Divas Don't Cry

by Ni-Ni Simone

  I knew what I wanted. Knew what I needed.

  I wanted Anderson. I needed Anderson.

  And I knew what I had—no, needed—to do to win him back.

  First, I needed to get him away from that Russian whore!

  Slowly, I drifted off to sleep.

  31

  Spencer

  Before I even rolled out of bed good, at six a.m., this morning, I found myself looking at my cell to see if there had been any text messages or missed calls from RJ.

  But there hadn’t been. Nothing.

  However, he did—hours later, after I’d texted him like over ten times—so graciously take a moment to send me a goshdang smiley face. A smiley face!

  Really?

  Yes. Really.

  Oh, and a text. Thinking of u, bae.

  Mmmph.

  I didn’t know what kind of cat-in-the-bag trickery RJ had going on, but I did not appreciate it. Anyway. I didn’t even like cats. Ugh. Then he had the audacity to send me an emoji with red hearts popping out from its eyeballs, like that was supposed to make up for him not coming back to the estate last night after his so-called meeting with his father—if he even had a daggone meeting. He didn’t even think to creep back over early this morning for a little heated romp before I had to get ready for school and before he had to hold Rich’s hand at court today.

  Court?

  I glanced down at my timepiece. 7:47 a.m. Pretty soon RJ and the rest of the Montgomery clan would be rolling out in the family car headed to the courthouse in one long, sad processional to Rich’s doomsday.

  Maybe she’d get fifty years of probation. Maybe house arrest until her thirtieth birthday to keep her off the streets. Mmmph.

  I scratched those maybes for something a bit more entertaining. Ha! Rich in a black-and-white jumper, legs and feet shackled, her head wrapped Aunt Jemima style, looking like that real old lady comedian Daddy loved watching in those old black-and-white videos of his—Moms something or another. Mobley? Mobey?

  No, no. That wasn’t it. Mabley?

  Yeah, that was it—Mabley! Moms Mabley.

  I giggled.

  “I’ve been working on the chain gang,” I sang out as I bounced on my heels down the long hall. The halls were full of talking and laughter and clanging lockers, but that didn’t stop me from having my own little party in my head. “Cliché, cliché . . . Ow, yassssss!”

  With my YSL handbag dangling in the crook of my arm, I snapped my fingers to the tune, then dipped my knees just a bit, my head moving from side to side, my hair swinging back and forth. Then I stopped and twirled my hips. “Yasssssssssss! Whips and chains on deck. Diamonds around my neck! She’s been working on the chain gang . . .”

  I made my own personal soul train line down the hallway toward my locker, sliding and gliding in my heels, bumping into whoever stood in my way.

  Some kids chanted, “Go, Spencer! Go, Spencer . . .!”

  Some stood and clapped in sync to my moves.

  Others stood in my dang way. Haters!

  “Move, move . . . get out my way before I stick you for your paper! Yassss.” My fingers popped. “Before I blind you by the . . .”

  My voice trailed off as I stopped in my tracks. There was Heather. Heather! She was at her locker, bent over, digging in the bottom of it, searching for something. She had her hair pulled back in a shiny long ponytail, which suddenly made me want to start singing the theme song to My Little Pony.

  But Heather didn’t know the first thing about friendship. She didn’t have a beautiful heart. She wasn’t faithful and strong! And she knew nothing about sharing kindness. And there was nothing magic about looking at the center of her crack, both booty cheeks on nasty display.

  Oooh, that filthy rug rat!

  I hadn’t seen or spoken to that, that pill-popping-hooka-in-heels in weeks. She’d been avoiding me. Sending my calls to voice mail. Ignoring my texts. And ducking me in school—whenever she decided to show up, that was.

  My nostrils flared at the thought of her stomping on my friendship, spitting on my kindness. I’d been good to that imitation Nicki Minaj. And all she wanted to do was talk gritty about me, trash me on the blogs, tear down my good loving name to anyone who’d listen to her. And I’d done nothing but be a supportive friend.

  I was the one who’d rescued her like the stray wolf she was. I was there for her when she was counting roaches and eating paint chips off the walls of that slum-motel she and her mother had been living in. I was the one who’d watched her rummaging through Dumpsters and walking the ho-stroll. Oh, how it broke my heart. Seeing Heather so, so downtrodden. But I’d been there to save the day. In my red-customized cape and diamond-tipped stilettos, I swooped in to rescue a wretch like her.

