Divas Don't Cry

by Ni-Ni Simone

  Rich’s nose flared. “Beeeyotch, you’re so pathetic! Desperate for friends.”

  “Yeah, says the drunk driver,” London spat back.

  I bit back a snicker. Oh, how I wished I could have been a butterfly fluttering in the wind the night Rich had gotten pulled over by the cops for being intoxicated behind the wheel. I warned her to not drive home. Offered her the comforts of the pool house. But she’d snubbed me. Turned her nose up to my good accommodations.

  So I’d done what any good-good friend would have done.

  I called the police on her.

  “Clutching pearls! Tramp, you’re out of order,” Rich snapped. “I have never been drunk. Tipsy, yes. Slurring my words, maybe. Staggering, just a bit. But I don’t ever drink and drive far, whore. I find the nearest hotel and get a room!”

  I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

  “Spencer, I don’t know what the heck is so funny. Don’t do me, tramp!”

  I tossed my hair, then reached inside my bag. “Wolf, don’t get ugly. Here, I’ve been holding onto these,” I said as I slid her two AA pamphlets.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Whaaaat? Clutching pearls!” She slung the Alcoholics Anonymous brochures back at me. “I know all about being an AA—African American. I don’t need you trying to give me a history lesson on being black and beautiful. I’m a European queen with Indian running all through my blood, honey. Don’t do me.”

  London laughed, and I shot her a nasty look.

  “Something funny, Miss Humpback? I know you’re not laughing at my good-good ex-bestie.” Even if she is dumber than a California mudslide.

  “Ha!” Rich said. “Tell her, Spencer. That slore knows she doesn’t wanna see you with those hands. I should hop up and molly-whop her upside that big pumpkin head.”

  “And I’d like to see you try it, Rich,” London stated calmly.

  Rich jumped to her feet, snatching a fork and pointing it at London. “Ho, I will prong your forehead up! You skank! You cheap, pathetic wannabe!”

  Suddenly a hush fell over the café, and I saw cell phones being held up in our direction.

  “Um, Rich,” I said calmly. “Put the fork down, girlie. You’re about to be on the next Snapped.”

  “Screw Snapped,” she hissed. “Screw Jenny Craig! Screw The Gap! Screw all their whack-azz endorsements. And screw this skank-face. Nobody asked you over here, London. We all know how ugly you are. What, you lonely, too? Bish, get a life and stop trying to live mine!”

  Now London was up on her feet. “Really, Rich? Is that the best you can do? You think I want your life? Girl, bye! Your life is a catastrophic mess! You’re flunking all your classes . . . !”

  “Lies and deceit!” Rich shouted. “I don’t do failure! I’m getting all D’s, ho! So come again, tramp! The only thing that’s failed is you, boo-boo! You want everything I have!”

  Click, click, click...

  Cameras flashed.

  I reached for my shades inside my bag and slid them on. Then I made sure I angled my face just right to catch the light. Heeheehee.

  Click, click, click...

  “Yeah, right!” London retorted. “What you are is sloppy! All used up! All run through! You’re a man’s toilet, Rich, one flush after the next! Yeah, you’re fabulous all right! But riddle me this, Rich, since you think you’re all that: Has Justice called you fat yet? Has he told you how insecure you are? Has he told you how worthless and lazy you are yet? Well, guess what, sweetie. He will! Justice is going to strangle your soul. And you know what, Rich? You deserve everything you get!”

  Click, click, click...

  I blinked. Shifted in my seat. Then locked my eyes on Rich. I saw her shudder slightly, saw her lip quiver, just a bit. Ole Miss London had banged a hammer down on a nerve, and I loved every bit of it. Still, I had to take up for Rich. I always did. But before I could get a word in, Rich had turned into the Incredible Hulktress.

  Click, click, click...

  “You ugly bish!” Rich shouted, grabbing a handful of half-bitten shrimps from her plate and throwing them at London. Then she grabbed the bowl of cocktail sauce and slung it in London’s face, causing a messy food fight between the two of them to erupt.

  7

  Heather

  “Heather, I don’t know what kind of junkie-trash games you’re playing, but you had better clean your act up and get with the program, or you will find yourself picking trash and collecting aluminum cans for your next payday. I need you at my office this afternoon. Three p. m., sharp! Not three-oh-one, not three-oh-two . . .”

