Divas Don't Cry

by Ni-Ni Simone

  Signed,

  Your ex-girlfriend!

  “Is this it, Miss Montgomery?” asked one of the Uber drivers, who held one of my boxes in his hand.

  I took one last look around the bedroom, ensuring that the only thing I left behind was the lingering scent of my perfume. “Yes, we have everything,” I said as I lifted Justice’s pillow and placed a lip-stained kiss on it, then lightly placed the letter over it.

  On the way out of the apartment, I saw Justice’s six-hundred-pound neighbor and flipped her the bird. Then I slid into the backseat of my personal Uber, my things were loaded into the other two cars, and I eased on my black, bumblebee Chanels, and rode off and into the sunset.

  I lay my head back against the headrest, and it occurred to me that I needed to let my diary, the only thing I trusted, know that I’d been freed from Justice and released from the world of Brokedom.

  I unzipped my red Hermès tote bag, and at first glance all I saw was my wallet, my eyeglasses case, and my makeup bag. No diary.

  Look again.

  I turned by bag upside down and dumped all of the contents out. Loose change scattered everywhere. My things were spread all over the floor and the backseat.

  No diary!

  Where is my diary! “Stopppppp!” I screamed. “Stop now!”

  The driver slammed on the brakes, knocking me forward and into the back of his seat.

  “Turn around!” I said in a panic. “Tell the other two they can go on and unload my things, but you and I have to go back!”

  “What’s wrong? What’s the matter?”

  “I gotta go back and get all my secrets!”

  By the time I got to Justice’s condo, I was frantic! I hurriedly punched in the security codes to get into the building.

  Thank God, I didn’t leave my key!

  I unlocked Justice’s apartment door and was greeted by the dark living room. Before I could step all the way in, a lamp flicked on, and there stood Justice with my letter in one hand and my diary in the other.

  The last thing I remembered, before everything went black, was being thrown to the floor and the thick rubber ridges of his Timbs hovering over my face.

  54

  Heather

  “Good morning, Mr. Montgomery. There’s a Heather Cummings here to see you.”

  “Very well, Cathy. You may show her in.” His baritone voice poured evenly, with no hint of happiness, disappointment, or surprise, from the intercom that sat on his receptionist’s desk.

  He’s really going to see me?

  I was shocked.

  Stunned.

  Scared.

  Nervous.

  Unsure.

  Didn’t exactly know what I should want or expect from him.

  Didn’t really know why I was here, other than to say, “I’m your daughter. A part of you.”

  Which he already knew... for seventeen years . . . yet never gave a damn about.

  Or maybe he did...

  Cathy smiled and rose from her gray leather wingback chair. Her deep brown eyes soaked me in. I wondered if she could tell my anxiety was building nerve by nerve, sweat bead by sweat bead, heart jump by heart jump. “Follow me, please,” she said.

  I didn’t move.

  I couldn’t.

  Instead, I gasped for two gulps of air and stood there, looking stupid.

  I felt the urge to purge, then run out the door.

  You should’ve stayed home.

  No.

  Yes.

  No, I have something to say.

  Like what?

  Like, what did I ever do to you . . . that was so wrong . . . ? How come I was never good enough for you? Camille said you already had a daughter... but I’m your daughter too.

  And you really think he’s going to listen to that?

  “Miss Cummings,” Cathy said, as if getting my attention had been a struggle, “is everything okay?”

  Why is she asking me that? “And what is that supposed to mean? I have a right to be here too!”

  I shouldn’t have said that. Now she’s looking at me like I’m crazy.

  “Okay.” She hesitated, clearly unsure of what to say next. “Umm, Mr. Montgomery said he would see you now.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek.

  Gasped for air again.

  Look, girl, get it together. This is the chance you wanted. Just go in there and belt it out. Say, “Here I am, your disgrace in the flesh!”

  I can’t say that.

  I’m not a disgrace.

  Yeah, right.

  I locked eyes with Cathy, “Where’s your bathroom?”