  Look at her. I frowned. All bent over with her wide booty—that I paid for—spread on display in that nasty catsuit.

  Mmmph.

  I should give it to her real good...

  I eased up on her and slid my hand down into my handbag, pulling out my jeweled flyswatter.

  Whap!

  Whap!

  Two swift whacks to her plump cakes!

  “Aaah!” she yelped, jerking upright. “What the fu—!” She banged her head. “Ow!”

  A few people laughed as camera phones caught the action live. I didn’t care, though. Go live or go home, that was my new motto!

  “Spencer!” she snarled, rubbing the top of her head. She yanked off her headphones. “You stupid bitch.”

  “Where you been, Heather, huh?” I asked nicely. I tilted my head, ignoring her nasty glare. “And don’t lie or I will light your eye sockets on fire,” I warned.

  She slammed her locker shut, shoving her headphones down inside her bag. “You crazy trick! Do I know you? Are we friends? Do we talk?” She hoisted her bag up over her shoulder. “Hellllllll to the naw! So don’t worry about where I’ve been. I’ve been minding my business. Making hits. Stacking coins. And tryna stay far away from whores like you! Now get out of my way.”

  She tried to barge her way around me, but I blocked her, staring her in the eye.

  “Oh, no. Not so fast,” I said. “Tell me now, gutter rat. Did your mother put her hands on my mother?”

  Heather smirked. “And what if she did? That’s their business. Not mine. And if your mother did catch it by Camille, it’s probably because her messy-azz was tryna bring it and got handled. So your point?” She slung her ponytail over her shoulder, then slung it back.

  I blinked. Then narrowed my eyes. There was something different about Heather. Strange almost. She had a crazed, glassy, wide-eyed look.

  She looked, um, uh . . .

  “Ohmygod! Sweetlawdjeezus! Say it ain’t so,” I crowed. Then with a barely audible tsk-tsk, I shook my head. “How could you?”

  “Bye, bish. I’m not here for you,” Heather sneered, pushing me out the way. But I was ready for her. My name wasn’t Bonnie, and she wasn’t Clyde, but I was ready to click-clack and push her wig back!

  “Are you high?” I stage-whispered, trying not to bring any more attention than we already had our way.

  Heather frowned, a look of disgust coloring her face. “High? Don’t come for me, DumbKeesha! I don’t get high. I get right. So get it right, SlowRita.”

  “Lies!” I snapped. “You are high. So don’t even try to lie to me, Heather. I know high when I see high. And right now, you are higher than a bird, a plane! You’re higher than a spaceship. Higher than Jeezus!”

  “Stay outta my life, you eggplant-eater!” Heather scoffed. “I don’t worry about how many times a day you’re on your knees, so don’t worry about me. And for once and for all, I don’t get high. I’m not on drugs. I’m not an addict or some junkie! I’m doing me. So if I look high to you, it’s because I’m high on life.” She shifted her bag farther up her shoulder. “Now beat it, before I bring it to your face with my fist.”

  I saw several people elbowing and shoulder nudging each other, whispering and pointing over at us. Then mo
re cell phones went up in the air in our direction.

  Oh, so they wanted a show—hmmm?

  “Oh no, oh no, girlie,” I said, putting an arm up. I was ready to give her an old-fashioned Mother Goose beat-down out here in these halls. She needed me to stamp my hands on her face. “You better pay the piper before you get your pickled peppers picked.”

  “Girl, bye. I don’t owe you shh—”

  Whap!

  Before she could finish her rant, I swatted her across her mouth.

  Stunned, Heather dropped her bag and then gave me a shove, cursing and screaming. But unlike her, I didn’t use filthy talk. I used fists and feet and flyswatters.

  And by the time security finally made it over to pull us apart, I was swinging Heather’s thirty-two-inch ponytail piece in the air like a lasso.

  Giddy up . . .

  32

  Rich

  “I’ve already checked us in,” my very tall, very brunette, very high-priced attorney said as she shifted her Italian leather briefcase from one hand to the other. Michelle MacAndrew was one of the top criminal attorneys in California. But why Logan Montgomery felt the need to hire this white woman was beyond me.