  3:06 p.m.

  I glanced at the time again and rolled my eyes.

  This old trick was late! The nerve of her! Threatening me. Me, for Christ’s sake! Did she not know who I was? Did she not know what I was?

  Apparently not!

  I was Heather Cummings, baby! A star! An iTunes sensation! A YouTube celebrity! The queen of one-of-a-kind Korean couture!

  I was . . .

  3:08 p.m.

  I shifted in my seat. Crossed my legs, then uncrossed them. Then shifted in my chair again. I was getting fidgety. I needed a pinch, just a taste, to keep my mind right. I wasn’t an addict or anything. I knew my limit. But there wasn’t anything wrong with having a little get-right from time to time. Heck. Everyone had a vice, a thing.

  And my thing . . . my occasional use of crushed Adderall with a pinch of this and a pinch of that—usually molly, though—was under control. There wasn’t anything wrong with a having a little party favor at your fingertips to kick up the party even when there really wasn’t one being had.

  I was a free spirit.

  Not some junkie.

  I wasn’t some wayward child.

  So who the heck did Kitty think I was, summoning me like I was some effen stray? Leaving me some damn nasty-gram on my cell, demanding my presence. Disrespecting my time, my life.

  So what if I liked to turn up a little?

  I worked hard, and I loved to play harder.

  So what if I liked to bend over and give the world my greatest asset to kiss every now and again? It was mine. It was paid for. And I had a whole lot of it. So they—and she, could kiss . . .

  Camille grunted, snatching me from my inner rant. “Where the hell is this damn woman?” She glanced at her bejeweled timepiece. “This is so like Kitty. Selfish. Inconsiderate. She’s always been a selfish whore. Always only thinking of herself, cutting into my happy hour like this.”

  “Mmmph. Sounds like someone else I know,” I muttered.

  “Excuse you. Is there a problem here?”

  Eye roll. “Oh, nooo, Mother. Everything’s just peachy. It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.”

  “And I’m missing my midday cocktail hour,” Camille retorted as she stood to her feet, glancing at the time again. She started pacing Kitty’s office, her one good pair of Chanel pumps sinking deep into the plush carpet fibers.

  I rolled my eyes and sucked my teeth. “Didn’t you have your liquid snack before we left the house?”

  Camille stopped her pacing and shot me a nasty look. “Little girl, I know your pill-snorting behind isn’t sitting over there judging me. Don’t try me. So what if I had a cocktail? I can drink out a whole damn bar if I want to. I’m a grown woman, not some little girl tryna play grown-up.”

  I looked her up and down. My mother was a hot mess. Always. Standing here all dolled up in what looked like a Marilyn Monroe halter dress—in black, though with a vintage fox stole draped over her bare shoulders.

  A mink shawl in almost eighty-degree weather!

  “Ain’t no one thinking about you,” I said flatly. “And, anyway, you might be grown, but I’m the one sponsoring all of your booze binges.”

  “Binges?” she rang out incredulously.

  “Yeah, binges?” I repeated. “B-I-N-G-E-S. Your hourly need for a scotch on the rocks to ward off those nasty shakes.”

  She stalked over toward me and reached over and grabbed my hair, yankin
g my head back.

  “Ow!” I yelped, grabbing her hand at the wrist and trying to free my hair from her grip. “Get off of me!”

  She leaned in, her face mere inches from mine, pulling my hair harder. “You little ungrateful snot,” she hissed, her hot breath singeing my nose hairs. “You had better watch your tone”—hair tug—“and watch what you say to me.” She tightened her grip on my hair.

  I cringed. “Ow.”

  “Don’t ow me, you little turn-up queen. Because of you and your hoochie-mama antics, I’m stuck here with you instead of being in the comforts of my home. All you have to do is stay off the drugs, lay off the ratchetness, and follow the damn yellow brick road to success. But nooo. You wanna be difficult. Wanna be ratchet. You wanna have me living back in some nasty flea trap again.”

  I swallowed, hard. “Yeah. Okay. Forgive me for taking you out of your comfort zone, Mother. For taking you out of your nasty see-through nightgown and kitten heels. Forgive me for ruining your access to a bar that I keep stocked, just to keep you drunk and out of my business. Yup, this is all my fault, Camille.”

