Divas Don't Cry

by Ni-Ni Simone

  39

  London

  I couldn’t believe it. Heather had quit school. Rich was in jail. And I had managed to make a complete and utter fool of myself for the whole world to see.

  I stared at the recently written article written in Teen Enquirer:

  FROM PAMPERED PRINCESSES TO BRATTY PAUPERS

  Tinseltown’s darlings, Rich Montgomery, Heather Cummings, and London Phillips, have proven to the world that money can’t buy class, and it definitely doesn’t guarantee a happily-ever-after. From jail cells to crack dens and drunken meltdowns, these three socialites have managed to shame the devil himself with their disturbingly entertaining, yet self-destructive antics. Rich Montgomery was seen going through one courtroom door, then being dragged out from another in what looked to be handcuffs, while reality-star Heather Cummings was spotted coming out of what sources call a traveling “get-right” lounge hosted by her closest friend, Co-Co Ming. And London Phillips? Well, we’ve seen the recent videos. Right? She looks like she’s ready for a long stay in a padded room. Now, as we sit back and watch the rest of their lives unravel, the only link missing in this chain of craziness is Spencer Ellington. The world waits with bated breath to see what she does to trump her three frenemies. Or shall we say her nemeses? Stay tuned...

  I slung the magazine across the room. This was a hot mess. We were a hot mess. All three of us! And we were all being dragged in one gossip rag or another. Every one of us except for Spencer! Somehow, she’d managed to duck and dodge pap bullets, while the rest of us stood in the spotlight and allowed ourselves to be target practice as the media aimed and shot fire.

  A video of me drunk-crying and hugging on Anderson had gone viral.

  Oh, my God!

  What had I done?

  Online bloggers and gossip hags had been hounding Anderson for a response, but so far, the only thing he’d been kind enough to say was, “No comment,” or he kindly ignored them all together, the way he’d been doing me.

  I couldn’t begin to imagine what was going through his mind now. He must hate me! He just had to because I hated myself. And, even after all of that, I still hadn’t gotten a chance to say anything I’d wanted to say to him.

  Or had I?

  Parts of that night were blank. There was a block of time I couldn’t account for. The only thing that I had as an ugly reminder of that night, aside from the videos and blog bashing, was a nasty knot on the side of my head from where I’d fallen and hit it.

  I croaked back a scream.

  Nothing I’d hoped to achieve that night going to Club Sixty-Six had gone as planned.

  * * *

  LONDON PHILLIPS DRUNK IN LOVE read one caption.

  LONDON PHILLIPS DIRTY DANCING WITH RAPPER BORN SUN-ALLAH read another caption.

  LONDON PHILLIPS LEAVES HER PANTIES ON THE DANCE FLOOR! exclaimed another blogger.

  * * *

  Lies. Lies. And more lies!

  I was too embarrassed to read any of the articles attached to the headlines about that horrid night. The bloggers had me painted as some love-obsessed alkie. My God! How could they?

  That was furthest from the truth. Was I obsessed? Um. Maybe. A little.

  But was I an alcoholic? No. That was Rich.

  The only thing I was guilty of was wanting Anderson back. And I hadn’t even managed to do that right.

  And Anderson’s fan club haters were dragging me the worst.

  Twitter:

  HELL NO @ANDERSONFORD THAT BEYOTCH DOESN’T DESERVE U!!

  @ANDERSONFORD DON’T DO IT BOO!! I BEG U!

  @ANDERSONFORD LONDON IS A THIRSTY THOT! U CAN DO WAY BETTER!

  @ANDERSONFORD TELL THAT BIHH TO GO KICK ROCKS! SHE HAD HER CHANCE!

  SHE CUTE @ANDERSONFORD BUT SHE CRAY-CRAY!

  I’m not crazy! Those whores don’t know me, I thought, as I stared at a picture someone had taken of me that night. I had to blink several times before I recognized who the girl staring back at me was. I had never looked so carefree, like I was having the time of my life.

  Too bad I couldn’t remember if I had or not.

  I clicked onto Anderson’s Instagram page, but then thought about sending him a DM on Twitter or inboxing him on Facebook instead to please call me.

