by Ni-Ni Simone
It was nearly seven in the morning, and there she was, ever the epitome of poise and grace, looking like a bronzed goddess, her hair pulled up into an elegant chignon, her jewels sparkling beneath the recessed lighting.
“You look wonderful,” she said, nearly beaming.
“Good morning, Mother,” I replied around a smile of my own as I slipped the other diamond into my right earlobe. I was surprised to see her. “When did you get here?”
“My flight landed at two in the morning.”
“Oh.” I reached for a tube of cherry-red lip gloss and spackled my lips. “And how long will you be staying?” I inquired.
“For a few weeks, at least,” she stated.
I raised a questioning brow. “With Daddy here?” He wasn’t here now. He was away on business in London—how convenient—managing his clients there. But he’d eventually be returning. And I couldn’t fathom what it’d be like with the two of them under the same roof again. It felt like forever since I’d had both of my parents . . . home.
With me.
“Your father and I have spoken about it. And he’s fine with the idea. In fact, he suggested it.”
I gave her a surprised look.
“The estate is big enough for the both of us,” she quickly replied. “And my extended visit gives you and me time to catch up.”
Oh.
It sounded good. But I wanted to know if her staying longer meant she had come to her senses and was planning to fight for her man, if she thought her marriage to Daddy was worth saving. But instead I held my questions in.
“I see you’re almost ready to head off to school.”
I shrugged. “I guess.”
God, the thought alone made my stomach churn. The constant tension between Rich and me was at an all-time high. I was sick of trying to be nice to that girl. And yet Dr. Kickaloo continued to encourage me to either extend the proverbial olive branch or cut Rich off for good, once and for all.
“And how are things on campus? Have you and those horrid so-called Pampered Princesses made peace?”
I sighed. “No. They’re still who they are. Miserable wenches. But whatever . . . I’m so over them.”
“Good for you, my darling,” she said, running a hand through her perfectly coiffed mane. “They were always beneath your station in life, anyway, especially that wild child, Rich. That girl has never had any respect for anyone. Not even herself. But that’s to be expected. Look who her parents are.”
My mother’s dislike for the Montgomerys did not go unnoticed, but I pretended to not catch it. Still, hearing Rich’s name and the mention of her parents made the hairs on the back of my neck rise, especially the image of her trampy mother with her thirsty paws on Daddy.
Ugh. I didn’t want to start my morning with thoughts of her and her whoring ways. It was bad enough I’d have to see her slutty daughter at school.
I slid on my diamond-encrusted bangle. “Let’s not talk about them,” I said, changing the subject. “It’s too early in the morning for that. I need to start my day with positivity.”
“You’re right, my darling. How about I fix us a light breakfast?”
I blinked. “You? Cook?”
She chuckled. “I do know where to locate the pots and pans, my darling daughter.”
“Umm. Okay. But do you know how to use them?” I’d never known my mother to cook. Ever.
“Well, I was thinking I’d whip up a fresh fruit salad with cottage . . .” She saw the blank expression on my face. “Okay, how about I have . . .”
“No. That’s fine, Mother. I’ll have what you’re having.”
She smiled. “Then I’ll get to it.”
“Okay,” I said, reaching for my hairbrush.
“It’s good to be here. With you,” she said before turning to leave.
“Honestly, I didn’t think you were really coming.”
My mother stopped and turned back to me. “Of course I was coming, my darling. Why would you think otherwise? I’ve been so looking forward to having some quality mother-daughter time with you.”
Hmmm. Since when?
She walked back over to me, removing the hairbrush from my hand. She began brushing my hair, the way she would when she thought the world she was creating for me was perfect and right.
“You’ve done nothing but put your modeling career before me, our daughter, and this marriage!”
I shook my father’s haunting words—words I’d overheard him spew at her during an argument they were having—from my head as I gave my mother a curious, yet suspicious glance.
“Oh, don’t look so surprised, London darling.” She brushed my hair several more strokes, then set the brush down on the vanity as she leaned in and kissed my cheek. “Have you no idea how much being away from you weighs heavy on my heart?”
But you left anyway . . .