  “Camille?” my mother screeched. “Oh, so now we’re on a first-name basis, huh, Heather Suzanne? Is that how we’re doing it now? Calling me Camille, huh? Do I need to remind you of what the inside of a hospital looks like? Do I?”

  I saw the fire flash in Camille’s blue eyes, and I knew then she was on the edge. And if I pushed her over it, I’d be in the back of another ambulance, beat up from head to toe, like before. Oh, no, I had things to do this weekend. I couldn’t be laid up in a hospital bed.

  “N-no,” I finally stammered out.

  She yanked my head again. “I didn’t think so, little girl. Contrary to what you may think of me, I am still your mother. And I will lay hands on you, snatch your breath right from out of your chest. I will take your whole scalp off. You hear me, Heather Suzanne? I will take. You. Out. So you had better check your self-esteem and check your damn attitude. Do you understand me?”

  Defiantly, I said nothing, just stared this crazy lady down.

  I wanted to punch her in her throat. Wanted to kick a hole in her chest for yanking on my three-hundred-dollar, thirty-inch 7A. This was four bundles of deep wave goodness, and she was trying to pull it out of my scalp.

  She was so frickin’—

  Slap !

  My eyes widened. My whole face stung, my ears rung.

  “I said, do you hear me?” She yanked my hair harder and swung her arm back to slap me again.

  “Yess,” I cried out. “I hear you.”

  “Good.”

  She slapped me again, then let go of my hair, mushing me in the head.

  “Now sit up straight and fix your damn face before that lecherous woman comes up in here.”

  She narrowed her eyes and watched me through thin slits as I begrudgingly straightened myself in my seat, then held the side of my face.

  “And when Kitty finally shows her hideous face, you had better not open your trifling mouth to say one damn word. You let me do the talking.” She started pacing again. “You’ll catch more flies with honey when dealing with that trick. So you let me handle her. I don’t need you screwing up our money.” She huffed. “I need a cigarette. Got my nerves all tore up. You just can’t seem to do anything right, can you, Heather?”

  Screw this crap! I didn’t need Camille’s abuse. And I didn’t need Kitty’s judgment. I was outta here!

  I stood, shouldering my monogrammed hobo bag. “I’m out of here.”

  “Oh, no you’re not,” she countered.

  “Let me see you stop me,” I challenged, fighting back tears. “I’ve kept my end of the bargain. I came at three like the good ole slave master ordered. And”—I glanced down at my watch again—“she’s kept me waiting long enough. Who does that?”

  Camille yanked off her mink and charged over toward me. “You sit back in that chair”—she hit me with her fur—“before I beat you into the grave.”

  I plunked down in the chair and crossed my arms tightly over my chest.

  “I’ve done nothing but dedicate my whole life to you,” my mother continued. “I’ve sacrificed everything for you, you little witch! I’ve denied myself the comfort of a man, a career. A life. All for you! For what? So you can piss it all away for a good time? So you can become the next new trap queen, twerk your way into some low-budget rap video? Is that what you want for yourself, Heather? Huh? To be some video ho?”

  She swung her fox wrap at me again, its tail hitting me in the face. “You will not ruin everything I’ve worked so hard for. It’s bad enough you destroyed your Wu-Wu television career with all of your junkie antics. And now you’re about to kill your reality-TV career. Mediocre or not, it’s still a career. A start to something greater, but all you wanna do is snort it away.” She huffed. “Didn’t you learn anything in that high-priced rehab you were locked away in? Perhaps you need a return stay, a longer one, to help you get your mind together.”

  She was referring to my twenty-eight-day stay that she’d practically had me committed to, pretending to be the concerned mother. Oh, please. Miss me with that. But it was either a jail stay or rehab. So I took the lesser of the evils.

  Always Hope.

  I scoffed. “Always Hope was nothing but a joke, just like you pretending to have my best interest at heart. We both know the only thing you’re interested in is your next drink. You’re the one who needs rehab!”

  “Why you little . . .” She raised her hand to slap me again just as the door swung open.

  “Oh, how sweet. A mother-daughter moment. Am I missing all the fun?”

  Camille dropped her hand. “You’re late, Kitty. And I don’t appreciate you making me wait, like I’m one of your flunkies. You said three o’clock, and yet you don’t waltz up in here until twenty after? Really?”

