Heels, Heartache & Headlines

by Ni-Ni Simone

  “Mitch! Get yo’ life! Don’t. Do. Me. You must really want me to boom-bop-drop these fists on you. First of all, me keying up my man’s car was done out of love. But you wouldn’t know anything about loving a man—a real man, that is—because you’re too stuck on little boys barking and stomping the yard in purple long johns and gold combat boots. It takes a real woman to smash out her man’s windows, then love him down right. So stay out of me and my man’s damn business!

  “Second of all, I’m on my period. So there goes your pregnancy theory. Now stay the hell out of my honey well. And if you’re trying to say I’m fat, you’ve failed terribly, sweetie. You wish you could be me. Thicklabulous. Yesss, hunni. Thick and fabulous combined into one sweet, juicy package.”

  “Ohhhhh, so that’s what they’re calling it these days, thick. Mmmph. Real classic.”

  “Oooh, the hate is real. Annnywho, trampalina. Back to you. You need to let me know why I should consider keeping you around all of my fabulousness after the trickery you pulled outside because I will not tolerate fickle hoes in my inner circle. And, once again, you have proven you are not to be trusted.”

  I heard Spencer laugh. “Woo-ooh! Tick, tock, tickety-tick-tock! Ring the alarm! Send in the clowns! You’re a real sideshow, girlie. A dirty, low-down skank-a-dank, no-panty-wearing, man-eating whore! But I’m not judging you. But like I saaaaaid before. What I was or wasn’t doing with that bubblehead London outside is none of your goshdang beeswax!”

  “Mmmph. And you call my new good, good friend Heather a traitor. But, trick, you better be grateful that I continue to worship in the Church of Stay Fly and Be A Lady At All Times, and that I don’t ever believe in throwing the first punch; otherwise I would straight get it crunked up in here. Take it right to your face . . .”

  I glanced at my timepiece. I’d had enough of this! It was clear these slutty kooks had no intentions of leaving up out of here anytime soon. And there were only eleven minutes left until the homeroom bell rang. I had to get out of this bathroom stall. Fast.

  I quietly shimmied my Strumpet & Pink–laced goodies up over my hips, then eased down my skirt. I flushed the toilet, took a deep breath, then unlocked the stall door.

  It was time to step into the light and—as my therapist would say—face these demons in heels head on.

  5

  Heather

  Just above the level of public stall toilet shit. Those words flooded my thoughts as I pressed my forehead against the helicopter’s thick glass, looking down at the sprawling Hollywood High grounds. I scanned the heads of the reporters, semicircling Rich and her red carpet committee... and for a moment, a split second in time, I wished I knew what it was like to be her. A real Montgomery. The apple of our father’s eye. Instead of his abortion nightmare come to life.

  But.

  I was nothing.

  I wasn’t WuWu.

  I wasn’t Luda Tutor.

  I wasn’t a Pampered Princess.

  I wasn’t straight.

  Gay.

  Black.

  White.

  I looked Mexican. With bronze-colored skin and thick, sandy brown coils.

  But I wasn’t Mexican.

  I was a mutt. White mother. Black father.

  And I didn’t have any friends.

  And I didn’t have any money. Not any real money.

  All I had was my mother, Camille, whose pale-peach-colored face and icy-blue eyes stayed on the grind of ruining my life.

  And today was no different.

  Eight a.m. I’d stood looking in my ensuite’s mirrored wall, wanting desperately to stop my sinking thoughts that told me:

  You ain’t good enough.

  You ain’t gon’ ever be good enough.

  And you need a pinch of Black Beauty so you can feel like something.

  But I didn’t want Black Beauty. I just wanted to get into the groove of admiring my hot and fire-red leopard catsuit and my custom-made fox stole—with diamonds in the eyes and pink-painted claws on the feet. And just when I’d finally stopped telling myself that I wasn’t shit, but instead was the shit, in stepped Camille. Mudding up my freakin’ moment.

  I lifted my lavender-colored eyes—contacts, of course—and stared at her reflection. Her shoulder was pressed into the doorway as she swirled her daily breakfast of scotch with a splash of Sprite.