My stare locked onto her questioning gaze. Growing up, my mother’s absence, her extended travels to and from Paris, were regular occurrences that had become a part of my existence. Her being gone was more normal than not. Her absence soon became more wanted than not, for having her home brought along more grief than gratitude.
The constant badgering, the berating, the browbeating—about my fluctuating weight, about my looks, about what was expected of me—at the hands of my mother was most times more than I could bear.
Her approval mattered to me. And yet no matter how hard I’d try, it was still never enough for her. I couldn’t be the perfect daughter with the perfect life plan. I didn’t want to always color within the lines she’d drawn. Sometimes I wanted to draw outside the neatly constructed box she created for me. Sometimes I wanted sketch my own lines. And simply color my life the way I wanted to. I wanted my life to be mine. Not hers.
It was all too much for me. Her expectations.
They’d once drained me. Consumed me. Confused me. Controlled me. And I’d felt like my voice, my thoughts, my feelings, my desires weren’t my own.
A long moment slipped by before I finally answered. “I didn’t think you really cared.”
“Why on earth would you think such a thing?”
I inhaled. Then pushed out in one breath, “Because I didn’t think I was good enough. I know I’ve been nothing but a disappointment to you.” There. I’d said it.
“Oh, my darling London!” she exclaimed, placing a hand to her chest. As I eyed her through the vanity mirror, I couldn’t tell if she was feigning insult or if she was genuinely hurt by my words. “Nonsense. You have not been a disappointment . . .”
I shot her a “yeah, right” look.
She smiled. “Okay, okay, my darling. I’ve been displeased, yes. Have you been a challenge? Yes—at times. Have some of your choices been disappointing? Yes. But that doesn’t mean I’ve ever loved you any less. If anything, I’ve loved you more.”
She leaned in and pressed her cheek to mine. “Look at you, my darling child. You’re beautiful. And you were born out of love. And though I haven’t always, admittedly, been the best mother, my intentions have always been good. All I’ve ever wanted was to bring out the very best in you.”
I stared at her. I loved her, but I disliked her too. Disliked her for the way she’d treated me. Disliked her for not fighting for Daddy. Disliked her for not being a better mother. But I was working on forgiving her. I didn’t want to not like her. She was my mother, for Christ’s sake. And I was in many ways just like her.
Counseling was helping me to see that in myself.
And it frightened me. I didn’t want to be her. But I didn’t know exactly how to be me, either. Because every time I looked at myself in a mirror, the only reflection I ever saw staring back at me . . . was her.
I smiled at her, shifting in my seat before standing to face her.
Heather’s mother, then Spencer’s, then Rich’s all came into view. Mine was controlling, but at least she expected the best from me; she pushed me to be better, to be brighter, to not settle.
I guess life u
nder her roof could have been unhappier. I could have been raised by one of the other girls’ mothers and turned out worse than I already was.
I could have turned out to be an addict, a psycho, or a delusional, man-stealing smut.
I sighed inwardly, thankful for my blessings.
“I know, Mother,” I finally said in almost a whisper, before leaning in to give her a cheeky air-kiss. “You’ve done your best.”
24
Spencer
Reckless driving.
Running red lights.
Underage drinking.
Resisting arrest.
Bwahahahahahahahaha!
Moo-Moo the Cow was out of control. She was lucky I was feeling charitable and accepted her collect call when she called me from the police station because I didn’t usually do crooks. Ole criminal. Lush. Repeat offender.
Rich would never learn. She was hardheaded. Obviously, she hadn’t learned a goshdiggity thing from her last arrest. I was starting to think she liked being in the back of police cars. Liked being handcuffed. That she enjoyed being caged.
Mmmph. The cluckers always came back to the henhouse to roost. And Rich was one big ole clucking bird. She’d forgotten how she’d texted me all nasty-like late last night—well, early this morning—and yet I was the first person Man-Eater called.
Mmmph. Her dear ole daddy, ole Mr. Dirty Dozen, Mr. Rolling Stone, was out of the country sowing through cornfields, plowing out his next love child, I was sure. And her ex-gangbanging mother, the queen of gunfire, was in London for the weekend, probably at some whips-and-chains bikers’ rally.
