Heels, Heartache & Headlines

by Ni-Ni Simone

  The reporter spat, “The source was anonymous.”

  “Lies! No one but Spencer told you that!”

  “Why would she say that?”

  “Clutching pearls! Er’body knows that Spencer is a bitter trollop, who needs to be effed. Up. She’s my ex-ex-ex-ex-ex-best friend from first grade. And all of these years I’ve always felt sorry for her. Her mother’s ashamed of her. Wishes Spencer was more like me and less like Kylie Jenner. And her father is like a hundred and five, and he doesn’t even know who she is. Truthfully, somebody should just do Old Yeller a favor: Take him out back and send him back to God. I can’t believe that Spencer is ragging on me. After I’ve been nothing but good to that girl. She’s the one who turned on me. Uploaded that video of London’s security team tossing me out of the house to World Star. How cheap can you play someone? She’s lucky I didn’t send her to hell that night.

  “But I’m a Christian. And I attend the masjid on a regular basis. So my religion saved her. But if she comes for me again, I’ma Crip walk on her and finish her, Watts style. Now try me. And then she called me a ho? I tell you what, I’m not gon’ be too many more hoes. This is why I’ve cut Spencer off and am done with her forever. That part of the Pampered Princesses is no more.”

  The reporter continued, “The unnamed source also said that you were famous for lying on steel gurneys and counting backwards in Nowhere, Arizona.”

  “Clutching pearls! Lies! I’m not famous for that. I’m famous for being a socialite. The daughter of hip-hop royalty. Billionaires Richard and Logan Montgomery of Grand Entertainment. Nowhere, Arizona, is a secret! You need to get your thoughts in order.”

  “One last thing. I promise. Please tell me, was there an incident where you bashed out the windows of JB’s car and his neighbor was forced to call the police on you?”

  “Slow down, low down. The police were called on Sha-keesha Gatling. Not Rich Montgomery. Check your facts. And if I wasn’t a classy lady I would run up on that neighbor and bust her out for lying on me and spreading her fat gums around. Desperate behind. Tryna be a one-hit wonder by making a nine-one-one call on me. I mean, Shakee-sha. I promise you, if that neighbor wasn’t a walking My Six Hundred Pound Life, I’da taken it straight to her temple. But her double chin was too big for me to reach through to her throat.”

  “So is that a yes?”

  “It’s a yes for me busting out the windows of JB’s car. Hell yeah, I did it. And? So? What? You ain’t never been in love? You ain’t never been through nothing? ’Cause if you have never bust the windows out of your man’s car or karate-kicked him upside his head, then you have never lived.”

  “Are you two still together?”

  “Eww. Ah’cuse you. Stop it right there. Mr. Smoke-filled Lounge and Child-support Courtroom is no longer in my category of boos right now. We’re going through a Chris Brown and Karrueche moment. So I’m finished with him. And if he’s your source, then you take your lil dirty self back to him, and tell him that I said he got off easy and he needs to be thanking me. Because I could’ve dripped some scorching Crisco down his ears or set the whole city dump of Manhattan Beach ablaze. Then where would he live? Puhlease, hear me and hear me well,” I shielded my eyes, as the wind kicked up and a helicopter flew over my head. Scanning the eyes of all the reporters, I said, “Don’t come for me ’cause it’s not healthy. And please, before anyone goes there, don’t ask me anything about Heather ’cause I don’t even know who that skid-row tramp is . . .”

  Oh, hold up. Wait a minute.

  My eyes zoomed in across the lawn, over to where Spencer and London were posted up by London’s limo, whispering.

  Am I seeing things . . . ?

  Oh no!

  “Oh hell no!” I yelled as I stormed off center stage, leaving the reporters behind and heading straight for the two strays who were purposely trying to ruin my day!

  4

  London

  “Welcome back, Little Miss Hacksaw Massacre . . .”

  That’s what that dizzy chick Spencer said when she stalked up to me and wrapped me up in a tight embrace, catching me completely by surprise while making the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

  Scheming bish!

  “Oooh, it’s soo good to have you back. I’ve sharpened my knives, boo. So get ready for the hunger games. I’m gonna slice you down to the white meat, then feed you to your cousins down in the swamplands, slum dog.”

  And she’d kept a smile on her face the whole time too!

  “Now smile for the cameras . . .”

  She struck a pose for the paparazzi zooming in on us with massive telephoto lenses.