  A Virginia Slim dangled from the corner of her thin cherry lips, and her sheer white gown hung loosely on her reedy and shapeless frame. She wore open-toe mink and matted slippers that showcased her long, thin toes, which she stretched out and moved like an accordion playing the same beat. Over. And over. Again.

  Ugg!

  “Dear God, no.” Camille smacked her lips and huffed, “Baby Jesus. Buddha on high. Heather Suzanne.”

  I hated when she called me that.

  “I think we’ve got a problem.” She took a pull of her cigarette and blew an O of smoke into the air.

  I sucked my teeth and dug around in my makeup bag for mascara. Found it.

  “Did you hear me, Heather Suzanne?”

  I huffed and zigzagged Maybelline across an eyelid. “What’s the problem?”

  “Problem number one is that smug look on your face.”

  “Fall back. Last I checked, I didn’t ask you for a facial analysis.” I zigzagged the other eyelid.

  “Just who are you talking to?”

  I looked directly into the mirror, gave her reflection a piercing look, and my eyes clearly said, ‘I’m talking to yo’ behind.’ But I didn’t let that come out of my mouth. Instead, I shrugged, then reached for my purple lip gloss and said, “Umm . . . Let me think here . . . I would be talking to . . . you.” I popped and smudged my lips together for an even glossy coating.

  “You must want me to slap your face!”

  “Are you really trying to get into the ring with me today? Really? You really wanna reenact Hollywood WWE? ’Cause we can.”

  Camille placed her drink on the shelf next to her. “You better watch your tone, young lady. Because I know you remember when I dragged you outside and blackened you up real good. Now do you want me to bull’s-eye your face again? The last time you got off easy and only landed in a hospital bed.” She stepped out of her slippers, gathered the hem of her nightgown to the right and tied it into a knot. “But this time, I’m telling you now, my plan will be to make your lungs collapse and stomp the life out of you. So please inform me of how you wish to handle this, little girl. I’ve got my lawyer on standby. And believe me, if I have to go to jail, the charge will be murder. You will have your RIP card today. ’Cause I will drag you straight to the gates of hell. Have your fake rump, silicone tits, and face on fire forever!”

  For a moment, I considered raising up, but then I decided not to buck. Besides, Camille was crazy, and she roamed the Earth looking for reasons to lose it. She was a blackballed Oscar-winning actress who couldn’t get a job if she paid to be on set. Nobody in Hollywood would touch her.

  For one: She was a wayward drunk.

  And for two: She’d made one too many rounds through Tinsel Town’s hoe stroll, pissed off the wrong men—including my father—that she liked to pretend didn’t exist, and now she was a worn-out Marilyn Monroe. Minus the bed, the pills, and the grim reaper.

  And here I was, stuck with this demon loin. And to think I’ve tried everything to get rid of her.

  Threw all of her booze over the balcony and tried to toss her out behind it, but she snuck me. Dragged me. And I ended up in the hospital, near death.

  When she had us homeless and laid up in Sleazy Eight, two seconds from being ladies of the night, I tried moving out and leaving her there. But I was a minor, and I needed her.

  I even drugged her. Dumped molly, Xanax, Valium, and a few other pills in her drink. But. It didn’t work. All she did was wake up in the back of a paddy wagon—long story—screaming and needing her stomach pumped. Then caught an attitude. And had me sentenced to probation until the age of eighteen.

&
nbsp; Thank God for Spencer and Kitty, though. They paid off the judge in money and coochie butter, so my probation was reduced and only lasted for six months.

  Now don’t get me wrong—I love my mother. I just can’t stand her.

  I took a deep breath and grimaced. “What. Do. You. Want. Camille? It’s too early in the morning for you to call yourself serving me. As a matter of fact, why don’t you go and serve yourself a new drink. Or better yet, serve yourself an AA meeting.”

  Camille walked over to my medicine cabinet, reached for the bottle of Tylenol, and popped two in her mouth, chasing them with a swig of scotch. “Let me just calm my nerves. ’Cause either you’re confused, think you have arrived, or both.” She paused. Took a long toke of her cigarette and blew another O of smoke into the air.

  Flicking her cigarette ashes to the floor, she continued. “But, as your mother, I think you should know... How do I say this . . .” She snapped her fingers. “You, my dear, are just above the level of public stall. Toilet. Shit.”