Either way, Rich had no one else but me and her publicist—who’d signed for her to be released—to have her back. And, once again, Momma Spencer had to swoop in to save the day. Whew! I was exhausted chasing behind these hookas. My job was never—
“Ooh, oooh, lookie-lookie,” I said, getting hyped, clapping my hands as I spotted Rich half-walking, half-running out of the precinct, stepping out into the morning light. I clapped my hands. “Here she comes. Yeah, you little troll doll, come to Momma.” She looked a hot, wrinkled mess. “Yes, yes, yesssss! Run-walk the hall of shame, you drunken streetwalker! You, you, stank-mouth cooter! You sidewalk lush!”
Bwahahahahahahaha . . .
“Not a word, bissssh,” Rich hissed the second she quickly slid into the passenger seat of my McLaren. “Now drive!”
I sped off before she could get the door closed.
I made a face.
I sniffed.
Sniffed again.
Then snuck a peek at Richzilla from the corner of my eye. She looked like one of those skid row toilets. And she smelled like one too.
I frowned, turning my attention to her. “Um, Rich, why do you smell like horse piss?”
“Clutching pearls, you selfish slore!” she snapped, her voice rising an octave. “I’ve been in hell for hours! I had to fight six half-girls, half-aliens off of me! Had to sleep with both eyes open to keep Big Bertha and Bam-Bam from eating my cookie, and all you can ask is, ‘Why do I smell like horse piss?’! No hello. No so glad to see you. Tramp, your breath smells like horse piss!
“God, Spencer! I can’t stand you. I swear I can’t. I don’t need your judgment. I need you—for once in your atrocious life—to be a damn friend!”
I pressed a button and let all the windows down, then pressed on the air-conditioner. This girl stank worse than roadkill.
I stuck my head out the window as I drove and took a deep breath of fresh air. The hum of the engine purred out against the wind. I smiled as the wheels spun and gripped the road and hugged a curve.
“Aaah!” Rich screamed, yanking my arm. “Tramp! Get back inside this car and stop tryna kill me! You lunatic! You deranged skank!”
I gulped in as much air as I could, then jerked my head back inside the car.
“Oh, shut it, you wild dog,” I hissed as I glanced over at her, “before I dial nine-one-one and have you arrested. No! Have you shackled and dragged through the streets.”
She shot me a hot glare. “God, you’re so ugly, Spencer! How do you do it?”
I let out the air I’d held in my lungs and then made a face. “Do what?”
“Live your life in ugliness? Just once, don’t you wish you could wake up and be as fabulous as me?”
I blinked. Oh, she’d guessed my dirty little secret. That I’d aspired to be her—the cuckoo jailbird! Yes, yes, yes . . . my secret was out the cat bag.
“Oh, how’d you guess, Rich?” I said sarcastically. “That’s my life mission, to be you.”
“It’s all in your eyes, Spencer. Envy. I almost feel sorry for you. If I could hand you a bag of pretty, I would. But my humanitarian duties don’t stretch that far.”
“But your legs do,” I said, snidely.
“Yasss, girl. Don’t hate. Handstands and Jamaican splits.”
I gawked at her. “They’re Russian, Rich.”
“Whaaat? Clutching pearls! Jamaicans are from Russia? Girl, since when?”
Oh, what a Dumbo! I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“No, the splits,” I finally said.
“What, your split ends?”
I shook my head, rolling my eyes up in my head. It was useless. She was a lost cause. Hopeless.
“God, my heart aches for you, Spencer. I’m going to give you the name of my plastic surgeon. He’d do wonders for that face.”
“Ooh, nice. And I could look just like you. All I’d need for the finishing touches is a fat suit, and we’d be twins.”
“Clutching pearls! Lies! Nice try though, boo-boo. But no matter how hard you’d try, you’d never have these fabulous hips and this bubblicious booty. You’d still be an imitation. A knockoff. Just some ugly troll in a fat suit. You’re not in my league, sweetie. My fabulousness is waaaaay over your . . .”
