Divas Don't Cry

by Ni-Ni Simone

  I could almost still feel the heat flashing through me as I stepped into the flashing lights and owned the runway as my arm burst into fire and bled.

  “London, darling? Are you there?”

  My lids fluttered open as I shook loose the memory.

  “Yes.” I swallowed back the thick lump forming in the back of my throat. “I’m here.”

  “Well, darling . . . what do you say? Are you in?”

  I pulled up my sleeve and took in the sight of the scars left behind, reminders of what my life had been. Empty. Sad. Lonely. Lost. Scars that reminded me that I never wanted to ever go back there, to be that hurt girl again.

  “I’m sorry, Gisella. I appreciate the offer, but I can’t. Not after what happened the last—”

  “London, darling,” Gisella exclaimed. “What happened the last time—though tragic—had everyone in the industry talking. Quite frankly, they’re still talking, darling. About you!”

  I cringed.

  “You, darling, touched the hearts of everyone here in the fashion world. Because of you and your Pink Heat ad, sales for the coveted perfume have been through the roof. Darling, you now have designers from all over Europe clamoring to have you saunter their collection down the runway. So what do you say? Shall I book you? I’ll handle everything, darling. And, of course, I’ll be more than happy to speak to Jade—um, your mother. I know she’ll be thrilled.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This was all simply too much to take in. Modeling had never been my dream; it was my mother’s. She’d thrust me into her world without me having a say. But now, I had a voice. I had a say.

  I didn’t think I belonged, not in my mother’s world.

  “I’m sorry, Gisella. I can’t. But thank—”

  “Wait, darling. Don’t be hasty in your decision. Before you say no, think about it. And remember this: from the moment I laid eyes on you, I told you that you were the next it girl. And you still are, London, darling, my precious jewel. Come back and finish what you started! And let’s take the fashion world by storm.” She finally took a breath. “Oh, darling. I have another call coming in. Although I plan on holding a spot for you, because my instinct says you want this as bad as I want you to want it, I’ll give you a few weeks to mull it all over . . .”

  “I-I’ve already—”

  “Kisses, darling.”

  And then she was gone.

  I blinked, then leaned up against the wall, still stunned and reeling from Gisella’s phone call. She wanted me. She said designers from everywhere in Europe were seeking me. How could that be?

  Hadn’t they seen what I’d done? Sliced myself? I’d tried to commit suicide. Hadn’t they been there to witness it? Hadn’t any of them seen the pool of blood? Hadn’t any of them seen the butterflies covering me and slowly lifting me?

  I know I hadn’t imagined any of that. I had the scars as proof. I saw the scars every day, refusing to have them removed. I needed them to keep me grounded.

  I needed them to keep me humble and thankful for still being . . . alive.

  Still gripping my cell, I rummaged through my bag for a handful of tissues and dabbed the inside corners of my eyes. They weren’t tears of sadness, but of joy.

  I was simply so happy to be living and breathing.

  And—

  A sarcastic voice broke my reverie. I cringed.

  “Well, well, well,” Mr. Westwick said, tapping his Birkenstock-clad foot. “Lookie-lookie-Lou. What do we have here? Miss Drop Top London leaning up against the wall, holding a cell phone.”

  I swallowed.

  “I—”

  “I was, what?” he said, rudely cutting me off. “Waiting for your pimp? Your dealer? Or were you waiting for the next train to suspension?”

  I blinked. God, I despised this man. “I had a call I needed to take.”

  He tilted his head. “Do tell. From?”

  I frowned. “No disrespect, but I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

  “Oh, but it is, little Miss Debbie Cakes.” He held out his pudgy hand. “And what is our school’s policy on cell phones?”

  I huffed, handing over my cell. “No cell phone use during classroom hours.”

  “Exactly.” He slid my phone into the front pocket of his suit jacket. “Have your demerit payment on my desk by the end of the day, or you won’t ever see your precious phone again. Now get back to class before I have you dragged off my campus!”

  I sucked my teeth and headed back down the hall just as the bell rang.

  Frickin’ Westwick!

