Divas Don't Cry

by Ni-Ni Simone

  I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. All I wanted to do was relax and get my snap back, return to being my fabulous self. Yet here I was in the middle of the Wild-Wild West. Unreasonable orders being barked at me. Accused of being a failing student, a drama queen, a drunk, and some cheap and easy lay!

  Like, seriously, this was insane, and yes, I was a lot of things, but I was none of the things he’d called me! And there was nothing dumb about me. Nothing!

  I was intella . . . intella . . . is it intellazent? Well, I wasn’t dumb.

  Therefore and forever more, the last thing I was about to do was let this played-out crew try me for another moment.

  No sir and no ma’am!

  So I stood up and let them see the arch in my back twitch and my behind switch as I walked out of the living room, clicked my heels up the stairs, grabbed my Louis Vuitton suitcase, and tossed in my diary, some clothes, and my favorite heels.

  Then I asked Chef Jacque to have the house manager help him quickly pack up the rest of my wears. When they were done, I called for three Ubers: one for me, two for my things.

  And, no, I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew I was getting out of here. I tucked my Chloé clutch under my arm, held my suitcase in my hand, and with Chef Jacque and the house manager behind me, I stormed downstairs, walked by my parents, RJ, and Dr. Byrd, and clicked my heels to the front door.

  And just as I slammed it behind me, I heard my father saying, “She’s cut off.”

  41

  Spencer

  “Rich. What in the world are you doing here?”

  “Thank God!” she exclaimed, pushing her way into the foyer. She gripped a YSL duffel bag in one hand and had her clutch tucked tightly under her other arm. “You’re home.”

  I blinked. “Of course I’m home. Where else would I be? This is where I live. Now again, what are you doing here? Why did you just barge your way in here? And why is your hair all wild and crazy-looking? Did you escape from jail?”

  It looked like she’d taken her whole head and mopped a floor with it.

  She gave me a dismissive wave. “Spencer, don’t do me right now. I’m stressed allllll the way out. And, no, I didn’t escape, tramp! I just got paroled . . .”

  “Paroled?”

  “Yes, honey! Paroled. I’ve been out of prison for less than two hours . . .”

  “Rich, you were in juvie jail. Not prison.”

  She huffed. “Trixie! It was prison. And it was hell. I served ten days of hard time, girl. You don’t know hard times until you’ve been stuffed into a black-and-white jumper and locked in a cell with four other women—well, two of them looked like women.” She shook her head. “That other one, I’m not so sure what that was. But anywho . . . you don’t know anything about life unless you’ve been surrounded by concrete and barbed wire.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Rich, the jumpers were orange. Not black and white.”

  She dropped her duffel bag to the floor. “Trick! Were you there? Did you have to squat over a steel toilet? God, I missed my bidet. That toilet paper they gave us was hella rough on my lady parts! I haven’t had a good wipe and rinse in weeks . . .”

  I sighed. “Rich, tell me now why you’re here, so I can throw you out.”

  “Ohmygod! You’re such a hater! You don’t give a damn about anyone except yourself.”

  “Yes, that is true. Now why are you here?”

  She huffed. “RJ and my parents ganged up on me, Spencer. They tried to do me right in front of some wannabe voodoo priestess. Who does that? I had to flee for my life!”

  My eyes widened. “They did what?”

  “Pay attention, Speeeeennnncerrrrr! I saaaid the Montgomerys tried to jump me. Straight outta Compton me! And Logan pulled a razor out on me and threatened my whole entire life! What kind of mother does that?”

  I gasped, slapping a hand up over my mouth.

  “Yes, girl. I barely made it out of there alive. And then RJ tried to put me in a headlock to keep me from leaving, but I punched him in the gut and broke all four of his ribs . . .”

  I gasped. “Ohmygod, no! RJ?”

  She nodded. “Yes. RJ. Mr. British American!”

  I frowned. “Wait. RJ wouldn’t do that to you. And how did you break all four of his ribs, when humans have twenty-four? Twelve on each side.”

  She stomped a heeled foot. “Bish. There you go taking up for that troll hunter! Did I ask you for a history lesson on RJ’s bones? No. You don’t know him like I do. That boy was born with only four ribs. He’s defective. And he’s—”

  I cut her off. “Man-eater, stop! I don’t wanna hear any more of your lies about RJ. Now tell me why you’re here. And don’t lie.”

