Diva Rules

by Amir Abrams

  Miesha points a finger over at me, smirking. “Whatchu gonna do, boo?”

  I suck my teeth, waving her on. “Chile, cheese. Not a thing. I’m not thinkin’ about Cease.”

  “It’s all good, babe. But I stay thinkin’ about you.”

  I swallow. “Boy, whatever. You stay playing.”

  “Nah, that nucca ain’t playin’, yo,” Luke volunteers, adding his two cents like somebody’s asked him for it. Like somebody gives a damn. “He’s dead-azz.”

  Cease looks at me. Then winks.

  I quickly look away.

  It’s like one minute I am breathing, my heart is beating, ’n’ then the next: ___.

  Flatline.

  Dead to the bed!

  Nailed to the bottom of the sea!

  This boy has come over here ’n’ has straight hijacked my whole groove.

  21

  “Mom told me the two of you got into it last week and what you said to her,” my sister Sonji says on the phone. “I can’t believe how disrespectful you were.” I roll my eyes. That lady stays tattling on me, like my sisters are gonna check me. Chile, boom.

  Check me, boo?

  Who, you?

  Not.

  “Yeah. Well, I’m sick of her,” I say dismissively. “She’s always comin’ at me crazy ’n’ I’m done with it.”

  “She’s still our mother, Fee,” she says like I need reminding of that dreadful fact. “And the way you spoke to her was crazy.”

  “How you know? Were you there? Did you hear how she was coming outta her neck all crazy at me? No.”

  “You’re right. I wasn’t there. But you know I know your mouth. And—”

  “And you know hers. How many times did she slick-talk you?”

  “No matter what Mom may have done or said to us, none of us would have spoken to her the way you do.”

  “Omigod, Sonji! Really? You’re gonna come at me like you tryna advocate for her like she’s some victim? Chile, boom.” I suck my teeth. “You have your lil fancy life with ya hubby ’n’ kids in Connecticut, while I’m stuck here with this miserable witch. Not once have you offered to let me live with you, so don’t do me, boo.”

  “Wait a minute. I’m not doing you, so take it down several notches, hun. And I’m not advocating for Mom. I’m simply saying that what you said to her I think bothered her. If you really wanted to move up here you’d be welcomed with open arms. And you know it.”

  I frown. “Well, maybe. Still. You’re not here with her. I am. And good if she’s bothered by something I said to her. It’s about time.”

  She sighs in my ear. “Fiona, I know you’re angry with her. And, no, maybe she hasn’t been the perfect parent . . .”

  “Oh, you think? I don’t know why you ’n’ Leona always wanna take up for her . . .”

  “I’m not taking up for her,” she says defensively. “I’m—”

  I cut her off. “Making excuses for her like you always do. I know she’s our mother. I don’t need to be reminded of that tragedy. But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna ever respect her when she has never respected me. No, thank you. Not gonna happen. Not with Fiona, boo. No, ma’am.”

  “That still doesn’t give you the right to think it’s okay to tell her to go jump in front of a truck, Fiona. That was way out of line, even for you.”

  I blink. “No. That’s not what I told her. What I saaaid was, if she’s so miserable with her life ’n’ with me in it, then she should just go toss herself over a bridge ’cause I’m not about to slice my wrists over her. No, ma’am.”

  Okay, maybe I shouldn’ta said that to her. But you know what? Oh well. Once it came out, along with everything else that flew outta my mouth, there was no stopping it or taking it back. And trust. I gave it to her good ’n’ gotdang dirty.

  Not once have I ever cursed out my mother—even though there are many times when I wanted to. Still, I don’t cross that line. And I probably never will. But do I serve her attitude? Yup. Lots of it. Do I let her know what I think about her? Yup. Every time she tries to do me, I do her back. Period. So why Sonji is on my line acting like I’ve committed some cardinal sin is beyond me. Yeah, I know all about how kids should honor their parents. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yada, yada, yada. And they should when they are being treated right; otherwise no, ma’am. There’s no honor in a mother always frickin’ ridiculing me. So, boom! I’m not subscribing to that channel of BS. So my sisters ’n’ whoever else can miss me with that.

  “And calling her a whore,” Sonji says tightly. “That was really uncalled for, Fee. And you know it.”

  “Omigod! Lies, lies, ’n’ more lies, Sonji. She called me one. And all I said was, it took one to know one. Boom, there it is. If she didn’t want the heat, then she shouldn’ta turned up the fire.”

  She sighs. “You are still responsible for what comes out of your mouth, Fee.”

