for her. That dreadful—”

  I yawned. “Okay, Mother, gotta go. You’re boring me. Night-night. Don’t let the vampires bite. And you had better have that three million dollars you had me give to Heather transferred back into my account.”

  I ended the call.

  “Move out of my way!” I screamed, blowing the horn as I weaved in and out of traffic. “Goshdang you! I have to get to homeroom! If I had time, I’d stop in the middle of this highway and claw your eyeballs out! That’ll stop you blind bats from slow-rolling your wheels, trying to make me late for school and ruin my perfect attendance!”

  5

  Spencer

  I was late! Three minutes and forty-two seconds late! And now my mood was as sour as buttermilk. I wanted to beat the biscuits off of someone. That ding-d
ang Heather! Jeezus! I tried to be gracious and look where it’d gotten me. Stuck in traffic! Late for school! Why couldn’t she find a sleaze Dumpster closer to school to stay at?

  I kept my eyes focused on the road ahead. Traffic! Traffic! Trrrrrrrrrrafffffic! I was dang tempted to swerve up on the tree-lined curb and burn these tire treads down the sidewalk, but I wasn’t in the mood to run down pedestrians today.

  I rolled my eyes, sucking my teeth, then commanded my car’s Bluetooth, “Dial . . . Sweet Cheeks.”

  I glanced in my rearview mirror. Being late was going to screw my whole day up. First thing I liked to do when I got to school was go to my locker, gather my books for my first two classes, then go into the girls’ lounge to freshen up my lip gloss, liner, and hair—even though everything always stayed flawless. I had to look fabulous.

  Then in homeroom, while everyone else gossiped and cackled and plotted ditching their next periods, I sat up front and organized my morning. AP Latin was second period. AP Calculus was third period. Then lunch was fourth period.

  “Hollywood High. How may I direct your call?”

  “Mr. Westwick, please.”

  “I’m sorry. Mr. Westwick is in a meeting. May I take a message?”

  I frowned. “No, you may not take a message,” I mocked. “This is an emergency! Now get up off your pancakes and bang on Mr. Westwick’s door. You and I both know he’s in there painting his dang toenails! And probably in that god-awful fuchsia! Now be a dear and let that macho momma know Spencer Ellington’s on the line. Please and thank you!”

  “One moment . . .” she said blandly, placing me on hold. Classical music played in the background.