Caaa-caw, caaa-caw . . .
The crows cawed in my head as she spoke. This girl was wild and crazy.
I leveled a ferocious glare her way, then smiled ever so sweetly. “Rich, it must be so hard being you.”
“It really is,” she said, flipping down the sun visor, then sliding open the lighted mirror. “Dear God, Father of Sha-keeta and Raheem! I need a touch-up. And a facial.”
I smirked. “And you need your skin peeled back and soaked in buttermilk. You smell like a skunk.”
Rich slammed up the visor. “And you need your tonsils knocked out, you damn apple bobber.”
I giggled. “Mm-hmm. I love my apples. Big, round Granny Smiths.”
“Yassss, honey, yasss!” Rich sang out, shimmying her shoulders. “Sweet and sour.”
“Crunch, crunch,” I rang out.
“You the new Becky Appleseed!” Rich exclaimed.
I laughed as I whizzed down Sunset Boulevard. “Yes, girl, yes! Wet mouth. Juices all down my chin.”
“Omygod, tramp! I can’t with you. You’re so disgusting! Hurry up and get me home. I can’t be seen out in these streets with you.”
I reached for the stereo and pressed it on. Rihanna belted out through the speakers, singing about feeling like a brand-new person. I sang along.
Then came Rich.
Next thing I knew we were both singing along to every song on Rihanna’s Anti album. When “Love on the Brain” started playing, Rich nastily demanded I shut up.
“I don’t need you tearing up my song,” she jeered. “Just sit back and let a pro handle this.” And then she broke out in song, singing hard and heavy and loud, outsinging the song. She clutched her chest, then held her head. Then ran her fingers through her knotted hair. Then shook her fists. Then slid her hands, her nails lightly grazing, down her ashy, unwashed face.
God, her breath stank.
I held my breath and threw a hand up in the air and waved it, my foot heavy on the gas pedal.
Rich was taking us to church. And I didn’t have the heart to shut down her praise worship, so I let her sing while I drove. By the time we sang through the albu
m a second time, we were way up in the Santa Monica Mountains.
I stuck my head out the window again and gulped in a mouthful of fresh air, then stuck my head back inside the car’s cabin when the album reached the end for the second time. I lowered the volume and looked over at Rich.
“You miss him?”
Rich frowned. “Who?”
“Justice?”
She sighed, dramatically. “Yes, girl. I can’t shake him, Spencer. God knows I try. But every time he throws me up against a wall, he kisses me and lovingly puts me back together again. Girl, I’m a fool for his sweet love. He takes me higher than any boy has ever taken me.”
The car swerved. Horns blared. I just missed sideswiping a SUV.
“Whaaaat? That boy threw you up against a wall? When?”
“Ohmygod, Spencer! What are you tryna do? Kill me? Eyes on the road, bissssh!”
“Oh, shut it, Rich! Now tell me. And don’t”—I deliberately swerved again—“lie or I will take us over the cliff.”
“Aaaah!” she screamed. “You crazy whore! Yes! Yes! Okay, yes! Now slow down, you damn psycho!”
I swerved again. “Yes, what?”
“Justice threw me up against a wall!” Rich gasped, trying to catch her breath. She clutched her chest. “There I said it! Happy?”
I let my foot up off the gas. “No. I’m not happy. Why’d you let him do that to you? Throw you into a wall? That sounds like abuse to me.”
She waved me on. “Girl, it was nothing. Just a few love taps; that’s how we make love.”
My eyes bulged open. “Lawdgawdsweetheavenlylamb-chops! Rich, are you frickin’ kidding me?! Are you craaaaazy? Why are you willing to play a fool for him?”
Rich sighed, giving me a dismissive flick of her hand. “Spencer, stop being so dramatic. Like I said, it’s nothing.” She shook her head, holding a hand up. “Anyway, girl. Rihanna said it best: ‘What’s love without tragedy’?”
My lashes batted rapidly as I screeched to a halt on the side of the road. Dust and gravel kicked up around us.
“What is going on?” Rich wanted to know, looking around. “Why are you stopping?”
