Divas Don't Cry

by Ni-Ni Simone

That night, and every night thereafter, my mother painfully taught me poise and grace. And in between catwalk training, she’d taught me how to make friends with the camera. Mouth slightly ajar, lips always pouty, and then . . . the pose. Thrusting both hips forward, shooting one hip out to the side, while balancing my legs, one behind the other.

  And then came the hours of standing in front of the ever-present wind machine no matter how badly my eyes burned.

  “No blinking, London,” she’d warn. “No blurry eyes.”

  So, dry-eyed and all, there had been no blinking.

  Ever.

  And then came years of unnerving weigh-ins. My mother’s beloved digital scale, her leather-bound journal and exquisite ink pen, and all of her meticulous recordings of my weight and measurements. Monitoring my caloric intake had been her life’s work to ensure I remained tall, thin... a human hanger, wafty and slender.

  “Diet is everything in this industry...”

  But my weight wouldn’t always cooperate. And my binge eating couldn’t always be controlled. And so my weight would yo-yo up and down. And so my full breasts and rounded hips became the enemy, the antithesis of the perfect body.

  “. . . at the rate you’re going, you’ll never make it on the runway. You’ll only be good enough to shake and bounce for rap videos . . .”

  And at the cost of nearly stripping me down to protruding bone, she’d succeeded—right up until that god-awful day in Milan, the Fashion Week finale. The day I’d sliced into my arm and across my wrist with a razor, then collapsed as I made my way down—

  I rubbed along my arm, my fingertips brushing over my scars. The marks I refused to have removed by plastic surgery. My reminder.

  That I wasn’t perfect.

  That I’d never be perfect.

  “Maybe I was too hard on you,” my mother admitted, cutting deep into my reverie. “Maybe my delivery hasn’t always been the best. But know this, London. I have loved you. I have always loved you, from the moment I held you in my arms. And I have only wanted nothing but the best for you.”

  Suddenly, I felt drained. I blinked back the beginning of fresh tears. I hadn’t heard her say those words in so long, too long. I love you.

  And for the first time in a long time, the words sounded, felt real. Not rehearsed, like every other time. I flopped down on my bed and choked back a sob. When I’d called her I hadn’t expected . . . I mean, I wanted . . . I mean, I needed... answers, but I didn’t, I hadn’t—

  “So are you and Daddy really over? Are you divorcing him?” I pushed out, reaching for a manila folder sitting on my nightstand. I walked over to my chaise and sat. I opened the folder and shuffled through its contents. Photos. My heart beat against my ribs.

  I heard my mother take a long deep breath. Then she slowly exhaled. “Right now, London, your father and I are separated; that’s all I can say for today. Until he and I work out the details of our separation and parenting, I will be flying back and forth to spend time with you at the estate when your father is doing business in his London office.”

  And he’ll probably have his mistress sneaking off to be with him.

  “So you’re avoiding him?”

  She sighed. “No, London. I’m spending time with my daughter. I’ll see you in a week or so.”

  “Okay,” I mumbled, before we said our good-byes.

  I glanced over at the time. I had less than thirty minutes to get to school. I quickly finished dressing, grabbed my clutch and keys, and sauntered out the door.

  11

  Heather

  The moment I snapped open my eyes, hot fire assaulted my chocolate orbs as sunshine flooded my room. Ugh!

  I blinked.

  My head pounded.

  I felt like crap.

  I blew out a hot breath and frowned. I cupped a hand over my mouth, then blew into it and almost threw up in the back of my mouth.

  Oh . . . my . . . gaaawd! My breath smelled like an open grave.

  Horrid!

  God, I needed a quick swig of mouthwash and a pinch of goodness, just a little to kick-start my morning. That annoying half-French, half-Italian, half-a-man Philippe Pinelle would be storming through my room in any second with the camera crew, and I needed to be ready for him and his heavy makeup, which dripped like clay as he sweated like a pig.

  Yes, yes, yes. I needed my medicine.

  And a breath mint!

  But that was beside the point. What I needed most was to have my mind ready for all of Philippe’s crazy antics. That goddang man was worse than a woman. A straight beeeeey-otch! All he did was nag, nag, nag! Cuuuuuut, this! Cuuuuuut, that! Cut, cut, cut!