  34

  Rich

  “A ll rise!” the buffed bailiff bellowed out as he opened the back courtroom door. He might have been waaaay too old—like granddaddy old, but from the neck down he was built like uh, um . . .

  I dug into my pink Balenciaga purse, pulled out my compact, and quickly made sure I still had my fabulousness on fleek. I did, so I snapped my compact shut.

  In walked the judge, looking like royalty, like she’d been dipped in African clay. Her rich, dark skin glowed. And the bling in her ears was giving me my whole life!

  The courtroom fell silent as the judge made her way toward the bench, her black robe swooshing behind her as she climbed up the stairs to the bench and sat.

  Yassss, honey, yassss!

  Dark and lovely!

  Girlfriend slayed!

  “Court is now in session!” the bailiff barked. I tooted my lips. I knew I had this on lock. “The Honorable Danielle Viola Preston presiding. All electronic devices are to be turned off now. Please be seated.”

  I took my seat, like the lady I was, crossing my legs at the ankles and folding my hands up on the wooden desk. The judge swept her gaze around the courtroom. “Good morning.” She glanced down at something—a file I thought—then looked back up. “Counselor, please identify yourself for the record.”

  My attorney stood. “Michelle MacAndrew for the defendant.”

  The judge nodded. Then glanced back down at a file. “We are here on the matter of the juvenile Rich Montgomery. Docket number . . .”

  Juvenile? Oh no she didn’t! She tried it. I was not juvenile. I was a grown woman. “Um, excuse me,” I said, waving my pointer finger in the air to get her attention.

  My attorney leaned in and whispered, “Rich, not now. Let her finish.”

  I shot her a dirty look. Chile, cheese. Lady, please.

  The judge cleared her throat. “Counselor, is there a problem?”

  My attorney stood. “Um, no, Your Honor.”

  “Um, yes, your highness, I do have a problem.” My attorney reached for my arm, but I yanked it away.

  The judge eyed me, hard. “And your problem can wait until I’m finished speaking. Understood?”

  Oh, she tried it. “Clutching pearls,” I muttered, placing a hand up to my chocolate and pink diamond choker.

  The judge glared at me. “I heard that, young lady. And for the record, you will check your mouth and your attitude in my courtroom, before I check you. You will have a chance to speak when I am done. Do you understand?”

  I batted my lashes in disbelief. How dare this ole ugly, bald-headed trick try to come for me! I grunted. Then nodded.

  “You are to open your mouth and speak when I speak to you. A head nod does not suffice. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yeah,” I said, folding my arms tightly across my chest.

  The judge darted her eyes over at my attorney. “Counselor, I warn you to advise your client that she had better mind her p’s and q’s in my courtroom. Otherwise, she’ll be clutching more than her pearls.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” my attorney said. I rolled my eyes as she leaned over and whispered, “Rich, this is not the time for your antics. Please.”

  I made a face. “Antics? I don’t do antics. I do semantics. And I speak several languages.”

  I pressed my lips together. I was ready to hop up and boom-bop-drop-it on her. But my religion kept me grounded in my
faith. Not to lay these hands on her.

  “On the matter of docket CC-3176-A,” the judge continued, “Rich Montgomery, said juvenile, has been charged with two counts of underage drinking, two counts of reckless driving, one count of resisting arrest, three counts of possession of alcohol, and four counts of driving while under the influence.” The judge looked up from her folder. “Counselor, does your client understand the nature of her offenses?”

  The attorney stood. “Yes, Your Honor. She does.”

  “Good.” The judge shuffled through her folder, then narrowed her eyes at me. “Young lady, it appears you have had no regard for the law, or for rules. Even after numerous chances given to you by the local police, you have been pulled over for underage drinking and driving while under the influence at least six times this year, which, frankly, I find appalling and consider a blatant disregard for the law.”

  I blinked. “Lies and fabrications, your highness! I’m a law-abiding citizen. I’ve had my citizenship since I was born. The only laws I’ve ever broken have been driving while being black and beautiful. And rules are my . . .”