  But I’d already done that. Ten messages later on each page! And still no replies back. I had no way of contacting Anderson unless I called his New York office, something I really didn’t want to do. Again. But what other choice did I have?

  The last six times I’d called for him, all I got in return was what felt like a prompted script: “I’m sorry, Mr. Ford is not in his office today.”

  I was so desperate to talk to Anderson that whatever cardinal rules there might have been about seeming thirsty for a boy were forgotten. And, honestly, those rules didn’t matter to me.

  I reached for my cell, typed in my password, and then scrolled through my call log for Anderson’s office number.

  “Hello?” I said the moment I heard one of his assistants’ voices. “May I please speak to Ander . . . uh, Mr. Ford?”

  I thought I heard a sigh. “Is this London Phillips again?”

  I frowned. “London Phillips?” I repeated, feigning indignation. “Who in the heck is that? No. This is Mrs. Foster from the Make a Wish Foundation.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry, Mrs. Foster. For a moment there, you sounded like someone else. Mr. Ford will be out of the office for the next few weeks, but all of his messages are being forwarded to him. Would you like to leave one?”

  “Um. Is he on the West or East Coast?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m not at liberty to say. Would you like to leave a message?”

  I ended the call. Then I went onto his Facebook page. Stalked through his photos. But then my attention locked onto his status. He’d changed it.

  Oh, my God!

  My eyes widened, then started watering.

  Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Oh God.

  He’d actually changed it. In a relationship, it said, and I nearly died. A stray tear slid slowly down my cheek. My heart pulsed, then stopped, as I yelled the words in my head. In a relationship!

  With who?

  I already knew the answer: with that Russian whore! Another tear slid down my face. The world tilted a little. And then suddenly I flat-lined. All I needed was a silk-lined coffin to flop myself into, then slam the top shut.

  Those three tiny words—in a relationship—had killed me.

  40

  Rich

  “Hallelujah!” I wanted to shout to the Goddess of Freedom and Liberty Bells. I’d been finally set free! And I was all the way ready to ride up to the mountaintop and ring bells and shout for joy!

  But this right here.

  This moment.

  This minute.

  This pause in time was some straight bullshit.

  The highest level of disrespect!

  It was all I could do not to clutch my pearls and break ’em!

  It had only been an hour since I was released and restored to my throne. And was no longer the property of Los Angeles County, item number 5678963, where I’d spent two weeks practically tied down and forced to be on a chain gang by day. Afternoons spent fighting off man-girls wanting to shank me into being their bride. And nights locked away in a cage. And instead of being greeted with a welcome home party, a glass of bubbly, strawberry crepes, and a masseuse, I walked into an intervention sponsored by the get-along gang from hell.

  My mother—Empress Ghetto; my father—MC Wicked Slut-Rat; their son—li’l British crack-dealer-meth-slayer; and some self-appointed Jesus wannabe—Reverend Doctor Shirley Byrd—all tryna perform some psycho baptism on me.

  All four of ’em tryna do me! Talk to me about my behavior, how it needed to change, and how I needed to get right with the Lord.

  Psst, please.

  Chile, cheese.

  I was already saved. And I worshipped in the House of Fabulousness. I laid my collection plate down every night. So they
couldn’t preach me no sermon. Not up in here. First of all, I needed my weave done. Why? ’Cause some horrid creature-woman in a correction officer’s uniform had been hatin’ on me and had forced me to cut out and leave my ten-thousand-dollar tracks on some wet concrete.

  Second of all, I needed a pedicure. My toenails were a mess! Why? ’Cause for the last two weeks, I’d been forced to walk the yard in some rubber-cheddar-cheese-colored slides from Jail-Mart.

  You see where I’m goin’ with this?

  I didn’t need the stress.

  Plus.

  I had a headache.

  “Rich,” Dr. Byrd called my name, like she’d been granted permission to get me together. “Welcome home,” she said. “We’d like to discuss the reasons why you’ve been acting in the ways that you have and come up with some alternative solutions to expressing yourself in public.”

  Oh.

  No.

  She.

  Didn’t.

  Is she steppin’ to me? Tryna chin-check me? Me? Rich Montgomery?