  “London! Spencer! Over here, lovies! Give us a smile!”

  Then there was an explosion of light.

  Click-click.

  “Watch your face, boo,” she’d whispered after the flashes. “I’m coming for it.”

  Who the heck did that trick think she was, coming at me like that first thing in the morning, I thought, as I hurriedly stepped across the glass threshold, walking into a sea of teens lining the marble hallway. My heels hadn’t even had the chance to sink down good into the plush red-carpeted walkway before that tramp pounced on me.

  And then... and thennnnn . . . that looney bird had the audacity to air-kiss me just as a helicopter swooped over us and a violent gust of wind swept up around me, blowing my hair and lashes every which way.

  And, then, to add to what was already starting off to be a miserable damn morning, the headmaster, Mr. Westwick—with his ole messy self, dressed in his three-piece burgundy suit and floral ascot—felt the need to block my path, place a pudgy hand up on his hip, raise his bushy eyebrows, then proceed to shine a large flashlight in my face, momentarily blinding me as he told me he was going to be keeping his one good eye on me.

  I blinked.

  Then he demanded that I open my purse and empty out its contents for a security search.

  Me?

  Searched!

  Like, like, I was some criminal!

  Treating me like I was some common thief!

  The nerve of him!

  “I’m glad you’re back, Miss Fancy Pants,” he’d said, all the while rummaging through my handbag with two Hollywood High security officers. “But know this, Little Miss Sunshine, leave the razors at the front door. There will be no slicing or dicing of any body parts up in here. Oh, no, young lady. Not here. This academy is a ratchet-free school zone . . .”

  I blinked. Blinked again.

  “I beg your—”

  “No,” he snapped, stamping his Birkenstock-clad foot. “I beg yours. You’re a disaster waiting to happen, Miss Phillips. A runway misfit. Now, mind your manners while I’m still talking. It’s unfortunate what you’ve been through the last several weeks. And I’m happy to see that you’re still among the living. But that’ll be no excuse to come back up in here with your hoodlicious shenanigans. So let me be clear. I expect you to follow the Hollywood High Academy protocol or be escorted off the premises in handcuffs or wrapped in a straitjacket. The choice is yours.”

  He shut off his flashlight, then twirled it like a baton.

  I batted my lashes several times.

  “Now proceed to your locker expeditiously, or be fined.”

  I frowned. “Or be fined? Fined for what?”

  “For blocking my hallway. For trying to hurt yourself. For being an epic fail! Take your pick.”

  “You know what,” I huffed, stomping off. “I can’t with you. Not today, Mister Westwick. Not today.”

  “And you can’t with me any other day, either, Miss Prissy,” he yelled out. “You don’t want it with me.”

  I couldn’t get to the girls’ lounge fast enough, all the while feeling as if all eyes were on me.

  Watching me.

  Judging me.

  Snickering at me.

  Pointing accusing fingers at me.

  Ugh! I can’t stand that man!

  I shook my head, bringing myself to the present m
oment—me in the bathroom, feeling myself slowly becoming undone.

  Ugh. Maybe I’m not ready to be back yet, I thought as I stared at myself in the wall mirror in the girls’ lounge, pulling out my iPhone and quickly texting my therapist—again. SOS!!! SOS!!! THIS IS AN EMERGENCY. REPEAT. THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!!!! I DON’T THINK I CAN DO THIS!

  I took three deep breaths. Screw Spencer! And screw that Mr. Westwick! All they want to do is get me riled up and see me get derailed. They want to see me fly over the proverbial cuckoo’s nest. Well, guess what? I’ll be damned if I give them the satisfaction of seeing me unravel.

  Not today.

  I took three deep breaths, then texted my therapist again, for the twentieth time in the last thirty-seven minutes. WHERE R U?!?!

  I tossed my phone back inside my bag, then stood at the mirror and fixed my face and hair. That whore tried it, I thought as I applied a fresh coat of shimmering cherry lip gloss over my lips. Trying to rattle my nerves. Tramp, please. And Rich. Mmmph. That bloated cockroach! Standing up there at that podium like she was in the middle of an identity crisis, looking like a fake Pocahontas meets East India. Wrapped in all that silk like the ugly moth she is.

  I gave myself one last glance in the mirror, tossing my cosmetic case back in my bag, then quickly gathered my belongings and rushed off to the last stall to relieve myself.