  “Your Honor,” my attorney interjected, quickly standing to her feet, “if I may address the court. My client tends to be a bit, um, how can I say... ?”

  “Let me help you out, counselor,” the judge said pointedly. “Rude? Obnoxious?”

  I hopped to my feet. “Order in the court, your highness. I am nothing but loving and kind, and taken advantage of. And I don’t think I should be dragged into your courtroom for one moment of weakness, your highness. I’m human. I might be fabulous, but I make a few mistakes here and there. I’m trying to get it right. But it’s hard out there in the streets for a young single woman—I mean, girl—like me. I wouldn’t even be in this mess if it hadn’t been for my ex-ex-ex-BFF being hateful and messy. She has always hated on me . . .”

  My attorney tried to jump in, minding my business, but the judge shut her down. “No, counselor. Let her finish.” The judge clasped her hands together. “This should be quite entertaining. Continue, young lady. So everyone hates on you, is that so?”

  I heard RJ mumble something in back of me. Something slick, I was for certain, because he was another hater. “Yes, your royal highness. It’s hard being fabulous. The spotlight is always on you, and you have to always watch your back. There are haters everywhere, lurking, waiting to do me, even in my own family.” I shot a look over at RJ. “Haters will stop at nothing to try and destroy me.

  “But I am here to testify to the holy truth and nothing but the holy truth. Yes, I had a few cocktails. And? I wasn’t intoxicated. So I think that should be struck from the record. Like I said, the only thing I’m guilty of is being beautiful. Everything else is all hearsay. You know, superficial evidence.”

  I heard a grunt and “for the love of God” in back of me. Then I heard, “She’s stupid as hell, Ma.”

  “Oh, shut up, RJ,” I snapped, jerking my head to the left and glaring over my shoulder at him. “See, your highness. Haters.”

  “Order!” the judge barked as she banged her gavel. “Order in my courtroom, I said! Counselor, do you need a moment to counsel your client?”

  My attorney nodded. “Yes, Your Honor. If we could have a five-minute recess.”

  “I’ll give you ten,” she said tersely. “And when we return I expect your client to have her mind right.”

  “My mind is right,” I snapped. “And I don’t need a recess. And I don’t need counseling from this sellout attorney. What I need to do is pay this fine and be on my way. There’s no need in hogging up your precious time with this foolery, your highness. I ran those red lights because I had to use the bathroom. And that time I swerved off the road was because I saw something lying in the middle of the street, a rat or possum or something. All I know is, it was big and hairy. It might have even been this beast girl I know—London Phillips. Whatever it was, I didn’t wanna run it over. That’s the only reason why I was swerving.”

  “And going seventy in a twenty-five-mile-an-hour speed zone,” the judge interrupted, all snotty-like. “And another time you were doing eighty . . .”

  “Oh, yeah. About that part,” I said. “It’s all a big misunderstanding, that’s all. And, for the record, I want the court to know that I’m not juvenile. I’m very mature for my age. Almost grown.” I took my seat. “That is all, your highness,” I ended, folding my hands again. I heard my mother grumble in back of me, but I didn’t give a damn. I needed to let this dog-faced lady in a robe know.

  She scowled at me. “It’s Your Honor,” she snapped. “And you are skating on very thin ice, young lady.”

  “Oh, yes. I am truly honored,” I replied, running a hand through my hair. “And pleased to make your acquaintance, but I haven’t skated in years.”

  The judge let out a grunt and shook her head. “Oh, this one here”—she glanced over at the bailiff—“is a real smart one.” He shook his head, smirking. “Seems to me she needs a swift lesson in courtroom etiquette.” She glared at me, catching my frown.

  “Your Honor,” my attorney said as she stood, “if I can interject for a brief moment . . .”

  “Make it quick, counselor.”

  “Mrs. Montgomery is here, and she is very concerned about her daughter’s behavior. If the court is prepared to dispose of this matter, then the family is more than willing to address my client’s drinking. The family is planning an intervention.”