  Ugggggh.

  But he was the best reality-TV director in the business. Heck, in the world! And he was on his way to making me a bigger star than I already was. I was going to be hotter than Cookie Lyons. Be more talked about than all the Trickdashi-ans put together. Have more Twitter followers than Angelina Jolie. More YouTube views than Beyoncé’s Drunk in Love video.

  Yasss, honey, yasss! Philippe Pinelle was about to do the damn thing! And then I’d be able to tell Kitty, Camille, and all them corny, whack-azz pampered slores to go to H-E-L-L.

  I was destined for greatness. Shoot. I already had iTunes on lock. Now all I had to do was, as Camille had stated, “follow the yellow brick road to success.”

  And Philippe was going to be directing all eyes on me. Still, when he was all up in my ear barking orders, telling me to stick to the script, I wished he’d cut out his vocal chords and shut the eff up!

  I knew the lines to my script. Heck, I lived it every day. Everything I was. Rehearsed lines. Uncut lines. Missed lines. I was one big performance. This was what my life was. A scripted mess!

  I just happened to be on set, living it out in front of the world. Still, I hated this reality-TV crap! But I needed the checks. I needed to keep a roof over my head and money in my vault to keep me laced in my designer one-of-a-kinds.

  I took a deep breath, tightly shut my eyes, and said a little prayer.

  Thank you, dear God, for not letting Camille destroy my career. I owe you one. Umm. Maybe two. Peace out and amen.

  I pushed out another sigh. After the stunt Camille pulled in Kitty’s office last week—slapping her and dragging her for the filth she was—I still needed to stay in her good graces and keep the peace.

  I needed to do damage control, which is why I’d sent my publicist a text last night to have an apology bouquet of flowers and a card sent to her office.

  Like her or not, Kitty was also the best in the business. She knew television and media the way that crazy Spencer knew her way around a boy’s body parts. That skank!

  Ooh, Camille, had called her out real good.

  Permanent knee pads? A battery pack in her neck?

  Bwahahahahahaha.

  I reached for a pillow and covered my face as I screamed with laughter into it.

  Camille did. That.

  Yasss, God, honey!

  Bwahahahahahaha.

  And so far, there’d been no backlash from Kitty. Mmmph. Check her boo. Still, I needed to not sleep on her. Kitty was known to be ruthless in the industry. Vicious. So I knew I had to stay on my A-game. I had to keep the drama turned up on the set, and keep my ratings up.

  Still, I couldn’t lie. I was pissed at Camille for doing what she’d done. She could have handled things another way, I thought. And I told her so. But she’d blown my tirade off. Told me that Kitty wasn’t crazy enough to retaliate. That Kitty would take her lumps and play nice for a while. That she had it all under control.

  “Let me handle, Kitty,” she’d warned. “And you keep a handle on your pill snorting. The last thing I need is a damn junkie on the loose. And before you open your mouth, you need to stop acting like one! Stop acting like some thirsty trick! A gutter rat fiend!”

  “I’m not a gutter rat! And I’m not a fiend! Or some thirsty trick!” I protested.

  She slung her drink in my face, then jabbed a
finger in my face. “Shut your lies, Heather Suzanne! Just stop with the lies! You are what I say you are! And right now, from where I’m standing, everything about you screams pill-junkie fiend! Now not another lie about what you think you’re not. Because, between you and me, sweetie . . . you suck at it!”

  She was drunk.

  “I’m Camille Cummings, goddammit!” She threw her glass at the wall. “An Academy-Award-winning actress! I’ve given up everything for you. Everything! And all I have to show for it is a child who can’t seem to decide if she wants to be a man or a woman! All I have is a child who wants to end up facedown in some muddy river with a bunch of powdered pills shoved up her nose! Get out of my damn sight before I forget I gave birth to you and loved you even when I didn’t feel like loving you or loving my-damn-self!”

  Really?

  I inhaled. Held my breath in for as long as I could, then slowly exhaled. I wiped more tears from my eyes, then shook my head.