  This old bish got a set of steel balls!

  “. . . Alternative ways to expressing yourself . . .” Is this skank tryna say I’m an embarrassment?

  Should I just reach out and slap her now, or let her live, especially since she practically said I’m out here being a pigeon in these streets!

  I paused. Took in this high-yellow heifer, from the white wingback chair she sat in, her black Easy Spirit pumps, to the pinned-up, sandy-brown dreads on her head.

  Dr. Byrd continued, “What are your thoughts on that?”

  I sucked my teeth, then said, “Oh, now you wanna know what I think? I think you can stop the press and hold the mess. ’Cause I’m not about to sit up here and be spoken to like I’m some li’l musty thot twerkin’ on the concrete, because I’m not. I’m high steppin’-classy, babeeeee! And the only places I twerk are in boutique bars and five-star clubs. Thank. You. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  I inched to the edge of my seat, but before I could stand up, my mother said, “Rich Gabrielle Montgomery.” The mere fact that she’d called me by entire government said that she’d already practiced some whack speech she’d written to impress her husband and come for me.

  Don’t say nothing, queen. Stay silent because you already know anything you say can and will be used against you.

  You know this. So just let Lo-ho pop her bra strap and show off.

  My mother carried on: “Rich, we have had enough of your nonsense, and you being sentenced to detention was the last straw! You’re doing terrible in school—”

  I had to cut her off and said, “Excuse you? Not today, ma’am.” I zigzagged my index finger in the air. “You’re the one who stopped paying for my grades. Do you think Westwick is just going to give me A’s? Umm. How about no! So don’t blame me. From what I can see, me not doing well in school is your fault, not mine.”

  Instead of agreeing with me, Logan, leader of the ratchets, jumped out of her seat, stalked over toward me, and hogged up my personal space. She bent down and leaned into my face. “You better shut up before I shut you up!”

  I shook my head. It never failed; she always wanted to fight me.

  I let her carry on, her hot breath burning my nostrils. “You think this is a game? You think we’re playing with you? Well, we’re not! We are tired of giving you everything, and all you do is whore with this boy and that boy—”

  “Not true. It’s one boy at a time, so you can take the word and out!”

  I could tell that threw her for a loop. She hesitated, then said, “Didn’t I tell you to shut your crazy behind up?”

  I didn’t even respond to that, the last thing I was . . . was crazy.

  She continued, “I’m soooo sick of you!”

  That makes two of us!

  “I guess we have something in common,” I said snidely.

  My mother threw up her hands in disgust. “You know what? I’m done. Every time I turn around, you are in some blog or on the cover of some rag for being the world’s biggest drama queen. If you’re not hemmed up in some bar brawl or fighting with one of your friends, you’re running behind some low-budget, low-level boy or getting arrested for drinking—”

  I cut her off. “How you gon’ say anything about my man, huh? You don’t know him. You don’t know what he’s been through. He’s no lower budget than you were before you managed to trick your way into the backseat of your husband’s limo. So I resent you for saying that! There’s nothing low budget about Justice. He can’t help it if he has to live on a budget until he can get his name out there. Furthermore, the only low-budget one in this room is your li’l prince over there.” I pointed to RJ.

  My mother gripped me by the collar, her eyes flashing fire, rearing her hand back to slap me. For the first time, ever, I didn’t flinch. I just stared her down.

  “Mrs. Montgomery.” Dr. Byrd called for my mother’s attention.

  Lo-rat quickly let me go, then said, “Little girl, you had better thank Dr. Byrd for saving your life.” She retook her seat, closed her eyes, and blew out short reps of air, I guess practicing the anger-management techniques Dr. Jesus taught her before I walked in here. But whatever! I was only going to take but so much.

  “Rich, damn. You need to learn to shut up!” RJ snapped, I guess coming to his mother’s rescue. “You’re so stupid with all of your drunk theatrics. All in court trying to tell the judge off, instead of listening to Ma and shutting up!”

  I sucked my teeth and flicked my wrist, “Bye, boy. Don’t you have a plane to catch? Maybe, if my prayers are answered, it’ll drop down into the Pacific Ocean and you’ll go missing.”