  I locked the stall door, then pulled my buzzing phone out of my bag and stared at it. I had three text messages from my therapist.

  Finally!

  The messages read:

  TAKE DEEP BREATHS, LONDON. REMEMBER OUR RELAXATION EXERCISES!

  FACE YOUR DEMONS HEAD ON.

  I CAN SEE YOU @ 4 TODAY.

  I typed, NOOOOOOO! I’LL SEE U @ 3! Then sent it. And just as I was about to ease up off the toilet, I heard the bathroom door swing open and the clicking of heels against the tiled floor. Two sets of heels!

  “I’m warning you, Spencer. Don’t. Do. Me.”

  A gasp caught in the back of my throat. Oh, no! It’s Rich and Spencer! My stomach clutched. I thought I locked that door too! Instantly, my mind reeled back to the horrible day Spencer kicked open the bathroom stall and snapped pictures of me on the toilet. “Say cheese, you gutter rat! You ole funky turd mama!”

  She literally had me trapped in a stall while on the toilet with my silk essentials wrapped around my ankles, threatening my life and threatening to sell the photos of me using the bathroom to the tabloids.

  I shuddered, shaking the horrid thought loose. I was still traumatized by the whole sordid ordeal. Spencer was a nutty biotch!

  “Whaaaat?” I heard her screech. “Don’t do you? Girlie, bye . . . ! Get your life! The question is, who hasn’t done you, Miss Easy Lay! Don’t have me claw your goshdang eyeballs out, trampette. My name isn’t Go Both Ways. You better google me, man eater. I don’t lick ’em down low. And I don’t go deep-sea diving. If it can’t touch my esophagus I don’t want it. So don’t ever disrespect me like that.”

  I frowned. Ugh! What a nasty jizz licker!

  “Ewww!” I heard Rich squeal. “Esophagus?”

  “Yes, hunni, yes! Finger-licking good, boo.”

  “Clutching pearls! Spencer, you are some kinda nasty. You take freaky to new heights! You need to brush your tongue and get your mind right! Keep sloshing boy juice around in your mouth if you want, and you’re gonna end up catching kidney stones. I heard there’s no cure for that mess.”

  I blinked. Kidney stones? Really?

  Mirror, mirror on the wall . . . who’s the dumbest ho of them all?

  Drum roll, please . . .

  Rich Montgomery!

  I heard Spencer giggle. “Oooh, Rich, you’re so smart. I see why you pay for your grades, boo. You have the IQ of a light switch.”

  “Trick, don’t do me. And don’t change the subject, either. So what if I didn’t get an A in human astrology? I know all I need to know about the body. Now, back to you. Why were you all grins ’n’ giggles with the enemy? You know I don’t do that two-faced bish.”

  My heart skipped a beat.

  “And you know I don’t go dumpster-diving with the trash. So stop hallucinating.”

  “Lies! I saw you hug that runway catastrophe . . .”

  “Heeheehee. That catwalk klutz.”

  “Yes! That fifty-foot humpback!”

  “Yes! Yes! Miss Do or Die Low Rider!”

  I cringed.

  “Yes, hunni, yes! Miss Thirsty for Someone Else’s Man!”

  I could hear Spencer cracking up. “Bwahahahaha. That orangutan on stilts.”

  “Exactly! So if you want me to keep you on as one of my so-called, make-believe BFFs, Spencer, then you need to tell me. Right. Now. What you were doing down at the other end of the red carpet with that big-foot slutasaurus when you were supposed to be standing in back of me up at the podium as I served the world my press conference. You knew this was a big day for me. You’re so damn insensitive and thoughtless, Spencer.” I heard a foot stamp. “You don’t give a damn about no one but yourself. Why I continue to put up with your disrespect is—”

  “Whaaat? Hold up. Wait a minute. Let me stick my switchblade up in it. Don’t you stomp your little piggy-hoof at me. I don’t answer to you, boo. And I don’t have to tell you a goshdang-diggity-dang thing, little Miss Muppet. Who the heck died and left you the roll call queen. I don’t check in with you, girlie, especially when I see you smutting it up with Heather, the junkyard junkie.”

  “Ex-junkyard junkie. Get it right. Heather’s cleaned herself up. She’s not the same skittles popping crack whore she used to be.”

  I heard Spencer snort. “Lies. That tramp is about as clean as the gutters she crawled up out of. Skid row trash!”