  An intervention? Chile, cheese. Lady, please! What I needed was a snack and a nap. I was getting hungry and tired, and this whole ordeal was starting to make me queasy. I felt like I had a hundred bats flapping around inside my stomach, just a moving every which way.

  “Is this so, Mrs. Montgomery?”

  My mother stood. “Yes, Your Honor. My husband and I, along with her older brother, are very concerned with Rich’s behaviors.”

  I rolled my eyes up in my head.

  “And so you should be,” the judge stated, before zipping her gaze over to me. “Thank you. You may be seated. Young lady, what do you have to say for yourself?”

  “Well, your honorable highness,” I said, standing, “I’m not sure what behaviors that lady is back there talking about. But I’m not surprised one bit that she’d stand up in this courtroom and drop dime on me, dry snitching, tryna spill tea. She’s only telling you that bold-faced ugly lie because her precious golden child is here. Mr. Smoke Weed and Squirt Baby Batter All Day.”

  The judge stared at me. “Oh, is that so? So let me get this right. Your mother, who loves you and has—as I am sure—given you the best of everything, is standing in my courtroom making up stories about you. Is that what you are telling me?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “Oh, for the love of God,” my mother said. “Rich, stop.”

  The judge tilted her head. “Okay, so your mother is a liar. I’ll make a note of that. Now how are you doing in school?”

  “Fabulous,” I quickly stated. “The school loves me.”

  The judge gave me an incredulous look. “Well, that’s odd.” She looked down at that stupid folder again. “I have a letter from a Mr. Westwick—the headmaster at the very private, very expensive school that your parents pay for you to attend—and he seems to tell a different story. Stand up, young lady.”

  Take a deep breath. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Don’t go off.

  “Yes, yes, yes. Don’t forget to breathe,” I told myself as I stood to my feet.

  “Mr. Westwick states you are failing all of your classes. And he describes you in his letter to the court as belligerent, aggressive, disrespectful, self-righteous, and entitled . . .”

  I gasped. “Clutching pearls! That man is a confused liar! I did fabulous last marking period. I got two C’s, four D’s, and one F. I am nothing but loving and kind and thoughtful in school. I keep the school fabulous, and Mr. Westwick hates that I get more attention than he—”

  The judge twisted her lips. “Okay, enough!” the judge snapped, cutt
ing me off. “Young lady, I’ve heard enough of your delusions. Young lady, you are heading down a path of destruction. You’re caught up in your own lies. You think you can do and say whatever you want, whenever you want, because you’re privileged. And you think because of your social status that you are above the rules and laws that apply to everyone else your age. Well, guess what, young lady. You’re not. What you are is a spoiled, rotten brat . . .”

  I opened my mouth to shut her down, but she held a hand up and stopped me before I could get a word out.

  “I warn you,” she said, stone-faced. “Not one word. You are in my courtroom. And I have heard enough from you. And what’s most disturbing to me is the fact that you are a role model to hundreds of thousands of young, impressionable girls who want to emulate being you. They look up to you. And yet you show no regard for how your reckless behaviors might impact them.

  “Instead, you’d rather be in lounge clubs, wielding your fake IDs and tossing around your father’s name as if it were a black card with unlimited privileges. You’d rather run around with every little boy willing to show you attention, all loose and easy. You want the spotlight? You think everyone is out to get you, to do you—as you say? Well, newsflash, sweetie: the only person doing you is you.”

  My extra lush lashes batted.

  “You have no true sense of self. And because of this, Rich Montgomery, I hereby order you to pay a fine in the amount of three thousand and fifty dollars. I’m ordering eighteen months’ loss of license on two counts of driving while under the influence. In addition to loss of license, you are to complete five hundred hours of community service down at one of the nearby homeless shelters and thirteen weeks of anger management.”

  My knees buckled. “Don’t do me, your highness. Don’t. Do—!”

  “No, young lady. You did yourself,” the judge said nastily. “And your mother—or that lady, as you referred to her—can’t help you, either.”

  I felt myself shrinking as the judge stared at me long and hard. My hands shook. I broke out in a sweat. And then out of the corner of my eye I spotted two officers coming toward me.