  She paused, then said. “The bathroom?”

  I nodded, “Yeah.”

  “Okay, umm . . . It’s behind you, down the hall, first door to your left.”

  “Thanks.” I turned around and rushed away. Thank God, it was a single stall. I locked the door and fell against the blue suede wall. My nerves were a wreck. My stomach bubbled, strained, and cramped. And my mouth was so dry that my tongue felt brittle.

  I walked over to the vanity, pressed my palms into the limestone counter, and stared into the mirror.

  Nothing was going the way I wanted it to. The plan was to go into his office, look him in the face, and say, “Hey.” Then stand back and pray that he at least offered me a smile.

  A smile?

  Psst, please, trick, bye.

  You need to quit, and get out while you can.

  You sound like one big bag of stupid!

  That is not Rev. Run up in there!

  That is Richard Montgomery, the deadbeat.

  So what you need to ask him is why hasn’t he been around? Didn’t he think you needed a daddy too? Ask him what kind of dogmatic bullshit has he been puffin’ on all of these years that he would dump you in Camille’s drunk womb and never look back.

  Step. To. Him.

  Ask him what’s his problem.

  You are Heather Cummings, dammit!

  And what does that mean? Who the heck is Heather Cummings supposed to be?

  A star! On her way to being an iTunes icon. One of the greatest teenage idols out there. A badass who slays every day!

  Yeah, right. That’s Wu-Wu.

  Heather Cummings is a woolly-haired, too fair to be black and too brown to be white, unlovable, ugly mutt!

  Tears beat against the backs of my eyes. I dabbed at the wet corners in a speedy effort not to streak my makeup.

  Chile, you need a hit.

  No, I don’t.

  Yes. You. Do.

  Now, take it out of your purse, and get you a li’l pinch. It’ll help calm your nerves and make you feel better. ’Cause right now you’re tripping.

  I don’t wanna go in there high.

  You won’t be high.

  You gon’ be nice.

  Chilled.

  Just right.

  A li’l pinch of goodness will chip those nerves away. Besides, this is your chance, and you’ve been in here long enough.

  I don’t need a pinch right now.

  Do you want him to change his mind and not see you?

  No.

  Then you know what you gotta do.

  “Miss Cummings, you were in the bathroom for quite some time, and Mr. Montgomery is no longer available. He’s in a meeting . . .” Cathy’s voice trailed off behind me as I stormed my way to his office. I didn’t care what she had to say or what he had to do. He hadn’t seen me in seventeen years, but he was gon’ see me today! And I put that on everything!

  “Miss Cummings, stop! Miss Cummings!” Cathy called, her feet shuffling behind me.

  I didn’t even turn around, and when I got to a set of double mahogany doors with a gold nameplate marked RICHARD MONTGOMERY SR. GRAND RECORDS CEO, I flung open both doors. And there he sat behind his desk: upright, square-shouldered, dressed in a beige dress shirt and a lavender, pinstriped tie.

  Lil Wayne sat in one of the chairs across from him, holding a contract in his hand, and someone else—I guess
one of the record execs—sat in the other chair. All of their faces went from stunned to pissed.

  “My apologies,” my father said to everyone in the room, except me, the one he really owed the apology to. “Cathy, please show everyone to the conference room, and I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Cathy let out a nervous huff of air. “No problem, sir.”

  Everyone stood up and looked at me nastily, as they walked past me and out of the office.

  When the office was cleared, Cathy said, “Mr. Montgomery, do you want me to come back?”

  “No,” he said, “I’ll be fine. Please close the door behind you.”

  She did, and there I stood before my father, a direct vision in his eyes and he one in mine.

  He reared back in his leather throne chair and said, “Don’t just stand there. You stormed in on my meeting for a reason. Thank God, I’ve already signed Lil Wayne or you would have scared him off. Now say something. Obviously, you’ve got a Montgomery heart and don’t take no for an answer.”

  Montgomery . . . Did he say a Montgomery heart?!