  Rich placed the back of her hand up to her forehead, then grabbed onto the side of the large entryway table. She paused for a moment, then placed a hand to her chest. “Spencer, I’m so tired, girl. Everywhere I turn, someone is tryna do me. My parents. RJ. The judge. The police. COs. So-called friends. The bloggers.” She dug inside her purse and pulled out a mini pack of tissues. Although I couldn’t see a tear in sight, she dabbed under both eyes.

  I pursed my lips. Tilted my head. “Mmm-hmm. Go on.”

  “Spencer, I know you don’t know anything about being fabulous, but it’s hard being me. It’s like everywhere I go someone is watching me, talking about me, writing lies about me . . .”

  My head tilted to the other side. “You’re a loudmouth attention whore, Rich. You love to be seen. And heard.”

  “Clutching pearls! Lies and deceit! I resent that, Spencer.”

  “Okay. Now how can I help you?”

  “I need a place to stay—only for a few days,” she quickly said, “until I can get my mind right.”

  I blinked. “A place to stay? Why?”

  Rich narrowed her eyes. “You damn slore! Haven’t you heard a word I said? I’ve been thrown out onto the streets, Spencer! I’m seeking asylum. My own family turned on me. I’m not safe, Spencer. And I have nowhere else to go. I need refuge.”

  My shoulders slumped. “Rich, sorry. I wish I could. But I don’t have enough room here for you. My home is not big enough to accommodate you, your ego, and all your drama.”

  “Clutching pearls! Lies, girl! All this house”—she spread open her arms and spun around the foyer—“and you can’t open up one of your wings for a good-good friend? We’ve known each other for almost forever, Spencer.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I agreed. “Since buckteeth and barrettes.”

  “Yasss, yassss!” Rich clapped her hands. “Since roller skates and dodgeball. We were thick as thieves on the playground. Couldn’t anyone touch us in double Dutch.”

  I chuckled. “Uh-huh. But you would always be out of breath after a minute or so. And I would have to bring us to victory.”

  “Girl. That’s because I would forget to carry my inhaler with me.”

  Oh. Okay.

  Rich was still telling lies.

  “God, Spencer. Those were the good ole days. We were like sisters.”

  Mmm-hmm. Until you turned on me . . .

  “Spencer, you always had my back.”

  “Yup. I always took up for you, Rich. Even when girls would tease you and chase you through the school yard because of that big mouth of yours. I was right there ready to fight for you.”

  “You never let me down, Spencer. Like I said, we go way back.”

  I pursed my lips. “Mmm-hmm. Way back when you wore those thick glasses and had that big round body.”

  “Oh, my God, girrrrrrl. No. Don’t go there. You tryna do me. Thank God for Jenny Craig and my plastic surgeon.”

  My gaze dropped to Rich’s hips. They were spread out like a wide, curved road with lots of miles on it. “Looks like you need Jenny back in your life,” I said.

  “Screw Jenny. All that trick did was keep me hungry.”

  A horn blew outside.

  “Who is that?”

  “Oh. Uber,” Rich calmly stated.<
br />
  I gave her a look.

  “Long story. That hatin-azz judge took my license from me, and now I can’t drive.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anyway, Spencer. Can I stay for a few days, pllllease! You know I don’t beg, girl.”

  “No.”

  “Whaaaat? Clutching pearls! You hateful whore! You couldn’t even take my collect calls while I was away at war. Didn’t even have the decency to visit me or write me. And now I have that postal disorder, so the least you can do is—”

  “Who’s down here clutching pearls and clucking like some ole wounded hen?” Daddy snapped as he hobbled down the stairs and into the foyer. He waved his cane in the air. “I can’t find my shotgun. I know one of you thieving hyenas stole . . .” His voice trailed off as his eyes landed over at Rich.

  “Daddy, you remember Rich—Rich Montgomery, don’t you?”

  “Hi, Mr. Ellington,” Rich said, all sweet and sugary, trying to pretend to be nice.

  Daddy squinted at her. “You a thick one, huh? You’re one big biscuit. I bet you like to eat, don’t you, gal?”