  “Oh, and she’s not? Puhleeeeease.” She tells me I need to apologize. I tell her absolutely not. That I meant every dang thing I said to her. From her peeling her panties down ’n’ sleeping with another woman’s husband ’n’ sexing him in the backseat of his car; to her gettin’ knocked up, then expecting him to leave his wife for her. Oh no, hun. I let her know: Don’t hate me ’cause life didn’t go ya way.

  I let her know that I wasn’t the one who put her in the cuckoo ward for thirty days ’cause she suffered from postpartum depression right after I was born. No, hun. That is not my soundtrack to play. It’s hers. And I’m not the one who walked out on her ’n’ left her with four daughters to raise on her own before she got knocked up with me. No, sweetie. Don’t take ya misery out on me.

  I let her know that, too. And I also let her know that it wasn’t my fault she didn’t get the man but got stuck with a baby instead. Maybe my father did love her. But not enough to leave the wife ’n’ family he already had over in Bayonne. I called her a trifling homewrecker ’n’ a hater.

  And guess what? She couldn’t handle the truth. So you know what she did? She slapped me. Whap! Right across my face. But no worries, trust.

  I didn’t blink. Didn’t splash a tear. Didn’t even hit her back, or call the police on her, like I wanted to.

  I ate it.

  Just like I’ve eaten every-dang-thing else she’s dished out to me.

  Okay, okay. I know my mouth can be a lil extra ’n’ my attitude a lil stank. But I don’t bring it unless you bring it to me first. Then she had the nerve to say I’m grounded for the weekend. Ha! Picture that. Who, me? Not. What I look like, sitting up in this house on a weekend, no less. Yeah, okay, boo. Hold ya breath ’n’ let me see how you make out with that. My name is Fiona. Not Boo-Boo the Fool. Trust.

  “You should still apologize,” Sonji insists. I blink, pulling my cell from my ear ’n’ looking at it like there’s a set of jagged teeth on it before placing it back to my ear. Oooh, I wanna really give it to her, but I can’t, won’t. Like I said before, Leona ’n’ Kara are more like mothers than my sisters. If it weren’t for them, I’d probably be somewhere popping pills like they were Skittles ’n’ tossing ’em back with caps of NyQuil. Or worse. So, no matter what, I keep it cute ’n’ bite down on my tongue. And trust. It hurts like hell. But I’m chomping down on it ’cause I know meddling in my damn business ’n’ tryna play mediator is what my sisters do, ’n’ they mean well. Still. I said what I felt ’n’ what I meant to my mother ’n’ I don’t think I should have to apologize to her or anyone else for my feelings.

  “Wrong answer, boo. I’m not doin’ that.”

  “Why not? It’s the right thing to do,” she counters. “There’s still a thing of respecting adults even if you don’t agree with them. Sometimes you gotta—”

  “I know, I know. Know when to keep ya mouth shut, yada, yada, yada. Sorry. I’m not subscribin’ to that channel. A closed mouth doesn’t get fed or heard. And two things I’m not about to do. Starve or stay quiet.”

  “Sometimes doing what’s right,” Sonji continues, “doesn’t alway
s feel right.”

  “Oh, really? For who? Like I told mommy dearest when she disrespected me ’n’ we started goin’ at it: I didn’t ask to be born. But I’m here. That was her choice, not mine. So I shouldn’t have to live my life feeling like I’m the mistake just ’cause some hot-drawz chick gave it up raw. She chose to have a buncha kids. Not me. But she takin’ it out on me like I’m the one who held her down ’n’ forced her to get her hump on.”

  Boom! And I meant every word of that. And that’s why she laid hands on me. Mmph. The truth hurts. Oh well. Her tryna slap my face off was worth everything I said to her.

  I’m seventeen ’n’ even I have enough sense to know having some mofo’s baby ain’t gonna get him to stay with you, or even want you after you done let him use you up. No, boo. I’m not claiming that as my fault. And I ain’t pulling out no violins to play you no sob song. It is what it is.

  And sorry, hun, I’m not tolerating disrespect. Not even from my own mother. I’ve put up with it long enough. And I’m sick of it. So love me, hate me, or slap me up, I don’t give a damn. ’Cause the truth is this: I’m effen done holding back. That lady needs to know how badly she hurt me.

  “Come here, lil white girl. . .”

  Like really? White girl? Are you kidding me? When she was busy letting a white man smash? Really?

  Who does that? Calls their kids all kinda nasty names?