  I tried not to smile, but I couldn’t help it.

  “Time is money.” He snapped his fingers. “Clearly, you’ve been waiting sixteen years to get here.”

  “Seventeen,” I corrected him.

  “Well, seventeen years is a long time. And as you can see, I’m a busy man, so whatever it is you need to get off your chest, didn’t say onstage when you ruined my daughter’s party, and didn’t spit on your diss track, I suggest you say it now.”

  His daughter’s party? Did he say his daughter? Well, who the hell did he think I was, the neighbor’s kid?

  Knots filed my stomach.

  He continued, “I gotta give it to you, you have skills, though, and I was proud when I heard your rhyme and saw that you could rap.”

  Proud? Did he say proud? What the eff was he proud of, me slicing my wrist on computerized wax behind his bullshit?! Proud?!

  Before I could say anything, he said, “You seem to be quite the lyricist. Something we’re missing in today’s rap. And if you weren’t so reckless, you could probably go somewhere with that.”

  Reckless? “Reckless?” I said. “I’m reckless? You don’t know me like that! And anyway, who could be more reckless than a man who runs up in er’body raw and never looks back to see if his seeds bloomed. Reckless? Boy, bye!”

  He shot me a crooked grin and said, “She speaks.”

  “Yeah, I can speak. I can walk. Run. Sing. Act. Rap. My favorite color is red. And I’m a hustler. But you wouldn’t know any of that because you haven’t been around to get to know your own child!”

  “You’re Camille’s child,” he said evenly.

  I felt like he’d just sliced me across the throat. Camille’s child?

  I spat, “Oh, so since I’m not that whore-bucket, Rich, I’m not your daughter!”

  “This isn’t about Rich. This is about you.”

  “What did I ever do to you?!” I screamed.

  “Nothing!”

  “So why do you hate me?”

  “I don’t hate you. I just don’t have anything for you. Your mother knew what she was getting into when she was with me. You aren’t even supposed to be standing there. I gave her a hundred grand for an abortion and four hundred grand to stay out of my sight, because I couldn’t stand to look at her anymore.

  “Yet, eight months later, she’s on the cover of some magazine with you propped up in a pram. So before you try to emotionally hustle me about not having a daddy, go check Camille.”

  “What I need to check Camille for?! She’s the one who has been there all of these years. You ain’t never done shit!”

  “Really? Well, tell me, who do you think has been paying for that expensive private school.” He paused. “I’ll wait.”

  I just stood there. Honestly, I didn’t know who it was, until now.

  He continued. “No response is a response, and I’ll take that as you now knowing that I paid for it. But seeing as though you’ve quit school, my charity work is done.”

  My voice trembled, “All this time, I blamed and blasted Camille for keeping me away from you, but now I see that you really didn’t want me. And obviously, you didn’t even love my mother!”

  “I loved your mother, but I was never going to marry her, if that’s what she told you. We were never a couple. We were a situation that I chose to walk away from. She held on, and I guess she thought having a baby would keep me. Well, now she knows better.”

  His words were dizzying. Head banging.

  I didn’t know how long I could keep calm enough not to hop over that desk and drag his ass!

  “You ain’t shit, yo!” I spat, no longer able to contain myself. “Nothing! Here I’ve been living for your attention—no, I’ve been dying for it—and this is how you come at me! I never did anything to you!”

  He shuffled a few papers on his desk and gathered them in his hand. “You’re right, you’ve never done anything to me; we’ve already established that. And since you’ve appointed yourself to the head of the identifying shit committee, why don’t you start with yourself. ’Cause from what I see, you inherited the not shit gene. Standing up in here tweekin’ like a fiend. High as hell. What, you thought I couldn’t tell? Little girl, I’m from the streets, and I run the music business, so I know a junkie when I see one. And you need help. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting.”

  “I ain’t going nowhere! You owe me!”

  “Owe you?” He arched a brow. He pressed the intercom button on his desk. “Cathy, get security in here.”