  I wished there was a way I could get a refund for having Camille as a mother. I loved her, but hated her more. I needed her, but wanted nothing more than to be free of her. She was my mother. I couldn’t not love her. I didn’t have it in me.

  Clearly, there was something wrong with me.

  And Kitty?

  I shook my head again.

  I wanted to hate her too. But I couldn’t. She’d been the only one willing to pull me out of a sinking ship. That crazy woman had become my lifeline. I was stuck with her. And, sadly, I needed her.

  I closed my eyes and bit back a scream as my reality bloomed in clear view.

  Kitty Ellington was my master.

  I was her slave.

  And she owned me.

  But if I was really, really honest with myself, she believed in me in her own sick, twisted way. She showed me tough love because she cared. She knew I was a star. And I knew she wanted to—

  I jolted up in my king-size bed. Then listened.

  Wait. Why was it so quiet?

  I glanced over at the clock on my nightstand. It was nearly ten o’clock in the morning. Philippe and his loud mouth should have been here by now with his camera crew in tow. But they weren’t.

  Hmm. That’s strange, I thought as I gazed across the room at my strewn clothes from the night before. I frowned. It was frickin’ too quiet in here.

  I slithered out of bed; my feet sank into the deep purple carpet as I reached in back of me and pulled the string of my thong from out of my heavenly lumps. I yanked out a pair of faded jean booty shorts from my dresser drawer and wriggled into them. I slid my feet into a pair of wedged heels.

  Then headed out the room.

  I marched my way into the kitchen. Quiet. Next the living room, then the great room, then all the bathrooms. Still quiet!

  I stalked toward the front door, swinging it open and looking out. Nothing. No Philippe. No crew trucks. No cameramen. Nothing.

  I slammed the door, then headed straight to Camille’s room and barged right in.

  I rolled my eyes. There she was. Mouth open, drooling, lying on her stomach, her nightgown hiked up over her hips.

  “Ca-”—I quickly caught myself—“Mother?”

  She didn’t budge. And for a split second I didn’t think she was breathing, until she passed gas. Ugh.

  I shook her, but she just let out a loud snore and buried herself deeper into the bed. “Mom!” I shook her again.

  “Whaaat?!” she yelled, swatting a hand at me. She peered up at me through her long, white-blond hair. “What is it, Heather? Don’t you see me in here trying to get my beauty rest? Now what the hell do you want?”

  I rolled my eyes and frowned. She reeked of booze. It was seeping through her pores. “Have you talked to Philippe? He’s not here.”

  She grunted, swatting at me again. “Yeah, you idiot! I slept right through the conversation. You’re so ridiculous, Heather. You wake me from my sleep for this? Take me from Idris to ask me about some fat tart? Are you kidding me?” She jumped up and reached for one of her king-size pillows and swung it at me. “I was about to straddle him, damn you, Heather! Get the hell out so I can catch him before he pulls his pants up.”

  I sucked my teeth. “Fine! I’ll just call him.”

  “Well, that’s what you should have done any-damn-way. You dream snatcher! You better hope he’s still in my dreams when I shut these eyes or I’ma kick your—”

  “Whatever,” I mumbled under my breath as I slammed her door shut behind me.

  “Bring me a drink!” she yelled.

  I kept walking.

  “Heather Suzanne? You hear me? Fix me a drink, so I can get my day started.”

  Ignoring her, I fished my phone from my bag, then called Philippe, as I walked back out to the living room. “The subscriber you’ve called has a number that is no longer in service. . .”

  I frowned, staring at the phone screen. “That’s odd,” I said, redialing his number. I’d just spoken to him yesterday from this same number. Again, the automated voice said his number was no longer in service.

  What the fu—

  My phone rang. Unlisted number. I frowned again. Who would be calling me from an unlisted number? Then it dawned on me. It was probably Philippe or someone from his crew calling to let me know they were running late.

  “Hello?”

  “Heather, it’s Charlotte Emmons.”

  I blinked. Charlotte Emmons was my new publicist. She’d been referred by Kitty and so far had been a godsend.

  “Oh, hi. What’s up?”

  “We have a problem,” she said, flatly.

  My stomach lurched.