  “Rich!” my mother snapped. “Don’t have me bust you in your mouth. Don’t you ever wish something like that on your brother! Ever. Have you lost your damn mind?”

  “Nah. It’s cool, Ma. Rich is ignorant.”

  “And you’re a piece of shit,” I snapped back. “I can’t stand you! Mr. Perfect. Boy, bye! Now what you can do is get outta my sight and take Dr. Jesus with you.”

  I looked over at Dr. Byrd—ole Shirley Caesar wannabe, who I could tell struggled to control the indifferent look on her face.

  “Rich, that’s enough!” my mother warned, taking up for her crown prince. “You will not say another word about your brother. And I mean that! Nor will you be disrespectful to Dr. Byrd. She isn’t going anywhere. And this has nothing to do with your brother. This is about you. We are all here to help you, because we care. And because we love you!”

  “Help me?! Psst. Because you care? Because you love me? Lies! Puhlease, I don’t need any help. I’m good on that. And I don’t need y’all tryna serve me when all I do is go to school, hang out with my friends, and live my life. But what do I get in return? Sent to jail. And then I come home to the Get-Right Gang trying to perform an exorcism on me! Chile, cheese. You got me messed up!”

  I scanned each of their faces, stopping at my father’s, and he clearly had an attitude. Hopefully he was pissed off with himself, ’cause obviously he hadn’t spent enough time with his wife, who’d been watching too much reality TV. And was now trying to shove some bad-acting Lifetime bull crap down our throats, like we were a house full of white folks.

  Seeing as though no one else said a word, I added, “I’m done here.” I pointed to RJ. “Use Dr. Byrd to handle Mr. International Incident. Now good day.” I stood up and took a step toward the door.

  “Rich,” my father said, his voice two octaves deeper than usual. “Sit your ass down. Now.”

  I started not to listen. But I turned around, and judging by the look on his face, I knew I needed to retake my seat, at least for a moment.

  “Richard,” my mother said, “don’t get your blood pressure up, baby. Let me handle it.”

  “Handle what?” he snapped. “I’ve been letting you handle it for seventeen years, and now we have an easy-lay-down-with-anything-with-a-penis disaster on our hands! I’ve had enough of letting you handle it. You said bring Dr.
Byrd here and things will be fine, but from what I can see, I’m about to pay Dr. Byrd three hundred dollars an hour for a wild, little girl with a disrespectful mouth who clearly needed her behind kicked a long time ago. So no, Logan, I’m not gon’ let you handle it another moment. I got it from here.”

  He turned to me. “Let me help you. From this moment forward, you gon’ do what I tell you to do, or I’ma bust yo’ ass. Simple. Fair exchange. No robberies. ’Cause you will not slut it up another moment on my dime or be labeled a drunk in every other headline. And if you’re not tearin’ up some bar, you and your mother are around here whispering about you being pregnant, again, planning secret flights to Nowhere, Arizona, because you can’t keep your legs shut. You think I don’t know what they call you out there in the streets, huh?”

  I rolled my eyes and shifted in my seat. “Yeah. Fabulous,” I said, staring him dead in his face. “They say I’m a lady in the streets—discreet and classy. Period.”

  He shook his head. “Rich, shut your dumb-ass up. I would laugh if you didn’t sound so damn pathetic. Here I have made every effort to give you everything, and instead of making something of yourself, you wanna whore in the streets! Nothing about you is a lady. Nothing about you is discreet. Everything you stand for is cheap, greasy, and lowlife.”

  I swallowed, hard. Richard Montgomery had never spoken to me like that. How dare he disrespect me and try to drag my good name!

  I was done! And I was a split second from telling them all to kiss my—

  He continued, “Now your mother might play games with you, but I ain’t the one. So this is your life from here on out: in the house by nine thirty on school nights and ten o’clock on the weekends. No more drinking. No driving. No bar hopping. No endless shopping sprees. No carte blanche access to credit cards or cash. No sluttin’ it up. And if I hear another whisper about you being pregnant, then both you and your mother are gettin’ tossed out of here. Do I make myself clear?”