  My eyes popped open, and my throat felt like it had been sliced. Camille was always saying something that felt like death.

  She carried on, not caring that I’d turned beet red. “Yeah, yeah, you were on prime-time TV. And WuWu was everywhere. But things are different now. Back then your piss was innocent, but now it’s burning holes in cups. Sending the teenage drug-use statistics to new heights. Which is why the only role you’re being offered is ratchet reality TV. Kitty litter style. Straight bottom of the trash barrel!”

  “You’ve got hella nerve, Camille! And since that trash is paying your bills, then what does that make you?”

  “That makes me the garbage woman ’cause I’m taking the trash out and struggling to clean it up. You are a disgrace. Here I am, an Oscar-winning actress.” She pushed her right shoulder forward and cat-walked across the bathroom floor. “Yet my offspring is a low-self-esteem attention whore.”

  I blinked. Not once but three times.

  She carried on, flinging her arms in the air, like she was sharpening her acting skills. “You’re out running the streets of L.A. looking for acceptance, when you need to be honing in on your talent. But instead you wanna be friends with Rich, that chocolate pig. And if you’re not fantasizing about being a Montgomery, you’re hanging out until four in the morning down in K-Town somewhere, twerking on a bar top with that lady boy, Coco Ming. Or picking out boxing shorts with that auntie-uncle Nikki. Or wasting your life away with one of your other Skittle party friends whose idea of fun is to overdose on their grannie’s heart medicine!”

  “What are you talking about?! Coco is my friend. He’s not some lady boy. He’s gay. And Nikki is my friend. She’s not an auntie-uncle. She’s a pretty girl, and she’s really nice! So don’t you dare call her that!”

  “I will call rainbow thongs whatever I like! You think I don’t see the way you two look at each other? Huh? I swear if you mess around and get freaked out I will commit you. You’re already a junkie, and now you wanna be fruity?! Pick a struggle, Heather Suzanne! Pick. A. Frickin’. Struggle!”

  “You need to get yourself a life and stay out of my business!”

  “You are my business! And you owe me! I’m your mother, and you know I haven’t worked in years. We’re all we have. And you need to get these bills paid up in here. I will not live like the hired help. Now what you better do is get your little mind together. You’ve got a fake behind and fake tits, but you are still Hollywood garbage. And you need to change that. Stop trying to be a Montgomery because you will never be.”

  Amazing. She won’t admit that Richard Montgomery is my father, but she’ll tell me to stop trying to be a Montgomery. Blank. Stare.

  She carried on, “You need to be Heather Cummings. A reality star with a number one iTunes hit. Get back in the studio and make another track. Turn up the heat on this reality show thing. I don’t care if you have to walk down Rodeo Drive naked. Do. Something. And do it big! ’Cause it’s time for me to get the respect I deserve.”

  I rolled my eyes to the top of my head, put my left eyebrow ring in, tightened the small ring in my nose, turned around, and headed for my bedroom.

  Camille followed me, and as I reached for the keys to my hot pink ’57 Chevy and grabbed my plush leopard clutch, she screamed, “Oh no! Hell no!” She snatched the keys out of my hand. “You will not be going to school in that hunk of junk. You will be arriving to Hollywood High in style.”

  “Style? I’m always in style. Thank you very much.”

  “Look, you will not be rolling up in that pink slop bucket. I have written a check from your bank account and chartered you a helicopter.”

  A what? What did she say? “You did what? Run that past me again. And who paid for this?”

  “You paid for it.”

  “I’m not riding in a helicopter. You can forget it. And you better get my money back! You don’t—”

  “Oh, you will ride in that helicopter and you will ride in it today.” A familiar voice sliced across my words. I turned around toward the doorway, and there stood the devil. Spencer’s mother. In red bottoms and a navy blue power suit. “Kitty . . . what are you doing here?”