  Rich blinked.

  “Are you a stripper, ’cause you look like you know your way around a pole?”

  Dear Lawd Jeezus . . .

  “Daddy, nooo. Play nice. Rich, give me a second,” I said, looking over at her. I hurriedly took Daddy by the arm and ushered him toward the stairs before he said something hurtful. “C’mon, Daddy, let’s go get you back up to your suite so you can pack the crazy away. Rich, I’ll be right back,” I said over my shoulder.

  “Girl, no worries. Take your time.”

  “Better yet, Rich,” I said, “on second thought, you can see yourself out. I’ll call you later.”

  Rich gasped. “Clutching pearls! Spencer, don’t do me, girl . . .”

  “Why is that gal always clutching pearls?” Daddy stage-whispered.

  “It’s a figure of speech, Daddy.”

  He grunted. “If she wants something to clutch, I—”

  “Daddy! Don’t have me get a Brillo pad and scrub your filthy mouth out!”

  He chuckled. “You a feisty one. Back in my day, I woulda put a strap to your behind. Tanned it red.”

  I sighed.

  “Now, why is that gal here again?”

  “Oh. She needs a place to stay,” I told him.

  He shook his head. “Don’t do it, Punkin. She smells like trouble. Send that gal down to the nearest street corner, and let her get out there and earn her keep.”

  I bit back a giggle. “Daddy, stop. That’s not nice.”

  Once I got him back up to his suite, I yelled at his attendants for not doing a better job of keeping him under lock and key; then I quickly dashed back down the stairs to lock my—

  “Aaah!” I screamed. “What is all this?”

  The foyer was flooded with Louie trunks, garment bags, and suitcases.

  “Oh, this?” Rich said nonchalantly. “Just a few things until I can figure out my next move.” I blinked. “Relax, Spencer. I promise. It’s only for a few days. You won’t even know I’m here. I swear, girl.” She headed toward the stairs. “Now show me to my wing.”

  A horn blared again.

  Rich stopped mid-step and looked over her shoulder at me. “Oh. I need for you to pay those three Uber drivers. My credit card was declined.”

  And then she was gone, leaving all her belongings in the middle of the floor and three loud horns blowing.

  42

  London

  Someone knocked on my bedroom door, but I was too distraught to respond or to get up and answer it. I’d spent the last several days in my room, cutting myself off from the world. I hadn’t gone to school or therapy. And hadn’t known my therapist to do house calls until she’d shown up here yesterday.

  Daddy had called her. “Worried,” she’d said. Trying to roll my eyes made my head hurt. But I had to admit: Although my world still felt bleak, talking to Dr. Kickaloo had made me feel a little better.

  Before our session ended, she had taken me by the hands and reminded me that I was loved. That I had two parents who loved me, and that my light shone brighter now than ever, that all I needed to do was get out of my own way. And then she’d said that I needed to forgive my parents and let them navigate through their own mess (my words, not hers, but that’s how I heard it).

  But I couldn’t see any light. And I didn’t know how to get out of my own way. And it hurt too much to try to forgive anyone. All I was surrounded by was darkness. Because my parents were really getting a divorce, and the one person that I wanted to love me didn’t love me back.

  But guess what?

  I knew I couldn’t make my parents stay together, and I knew I couldn’t make Anderson feel something he didn’t anymore. And that was what hurt the most.

  Still, I didn’t want (wasn’t ready) to accept that it was really over between my parents and that Anderson had really moved on with someone other than me. That he’d found something (or saw something) in that Ivina bitch that he couldn’t find or see in me.

  Yet, in my head, I’d still clung onto the fantasy of he and I spending the summer in Milan—him riding a sleek motor scooter with me on the back, clinging to his waist, as he whizzed through the narrow, cobblestoned streets, where we’d make our way up into the sun-drenched hills and make sweet love.

  God! How stupid of me. Fantasies didn’t come true. And fairy tales didn’t exist in my world, only horror tales with sordid endings. And, yet, I still stalked Anderson’s social media as if I’d find some hidden clue to his heart. It might have been over—well, okay, okay, it hadn’t ever gotten started—between Anderson and me, but I still found a way to somehow delude myself into thinking that I still had one last fighting chance.