  “Ohmygod, Spencer! Clutching pearls! You’re so judgmental. And this is exactly why no one likes you. People change. But you wouldn’t know anything about that since you’re still the same ole hating, man-sharing tramp.”

  “Oh, please! Says the girl who slept with the substitute teacher . . .”

  I blinked. Ohmygod! She did what? Who? When? Keep talking, Spencer. Keep right on running your jaws.

  “Ooh, bish! Shut your gutter trap, you messy heifer. How was I supposed to know that fine Mexican was a teacher?”

  “Well, if you went to class and paid attention, you would have known. And he’s Puerto Rican.”

  “Yes, god. Hunni! And hot like Tabasco sauce. He had me ready to lick the guacamole bowl and cross the borders of Tijuana! And you know I don’t do Latin America like that. I’m a Cali girl. Crenshaw, baby! Bang-bang! But that’s beside the point, Spencer. The point is, people change. And Heather’s changed.”

  “Girlie, bye. The only thing Heather’s probably changed is her panty liner. And even that’s questionable. That streetwalker hasn’t changed a dang thing else, except who she’s grabbing her ankles for.”

  “Whaaat? Clutching pearls! Oh, no. Oh, no. Let me stop you right there. Jealousy is so not cute on you, Spencer. Why are you all up in Heather’s hot pocket? Who Heather is doing booty shots for is none of your business. She’s my good, good friend now. And you will not defame her good name in front of me. Oh no, oh no. Not over here you won’t.”

  “Lick cow turds, girlie. Heather’s a traitorous tricka-zoid,” Spencer spat. “And when she turns on you and stabs you in the face, back, and chest, don’t you dare come crawling back to me. Because if you do, I’m going to step on your neck and watch you bleed out.”

  I heard someone suck their teeth. Then heard Rich say, “Bye, Felicia, bye. You’re so overdramatic. That’s what you get for tryna buy your friends. You’re pathetic. Nobody told you to go out and buy that girl a brand-new Lamborghini—one she turned around and sold for some tricked-out hooptie. And no one told you to spend thousands of dollars for her to get that new bouncing booty she so graciously tells you to kiss every chance she gets. And you damn sure had no business writing her a check for three million dollars, when you know that money could have e
asily gone to my foundation.”

  “And what charity is that, Rich? The Reformed Hoes Alliance?”

  “No. The Make A Bish Wish She Was Me Foundation. I’m making dreams come true, while keeping hope alive.”

  “Hahahaha. Hilarious. From the looks of it, the only thing you’ve been keeping open are your legs.”

  “See. And that’s exactly why you don’t have any friends, Spencer, because you’re messy and selfish. S-e-l-f-s-i-s-h . . .”

  I blinked. Ohmygod, the Dimwit Blonde award goes to... once again, Rich!

  “Rich, shut your dang flytrap before I stuff it with Gorilla Glue. I’m two seconds from going into my trick bag on you. And the correct spelling is s-e-l-f-i-s-h! Get your dictionary skills up before you try me this early in the morning.”

  In my mind’s eye, I imagined Spencer pulling out a can of Mace and scorching Rich’s eye sockets out. Would serve her right!

  “Ugh. See. There you go. Tryna do me. I don’t know what kinda games you’re playing, Spencer, but you had better respect my gangster. I swear. You are so incompetent. And disloyal! A disgrace! I tell you. You lollipop hoes ain’t loyal. And I’ve been nothing but good to you.”

  “And I’ve been good to you. And I’ve kept every dirty, little secret of yours.”

  “Lies! The only thing you’ve ever kept are your knees on the floor and your mouth pressed into some boy’s crotch. Like I’ve said, you’ve been nothing but judgmental. And I’m sick of it! Just when I halfway start to like you, you show me what kinda trick you really are.”

  I heard something slam down on the marble vanity.

  “Judgmental? Girlie, bye! You’re the one with all the dirty tricks. If I were judging you, nutbush, I’d be coming at that kangaroo pouch you’re trying to hide. How many baby kangaroos are you hopping around with this time, Rich, huh? And I’d be talking about you keying up Thug Daddy’s car, and smashing his windows out, like the ratchet trash you are. But. Not. A. Word. Mammals going wild is none of my business.”

  My stomach heaved as I absorbed the weight of what Spencer was implying. Is Rich pregnant? Oh, God, with Justice’s baby?