  “I’ve been here this whole time, and so have the cameras.” She pointed to the cameraman behind her. “We’ve finally gotten some footage we can use to kick this reality show up a notch. I refuse to let you drag my money through the mud another day. It’s time for you to get on board. Now, gather your things.” She snapped her fingers. “Because you will be flying to school today. The press is already on the grounds. And I need you, you need you, and God knows your mother needs you, to own the spotlight. Because if you don’t, I will fire you, and I will shut your whole world down. Your mother will end up on welfare, and by the time I’m done with you, you’ll be at the post office shuffling mail around with the rest of the civil service fishbowl of misfits. Now come along . . .”

  * * *

  “Miss Cummings, we’re here,” the pilot said, his voice bringing me out of my thoughts. I looked out of the window and noticed how the blades had tossed up thousands of dollars’ worth of weaves. Rich’s hair stood straight up on her head, and her pearls were wrapped around her neck like a noose. Even Spencer and London looked disheveled by the helicopter’s wind.

  Actually, I had everyone’s attention. All eyes were on me like they were supposed to be. So why was I nervous? Scared? Hesitant?

  You need some.

  No I don’t.

  Yes you do.

  Just a pinch.

  I sighed.

  Maybe just a little to knock off the edge.

  I eased a hand into my clutch and carefully unfolded the foil in my bag. I looked over at the pilot, and he was too busy shutting down the helicopter’s gears to notice me.

  Quickly, I dipped a long tip of my stiletto nail into the foil, pulled out a pinch of Black Beauty, eased it to my nose, and snorted it in. A few seconds later, a burning, yet calming wave came over me.

  You got this.

  You that chick.

  Own it.

  Work it.

  Zone it.

  Boom!

  I sniffed, clearing my nostrils. Then I took the pilot’s hand, smiled, and stepped out of the helicopter, “Showtime!”

  6

  Rich

  “Mirror, mirror on my locker’s wall, who’s the flyest bish of ’em all?”

  I blinked.

  Smiled.

  Flipped my weave, admired my marble brown eyes, and after snapping a quick selfie, I said, “Why you are, Rich. You’re the flyest bish of ’em all. And that’s why these silly thots stay hatin’.”

  Snap. Snap. I popped my fingers.

  Bam! I clapped my hands.

  Yaaaaasss, honey, yaaaaasss!

  Spencer and London tried it.

  They.

  Tried.

  It.

  And I know Spencer heard me calling her when she and London were all huddled up and whispering like besties. She ignore
d me, though. Never even turned around and looked my way.

  Don’t get it twisted: I’m not sweatin’ it. I’m not even mad. ’Cause one thing is for certain and two things for sure: It’s only a matter of time before those two skanks get to yanking each other’s tracks out.

  And where will I be?

  Posted up. Looking cute. And recording it. Making sure every social networking site has a front row seat at the Pampered Princesses’ newest bitch-slappin’ hoedown.

  Mph, sometimes, you gotta give a funny-actin’ trollop just what she wants: embarrassment. And since Spencer wanna switch teams on me—on me!—well, then, she shall see what happens when friends become enemies.

  That wanna-be trap queen!

  Heifer!

  Sleaze!

  I can’t believe Spencer would betray me. That chick has absolutely no loyalty. And that’s why my new gospel is: Everyone from Day One ain’t A-1.

  Period.

  Besides, I don’t have time for little-girl games.

  I’m a grown, sixteen-year-old woman. Soon to be seventeen. And if Spencer keeps it up, she will not be invited to my birthday party! She wanna be all up in that black widow London’s face. Really? Oh, okay.

  Know what, let me breathe.

  Relax.

  Otherwise, I’ma end up sluggin’ me a slut today.

  I took a deep breath and pushed it out.

  Dear Black Jesus, please send me a sign. I need something, to calm me down so I can think clearly and come up with a hellafied way for these tricks to pay . . . WHAM!

  I jumped as the locker next to me slammed shut.

  I peeked around to see what kind of beast was trying to tear up the place.

  I frowned. Heather? Eww. Really? This raggedy bird. Why is her locker next to mine? When did this happen? This is not cardboard box row. I will be going to Westwick today...

  Wait.

  Hold it.

  I paused, and a smile lit up my face.

  Heather had TV cameras filming her at her locker. I forgot she had a new reality show.

  Hmmm . . .

  And every reality star has a best friend.

  And nothing pisses off the old bestie like a new bestie.