  “A problem? What kind of problem? Did you send Kitty the flowers I asked you to?”

  “Right now, Miss Cummings . . .” I blinked. Miss Cummings? Uh-oh. She was being formal. Not a good sign. “. . . flowers are the least of the problem.”

  I swallowed, hard. Then tried to act natural. “Oh. Then what’s the problem?”

  “You and your mother, Camille, have been officially banned from Kitty Productions. Neither of you are to step foot on or near the premises of any of the Kitty buildings or its affiliate enterprises.”

  Wham! My knees buckled. I felt like I’d been sucker-punched.

  My hands shook. “Exc-c-cuse me? I think there’s a bad connection.”

  “No, Miss Cummings. There’s no bad connection. All ties with Kitty Productions have been severed, effective immediately. Your trailer has been cleared out of all of your belongings and will be sent to you by a driver.”

  Wham! Another blow to my gut.

  “Wait. She’s firing me . . . for what?”

  “For your libidinous behaviors over the last several weeks. And the libelous behaviors displayed by your mother, Camille. Attacking Mrs. Ellington, slandering her name. You and your affiliation with your mother as your manager are not a good fit for the Kitty brand. Mrs. Ellington has opted to not file charges, but she has been advised by legal to cut ties.”

  Oh God, oh God, oh God! I’m being fired! Fired! Oh God! I can’t be fired !

  “God, no,” I pleaded. “This has to be one big misunderstanding. If I can—”

  My voice went. The tears escaped my eyes.

  “No misunderstanding, Miss Cummings. Weak links break chains. So your time with Kitty Productions has come to an end. And with that being said, I will no longer be representing you as your publicist. Good day. And all the best to you.”

  She hung up.

  I blinked. “Hello? Hello?”

  And as if my world hadn’t already been bulldozed enough, the doorbell rang.

  I swung it open. “Whaaat?”

  “Heather Cummings?” a freckle-faced man with a mop of woolly red hair atop his head asked.

  “Yeah,” I said over a sneer. “Who’s asking?”

  “Here.” The man thrust a cream-colored envelope at me. I stared at his hand for a beat, then snatched the envelope from him. “You’ve been served.”

  I blinked. I’ve been w
hat? Served?

  I glanced at the sender’s return address at the top of the envelope: KITTY PRODUCTIONS.

  And crumbled to the floor.

  12

  London

  By the time I made it to my fifth-period AP English class the following day, I was pretty much done with being here—in class, in school. My mind was everywhere else except here, where it needed to be, especially since I had an exam coming up in my French class next period.

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. I didn’t want to think about it. This place. All I wanted to do was get through this period, then the next, and then get home.

  I knew I’d be watching the clock and counting down the minutes until this day was officially over. So far, it drrrrragged!

  Luckily, I hadn’t seen Rich but only three times today. Once at her locker; the second time, she was twerking along with Spencer in the middle of one of the hallways; and the third time, I’d nearly bumped into her as she’d come barreling out of one of the girls’ lounges.

  I didn’t speak. And neither did she. Instead, she’d rudely brushed by me, sucking her teeth. The old me (the me before counseling) would have snatched her by the back of her weave and yanked her scalp back.

  But I was really trying to be a different type of girl. Really. I was.

  “Oh-my-gaaawd! No way!” I heard the girl sitting directly in back of me shriek. I couldn’t remember her name. Something insignificant. But her voice was whiny and annoying, and she loved cladding her Pilates-toned body in black lace.

  I shifted in my chair, brushing my bangs to the side, before rummaging through my bag to retrieve my books, notepad, and a pen, pretending to be disinterested in their mini pre-class gossip session.

  “Yes, girl,” I overhead her bestie say. She was also someone with a name I could not recall. Another insignificant. “Heather’s reality show has been canceled. No. Correction: She’s been fired. It’s all over the blogs.”

  Ohmygod, I thought, as I tried my best to scoot farther back in my seat so that I could listen discreetly without being obvious. Heather fired from her show? I had no idea. And though I wished Heather no ill fortune, she did need to be knocked down from off her high horse. She’d gotten too big for her own good. Cocky. She’d become real snotty—umm, or should I say, snottier than before.