  It was a waste of good coins, and a waste of my damn time. I wasn’t a criminal. I hadn’t broken any real laws. Hadn’t committed any real crimes. All I was ever guilty of was being fabulous. The only crime I’d ever committed was making a boy forget his momma’s name and rocking him to sleep.

  And maybe I was guilty of having that threesome with those sexy twin brothers, Jason and Jonathan. And, okay, okay, maybe I was guilty of getting Mr. Velasquez, the substitute teacher, drunk, then taking him up to my suite at that cute little boutique bar I’d run into him at. How was I supposed to know he taught physics at Hollywood High?

  I didn’t do physics. I did religion. And I worshipped in the house of Keep Your Legs Shut at All Times Except on Mondays, Tuesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays.

  So I was not the whore the media stayed trying to make me out to be. I was far from that. I was a lady. Classy. And, truth be told, I was basically half a virgin. I was almost a nun. My cherry pie was half-bitten, not all the way eaten, so eff the media! The boys might have come to the yard for all this thickalicious goodness, but I only let ’em sip on this shake. Only gave ’em a li’l taste.

  And I was definitely not a drunk.

  So, moving along.

  I huffed, glancing at my diamond Cartier. “What time are we going in? I have things to do.” I smoothed a hand over my glorious hip and planted it there.

  My whole morning was being disrupted. And I didn’t appreciate being inconvenienced. Being dragged into court like I was some crook, some thief!

  Ugh! If I had the chance to lay hands on Spencer I would. I would beat the skin off her face. This whole mess was allllll that hooker’s fault. Calling the cops on me because I didn’t want to stay the night at her shack after we’d drunk three bottles of champagne. Jealous trick! Telling me I should stay the night. That I shouldn’t drink and drive. Bisssssssh, bye!

  I’d left her trap house because I was grown. I didn’t need her to babysit my mouth. That effen broad didn’t know when or how to mind her own business. Being all up in my breath, monitoring my alcohol intake, like she was my personal Breathalyzer.

  I couldn’t stand that annoying slore. Always tryna look down in my throat. I wasn’t a drunk. I was a social drinker. I only drank on occasion, or when I wanted to get out and let my hair down. What was wrong with having a few cocktails after a hard day at school?

  “When we’re called in to see the judge . . .” my attorney stated, forcing me to take her in. Cute heels, I thought as I glanced down at her feet. Girlfriend definitely was serving them lovely, honey, in her signature navy-blue pantsuit. “. . . I’ll speak on your behalf.”

  My gaze flickered to the diamond studs popping out from her ears.

  Bling, bling . . . she was killing it.

  “This shouldn’t take long,” my attorney said. “The judge will read off your charges. Most likely give you a lecture. Then you’ll more than likely be ordered to . . .”

  Blah, blah, blah. I pressed my lips and tapped my foot against the floor, taking a deep breath. I was so over this ish. Why the hell was everyone making such a big damn deal out of nothing? Most times, all I drank was a pitcher or two—but never, ever, more than three pitchers—of beer. Ever.

  Snap, snap!

  And there went my mother’s fingers all up in my face, causing me to jerk my head back. “Are you listening, Rich? Are you hearing anything your lawyer is saying to you? Huh?”

  Blink, blink, blink. I rapidly batted my lashes. Oh, this lady had lost her whole mind trying to do me. Right here. Right now. Allllll in front of this white lady! She was about to have me bring it to her. Chop her right in the throat.

  I stared at her.

  Deep breath...

  Inhale. Exhale.

  “Don’t try me, Rich.” She stared at me, daring me with her eyes to give her a reason, to say something slick, so she could turn up. “I asked you a question. Now, speak.”

  I silently rolled my eyes up in my head. This woman was so extra.

  “Yeah,” I said dryly, “I heard her. Now can you move your fingers from my face? Please.”

  She glared at me, giving me a scathing look, one that said she would bring it to my flawless face if I even thought about serving her up in here.