  I couldn’t believe this was happening. “I should sue you for a paternity test and child support!”

  He laughed. “You don’t need a paternity test. I know I’m your father. But understand this: If I would cut Rich off—my own flesh and blood, who I love and raised—what do you think I would do for you? And if you wanna sue me”—he stood up and slid his suit jacket on—“go on. But know this: My money is long. And from what I hear, between your druggin’ and Camille’s drinkin’, neither of you can keep a job or pay your rent, so you certainly won’t be able to afford an attorney to battle me. Trust me. ’Cause I’ll have you tied up in court until your fiftieth birthday, and even then you still won’t get a dime.”

  “Security’s here, Mr. Montgomery,” Cathy interrupted as she opened the door and two uniformed men walked in.

  My father looked at me and said, “They will show you out.”

  “I said I wasn’t leaving!” I took off for his desk, hoping to at least land a drop kick in face.

  Whish!

  Whash!

  Bam!

  Bang!

  Ahhhhhhhhh!

  Black.

  Everything went black.

  And all I remembered as I screamed and rushed toward him were the two security guards dragging me by my forearms and tossing me across the parking lot’s asphalt. My skin burned as sharp pieces of the ground sliced it open.

  I tried to get up and walk, but my body felt heavy. My mind lost. I had no strength.

  I knew I needed to get to my car, so I crawled, my knees scraping the ground, Once I got to my car door, I lifted the handle and pulled myself into the driver’s seat.

  I needed a more than a pinch. I needed a few lines.

  I reached into my purse and took out the foiled ball of China Doll: OxyContin, coke, and a sprinkle of potpourri. Unwrapped it and stretched it across my lap.

  I rolled up a dollar bill and snorted one line.

  Then snorted two.

  Three.

  Four.

  Until all that remained on the foiled plate were powdered brown specks. I picked up the foil and licked it clean.

  Finally, the invisible weight fell off my back, and now I could get the hell out of here!

  I raced out of the parking lot. The sound of screeching tires and the smell of burning rubber filled the air. I swerved around two cars that were in my way and took off f
or the highway.

  You’re Camille’s daughter!

  A junkie.

  A fiend!

  I never wanted you!

  I ain’t got nothin’ for you!

  “Stop it!” I screamed at the painful voices crowding my head. I whipped along the highway’s curves, doing my all to out run my thoughts and race up the mountain in front of me.

  You’re Camille’s daughter!

  A junkie!

  A fiend!

  I never wanted you!

  Stinging tears blurred my vision. I did my all to wipe my eyes clear, but the more I wiped, the more the tears poured. I couldn’t focus on the road. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t hear anything more than the voices in my head.

  You’re Camille’s daughter!

  A junkie.

  A fiend.

  I never wanted you!

  I gunned my engine and swerved around the mountain’s curve.

  That’s when it appeared, out of nowhere . . .

  The tractor-trailer.

  Horns blared.

  Tires screeched.

  I lost control of the wheel. My car jumped the divider. And then twirled gracefully up in the air like a ballet screwdriver. Everything around me spun in slow motion.

  And then the world stopped.

  All I could do was close my eyes, and whisper, “Dear God, nooooo!”

  EPILOGUE

  Spencer

  One year later . . .

  “Swing loooooow, sweet charrrrrrriot,” I sang in a low, whispery voice as I looked on in wide-eyed amazement at the seventy-five-inch flat-screen TV, with Mr. Westwick’s big face stretched out wide and in color, his hands cuffed behind his big, burly back, as he was being escorted down the steps of Hollywood High.

  “Janice,” the reporter said, looking into the camera while talking into her microphone, “we’re live out here on the sprawling campus of Hollywood High. And it’s a sad day for students and alumni. It’s been confirmed. Rushmore Westwick—class of nineteen seventy-two—has been arrested on multiple counts of bribery, embezzlement, and numerous improprieties too scandalous to mention on air during his reign as the illustrious school’s headmaster . . .”