  I swipe tears from my face. Then shake my head, just as another call is ringing through. It’s Miesha. I tell Sonji to hold on. Put on my happy face, then click over. “Hey, girl.”

  “What are you doin’ later tonight?”

  I swallow back my emotions ’n’ tell her my sister Leona is picking me up for dinner around six, but after that not a damn thang.

  “Ooh, good. I feel like bowling tonight. You down?”

  “Bowling? Oh no, boo. Let me know how you make out with that. You not even about to get me into a pair of them ugly shoes.”

  She laughs. “Oh, c’mon. Don’t be so dang corny. Live a little. It’ll be fun.”

  “Mmph. Not interested. But look, I have my sister Sonji on the other line so I’ma have to hit you back.”

  “Make sure you do. Bowling. Tonight, girlie. Me ’n’ you. So don’t get cute, boogah.”

  “Ooh, you tried it. I stay cute. Trust.”

  She laughs. “And you still ugly, boo.”

  “Ooh, bish, bite me.” We both laugh, exchange a few more words before I tell her I’ll call her back. I click back over to Sonji. “Sorry about that,” I say apologetically. “Now where were we?”

  “We were about to go over your apology to Mom,” she says matter-of-factly, like I’m really about to sign up for that lie.

  “Ooh, not. But good try.” We go back ’n’ forth about why she thinks I should apologize ’n’ it goes in one ear ’n’ out the other. But I’m standing my ground, boo. And one thing about Fiona Madison: Once her mind is made up, there’s nothing you gonna say or do to get her to change it. So Sonji can go have several seats with the apology crap.

  It’s not gonna happen.

  I power on my laptop, then log into my Facebook page ’n’ update my status: FEELIN’ FRUSTRATED. BISHES KILL ME. THEY CAN SAY WHATEVER DA HELL THEY WANT, BUT GET ALL CAUGHT UP IN THEY FEELINGS WHEN YOU SERVE IT BACK TO EM. CHILE, BOOM! #DONTEFFWIFFME! #TAKEITSTRAIGHT2YAHEAD!

  Three other calls ring through while I’m on the phone with Sonji—King, Travis, ’n’ Benji. I don’t bother clicking over, though.

  “I’ll give you that Louie I know you love so much,” she says, tryna bribe me. My knees buckle. Ooh, she’s playing dirty. She knows how bad I want that bag. “I’ll even throw in the red Michael Kors tote.”

  Ooh, this bish playin’ real dirty.

  I feel myself getting sick. Now I gotta make a decision between pride ’n’ purses. I roll my eyes ’n’ suck my teeth. “Y’all always do this ish.”

  She laughs. “But we love you more.”

  “Uh-huh. Y’all stay bribin’ me to be nice to that lady, though.”

  “Hey, we do whatever we have to do to help you ’n’ Mommy coexist.”

  I sigh. “Yeah, okay.”

  “Is it working?”

  I grunt. “Ugh! I hate you! Throw in a pair of heels ’n’ we good!”

  22

  I’m not psychic, but I can always read a boy’s nasty thoughts by staring into his lusty eyes. And this boy right here—the way he’s slithering his serpent tongue over his thick, chapped lips—is thinking, Damn, mami, I wanna slide up in them guts ’n’ bury my face in between them beautiful boobs. . . Oh, he’s thinking some other things too, but I’m too much of a class act to repeat such filth. I’ll just clench my booty cheeks ’n’ keep it cute.

  I glance around the area ’n’ take in the sights. Pitiful. There’s not one cutie-boo in sight. And I can already tell it’s gonna be a depressing night.

  “Yo, you fine as fuqq, ma,” he starts, leaning into me. His warm breath tickles the inside of my ear. Ohhhh-kaaaay . . . tell me something I don’t already know.

  I bring my gaze back on him, taking a step back ’n’ tossing my hair, then batting my lashes. You think . . . ? Well, of course he does. But he doesn’t need to know that I know that he does. Oh no. A diva knows how to stay cute. Play coy. Be demure. Umm, you do know what demure is, right?

  Anywhooo . . .

  Where the heck is Miesha? I’m waiting for her here at Hudson Lanes. And of course she is nooowhere to be seen. Why I even agreed to meet her to go bowling is beyond me. We coulda hung out at the mall ’n’ shopped, then caught a cute lil flick or something. But, nooo, she chooses bowling ’n’ expects me to wear those hideous flats. I mean shoes. Then toss a bowling ball down a lane. Something I haven’t done in, like, forever. An activity that could potentially break a dang nail.