  “Rich. Don’t try me,” my mother warned. “If you knew when to slide off from the damn barstool, we wouldn’t be here in the first place. And I wouldn’t be spending my morning in some damn courthouse. But noooo. I have a lush for a daughter, who likes to drink, then get behind the wheel of a car and drive her drunk azz to God knows where. Haven’t I taught you anything, huh, Rich? Do your dirt behind closed doors. Not out in public. You wanna drink, drink. But drink responsibly. Not get behind the wheel of a car, all liquored up.” She shook her head. “I’m so sick of—”

  Logan’s mouth was really off the hook this morning, but I wasn’t going to bring it to her. Not today. I was going to let her live. She could thank me later.

  The attorney cleared her throat, gently touching my mother’s arm. “Now, now, Mrs. Montgomery. Not here. This is a family matter that should be discussed, um . . . perhaps in private.”

  My mother narrowed her eyes. Stared me down, hard. Then shifted her eyes to the attorney. “You’re right. We’ll finish this later when we get home.”

  Oh, no the hell we won’t! You will not be beating me in the head with your holier-than-thou Don’t Get Drunk speeches. I was gonna be laid up with my man.

  And besides . . . like I’d already said once before, I didn’t get drunk. I got nice.

  Period.

  So she could—

  “Hey, Ma . . .”

  Blink.

  Oh no, oh no, oh no!

  “What is he doing here?” I snapped, staring into the face of my father’s twin, my brother, RJ.

  “Love you too, sis,” he said smugly, before wrapping an arm around Logan’s shoulder and kissing her on the cheek.

  She beamed. Ugh. “Your brother’s here as a show of support,” she said over gritted teeth. “So not another word.” She tilted her head. “You hear me?”

  Deep breath.

  God, I hated him! Mr. Goody Two-shoes! Mr. Cornball! Mr. Nerd! Mr. Doofy! He did no wrong in the eyes of my parents. Smoke weed? He got a talking to. Crash a car? He got a new one. Sleep around? And he got an award for spraying his fertilizer.

  But me?

  All I ever got was a hard way to go. Stress. And headaches.

  Everyone loved RJ—everyone except me.

  “Well, hello,” the attorney said over a smile as she extended her hand to shake his. Her straight white teeth sparkled against her smooth porcelain skin. “You must be RJ, Rich’s brother.”

  God help me. I felt sick watching this pasty-faced lady make googly-eyes at him, like he was royalty.

  Perfect
Prince RJ. Ugh!

  I huffed. “I don’t have a brother,” I said just as we were called into court. “He’s nobody to me.”

  33

  London

  Ten a. m. . . .

  I quickly slid out of my seat and tiptoed out of my advanced Latin class, towing my ginormous purse with me, to answer my buzzing phone.

  The caller was from overseas—and judging by the country code, Italy, to be exact. But I wasn’t familiar with the number.

  “Hello?” I whispered into the phone as I rounded the corner away from the classroom door.

  “London, darling?”

  I blinked. “Yes?”

  “It’s Gisella, my darling. Gisella Grace, with . . .”

  “Yes, yes, I know who you are,” I quickly said, surprised to be hearing from her, especially after my Fashion Week fiasco. “You’re with Grace Modeling Agency.”

  “Absolutely, darling.”

  “Hi,” I said meekly.

  “What have you been up to, my diamond in the rough, since I last saw you? Mending well, I hope.”

  I swallowed. “Yes. I’ve been doing exactly that. Mending.”

  “So glad to hear. Did you get the cards and flowers we sent?”

  “Yes. I did. Thank you. I apologize for not sending out any thank-you cards.”

  “Nonsense, my darling. No apology needed. Healing is what’s most important. We were all here praying for you.”

  I felt my eyes welling, but I fought back the urge to cry.

  “But, listen darling. I have great news . . . !”

  Oh?

  I gripped my cell.

  “I’ve got a casting coming up in a few months, and I would love for you to be there. You, my darling, will be . . .”

  I blinked. My stomach lurched as, in my mind, I saw images of me standing in wait for my turn down the runway in that beautiful snow-white, one-shoulder shift dress with the sheer train and matching satin heels and ankle cuffs. My face covered in a veil.

  I’d never felt more beautiful than I did that day. I momentarily closed my eyes and cringed inwardly as I relived the bite of the razor’s blade as it sliced open my flesh, along my arm, then across my wrist.