  Kitty whisked around her sleek mahogany desk, then took a seat. Her flowery scent wafted around the room. “You wait for me because I write the checks around here,” she calmly stated, sitting in her leather high-back chair. “You wait for me because I’m the one who keeps your daughter working. In a flash, I’m the one who can shut your daughter’s whole career down. So I suggest you don’t forget it. Now take a seat, Camille, so we can get down to business. Better yet”—she pressed a button on her desk and a mirrored wall slid open, displaying shelves of liquor—“shall I offer you a drink?”

  Camille huffed, swinging her stole over her left shoulder, then taking a seat. “I don’t need a damn drink, Kitty. What I need is for you to tell me why we’re here. And why you’re wasting my time with this foolery.”

  Kitty turned her attention to me. “You’re a hot mess, Heather, real messy. And I love it. But I need for you to dial down the turn-up. You need to learn discretion. That stunt you pulled the other night was just short of a catastrophe. So what do you have to say for yourself?”

  “I-I . . .” I stammered, feeling myself slowly shrinking into my chair.

  She tapped her manicured nails against her desk.

  “Well?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing. I don’t know what the big deal is. All I was doing was giving my fans what they love. A show. You said you wanted me to stay in the headlines. And I have.”

  “You bumbling idiot,” Kitty snarled. “Are you brain dead? I said keep them talking, not for you to keep looking like a damn fool, like some slut-bucket junkie. What type of dope are you snorting now, Heather? Because from where I’m sitting, you need to be back in rehab—indefinitely.”

  “Now wait one goddamn minute, Kitty,” Camille snapped, placing a hand up on her hip and leaning up in her seat. “Don’t you dare talk about my daughter like she’s some derelict, some reject. Heather is not an addict! And she doesn’t need some damn rehab. What she needs is your support, not your haranguing. We both know my baby is a free spirit . . .”

  Baby?

  I blinked. Wasn’t this lady about to clobber me? Wasn’t she just threatening to rip out my lungs?
To take my life?

  And now I was her baby. Mmmph.

  “Oh, Camille, shut it. Is your brain that soaked in whiskey? Are you that much of a wet brain to see?” She let out a disgusted sigh. “What Heather is, is a train speeding down the wrong track. And I seem to be the only one trying to keep her from a crash and burn.”

  I shifted in my seat.

  Camille snorted. “Oh, Kitty. Stop with the theatrics. You’ve always been so melodramatic. We both know Heather’s a star. Her ratings alone speak for her. Her fans love her. And every iTunes song she drops becomes an instant hit.” Camille reached over and grabbed my hand. “My baby is the real deal, Kitty. And I suggest you recognize it.”

  Camille smoothed her hands over imaginary wrinkles at the hem of her dress, then crossed her hands in her lap. “Now I suggest you back up off her and tell me what you plan on doing to keep her star shining brightly. And not another word about some rehab; she doesn’t need it.”

  I cut my eyes at Camille and smirked as she crossed her legs.

  You go, boo! Yass, honey, yass! Let her know! Check her, boo!

  She slayed.

  Kitty let out a mocking laugh. “So says the woman who can’t go a day without a drink.” She scoffed. “What a Hallmark moment. An alcoholic mother defending her pill-snorting daughter’s honor, how sweet.”

  Camille jumped out of her seat. “How dare you judge my child, or me, when you have a daughter who’s walking around with permanent kneepads on and a battery pack in her neck . . . !”

  I eased up in my chair. A catfight! Yassss, honey, yassss! This was too good to be true. And I had a front-row seat. I slipped my hand in my bag and felt for my phone; then a sly grin eased over my face.

  “That Bobblehead is the biggest knob gobbler in Hollywood!” Camille exclaimed. “And don’t even let me get started on you, tramping around, preying on old, lonely men. You’ve been whoring since you were thirteen, Kitty—maybe even longer than that. But you don’t hear me trashing you or your slutty daughter, do you?”

  Kitty’s lashes flapped as she clapped her hands. “Bravo, darling, braaaa . . . vo! Give it to me, Camille. Let’s get down and dirty, the way I like it. And of course you’d know all about whoring, darling, considering how you spent your whole career on your back. You’ve been spread eagle with every Hollywood celebrity who’d have you. It’s no wonder you never made it in the porn business. I hear you were quite the naughty girl. But, of course, you couldn’t even do that right. And then when you got yourself knocked up by someone else’s man . . .”