  I glance at my watch. It’s almost a quarter after nine. I knew when she told me to meet her here at nine o’clock I shoulda had my sister drop me off thirty minutes fashionably late, like I normally do. But, nope. The one time I’m on time, she decides to be late. Several guys walk by, snapping their necks to either check me out or get my attention. It’s mad packed up in this spot. But I’m not seeing many cutie-boos up in here so I already know it’s gonna be one long, borrring night.

  “You mad sexy, too.”

  I shift my handbag from one hand to the other, leaning a foot back on one heel. “Thanks.” Click-clack, click-clack . I start popping my gum all loud ’n’ belligerent. A sign that I’m soo not beat for the okey-doke.

  Shark Teeth is eyeing me like he’s fresh outta lockup. All hungry ’n’ ready to sink the jagged edges of his grill into me. Bless his lil heart. He has gotta know I have no intentions of letting him take a bite outta my sweet, juicy fruit. He can’t even breathe on it! No ma’am, no sir!

  One, he’s too old—twenty; two, his teeth are big ’n’ yellow; and three, he’s too ugly. Zoo status ugly. Like wrap his face with gauze, then stuff his head in a Hefty trash bag type ugly. So no, thank you. Still. That doesn’t mean I have to be mean ’n’ nasty ’n’ remind him of how ugly he is. Being messy is so not cute. He should already know he’s ugly. Then again . . . maybe he doesn’t. Some guys have been misled ’n’ lied to their whole lives. Poor ting-tings.

  I blink. Try not to make any oogly-faces. But the truth is, looking at this man-boy is hurting my eyes. Like really. Ooh, he has the kinda face only a mother could love. ’Cause, baaaaaby . . . not Miss Fiona!

  “You have some beautiful eyes, too” he adds, holding my gaze. “I bet you hear that all the time.”

  For the love of God! And you need a breath mint. And major dental work. Ooh, his teeth look like big chicken nuggets. Looks like he’s been chewing on rocks. But who am I to judge? I’m not messy like that.

  I giggle. “Yeah. Sometimes.” Jeezus, get Sharkie away from me. Please ’n’ thank you! I smile. “Sooo, what, you wanna follow me on Instagram now?”

  He laughs. “Nah, nah. But
if you got Facebook, let me get ya info. So we can stay in touch. Maybe we can link up. You know, catch a bite to eat, or hit up a movie.”

  Um, I think not!

  “I’m sayin’ . . . how old are you?”

  I blink. Oh—my—god, why his lips look all cracked ’n’ ashy? Them soup coolers too dang big to be lookin’ all crazy!

  “Too young for you,” I say, tilting my head. Heck. I’m grown. Real grown. But not that grown, tryna mess with some guy over nineteen wit’ ashy lips ’n’ a tore-up grill. No, hun. Save that ish for them ratchet chicks.

  “Nah, nah. As long as you like sixteen, seventeen, we good. I like ’em young.” He licks his over-stretched lips. “The younger the better. And you just right.”

  Eww. What a creep!

  He licks his lips again. “So where you from?”

  A land called Nunyadamnbusiness.

  “Um, where you from?” I ask, igging the question.

  Click-clack, click-clack...

  “Bayonne.”

  Click-clack, click-clack. “Oh, okay.” I glance around the bowling alley. Where the heck is Miesha?

  I fish through my bag ’n’ pull out my cell, sending her a text. HOOKER! WTH? WHERE R U?

  “So who you here wit’?”

  My phone buzzes. I pretend I don’t hear him talking to me.

  “Ya man?”

  It’s Miesha. I open her text message: OMW N NOW

  I frown. “No, boo. I don’t have one of those.”

  He grins. “Oh, a’ight. Ya girl?”

  “Sorry, boo-boo. I don’t swing that way, either.” Well, umm, I do. I mean I have, but that’s none of his business. Ole nasty freak. “So, annnyway . . . who you here with?”

  He glances over my shoulder, then looks back at me. “My BM.”

  Ooh, this ninja’s real sloppy ’n’ disrespectful! He’s out here with his baby mother, all up in my face, tryna get his ole nasty stick wet. Triflin’-azz! No-good dog! I let him have it real nice, then kindly tell him to step outta my face. Ain’t no way I wanna be arguing with some booga-chick over the likes of some swamp creature. Chile, boom! I’m not tryna go to jail for beatin’ down some ho with one’a them bowling pins for even thinking I want this rusty-dusty creep.