  And I was going to take it, before I threw in the towel.

  There were rumblings in Twitterland and on some blogs that Anderson was hosting a “Who’s Who” party on his yacht, Buff Daddy, next month. I had to be there. I had to walk up on that boat focused and ready to show Anderson once and for all what kind of girl I was really made of. Even if I had to wrap myself in ribbons and tie myself to buoys.

  Anderson Ford was going to see me.

  Still . . .

  It hurt too much knowing that he’d really chosen that, that . . . goddess. It hurt just trying to—

  There was another knock.

  “London?”

  “Go away,” I said over a sob as I shut my iPad, then slid it under my pillow.

  Knock, knock, knock...

  The double doors opened, and Daddy peered inside.

  “Sweetheart,” he said in that gentle fatherly tone I’d forgotten how much I missed, “what’s wrong?”

  “N-n-nothing,” I managed to say over another sob. “Please leave. I’m fine.”

  I turned my head away from the door to avoid his gaze, burying my face into one of the pillows.

  Go be with your whore.

  Daddy perched awkwardly on the edge of my bed.

  “Talk to me, sweetheart,” he said. “You know you can talk to me about whatever is bothering you.”

  I wailed. “No, I can’t! I used to. But now I can’t! So please. Just go away. Leave me alone.”

  “Don’t talk like that. I’m not going anywhere. It hurts me to see you like this.”

  I cried harder. Daddy had always been my knight in shining armor. He’d been the kind of man I always imagined myself one day marrying—kind and thoughtful and loving; just l-l-l-like Ander . . . son!

  I felt his hand on my shoulder, and my body stiffened, then slowly I began to relax as he spoke to me. “No matter what’s going on between your mother and me, I love you, sweetheart. And no matter what, I’m going to always love you . . .”

  I wanted to cover my ears and scream. I’d heard those words countless times—I love you—and now more than ever, they felt emptier than I could have ever imagined.

  “And I am going to always be here for you, sweetheart,” Daddy continued. �
�Always.”

  My sobbing erupted into wailing and then hiccupping coupled with snot and spit and swollen eyes. My chest hurt. Everything I’d ever thought about Daddy had been a lie.

  All he was, all he’d ever be to me now . . . was a cheater!

  How could I ever trust anything he ever said to me?

  I couldn’t.

  “London, sit up, sweetheart. Please.”

  I couldn’t stand to look at him, and yet I missed him. And my heart ached because I had lost the two most important men in my life—Daddy and Anderson.

  I’d lost Daddy to Rich’s mother and Anderson to that pretty Russian trick. And so I did what my heart wanted me to do, even if my body didn’t.

  I sat up in bed and cried into my father’s chest as he rocked me side to side, smearing snot and tears all over his custom-tailored dress shirt.

  When my sobbing eventually subsided to sniffles, Daddy lifted my chin and wiped my eyes with a handkerchief I hadn’t seen him pull out.

  “Here,” he said, handing me his monogrammed hanky. “Blow your nose.”

  I did. And when I tried to hand it back to him, he looked at all the snot I had blown inside it and said, “Umm, that’s okay, sweetheart. You hold onto that.” He smiled, then said, “Now talk to me. However you need to talk. I’m listening.”

  I gave him a wet-eyed stare and a raised brow.

  “I promise. Curse, scream . . . do whatever you need to do; just let it out. I won’t try to talk you out of your feelings. Okay?”

  I nodded, then sighed deeply. I felt unable to talk to him about how I was really feeling without crying or getting angry. I felt so paralyzed with hurt that I was afraid I would choke on the truth. Yet he had to hear it.

  “I’m so angry at you. I don’t want to be, but I am. I don’t want to hate you, but I do. I don’t know how not to. You running around with that bit (I caught myself) . . . Rich’s mother. You cheated on Mother with that . . . her. And yet you tiptoe around here like everything is okay. It’s not okay, Daddy! You broke up our family to shack up with some other woman. I can’t even look at you without seeing her. Rich’s mother.” I bit back another sob. “Men like you don’t cheat. Men like you stay with their families. They don’t abandon their daughters and wives to dump their worries on some other woman’s sheets.”