Heels, Heartache & Headlines

by Ni-Ni Simone

  I glanced at my timepiece. Then slooooowly rollllllllllled my eyes up in my head, twirling my eyeballs around in their sockets. Rich had been flapping her meat lickers for the last ten minutes and thirty-six seconds. Non. Diggity-dang. Stop.

  Blah, blah, blah. Yippity-yip-yapping about London the giant panda.

  Like I gave a hoot.

  London was a nonfactor. And so was this tirade Rich was having. The only thing on my mind was my upcoming night with Midnight, my love-em-up-lick-em-right freak daddy in the sheets. Mister Stomp the Yard, Mister Long-Legged Go Hard For His Purple ’n’ Gold, Rufus—

  “Speeeeeencer?! Speeeeeeencer?!” Rich snapped, slamming her bag down on the counter and jostling me out of my lusty thoughts.

  I allowed my gaze to flutter over to her.

  Head tilted, hand on hip, she glared at me. “God! You’re so atrocious, Spencer! Can’t you stay focused for once in your worthless life? Are you even listening to me? I’m pouring out my troubles to you and all you can do is sit there, all dazed, looking like the little lost space cadet you are. God, Spencer! You’re so dang inconsiderate! What’s it gonna take for me to get some respect around here, huh, girlie? Do I need to punch your eyes out? Castrate those long lips of yours?”

  Lawdgawd! HolyMaryFrancis! This girl was dumber than a bag of doorknockers.

  “I’m sick of you, Spencer, ignoring me. I keep trying to be good to you, and all you wanna do is use and abuse me. Well, guess what, girlie?” She dug into her bag and pulled out her pink leather-bound notebook. The one she kept everyone’s wrongdoings in. “It stops today. From here on out, I’m doubling your demerits.”

  She flipped through several pages before pulling out her Tebaldi fountain pen and scribbling in it. “As of this very moment, Spennnnncerrrrr, you have managed to rack up two hundred and forty-seven demerits. You only get three hundred before I terminate this so-called friendship of ours because it’s obvious you are not worthy of my love and kindness, even though I’m trying very hard to do what’s right and stay true to the words in the Bible.”

  I blinked. Tilted my head. Counted to twenty-five in my head. “And what’s that, Rich? Do tell, boo. Tell Momma what the Book of Harlots says. Give me the gospel according to Jezebel.”

  She gnashed her shiny white fangs and foamed at the mouth.

  Mmmph. What a wolf!

  “It says, ‘Thou shall not ever take friendship for granted,’ which is something you continue to do. And I’m sick of it, Spennnnncerrrr. Wait . . .” She narrowed her eyes. “Was Jezebel the one serving the dinner trays at the Last Supper? I can’t remember. The last time I went to Mass I think that’s what the rabbi said.”

  Ugh! What a ditzy-dumbo!

  “Ooh, yes, yes . . . get it, girl! I see somebody got an A in Bible study. Let me pull out the collection plate. You’ve just earned your way through the pearly white gates, boo.”

  Rich popped her collar. Then started twerking. She turned her back toward the mirror and glanced over her shoulder, sliding a fingernail between her teeth and making her booty cheeks clap. “See, girl, I can’t with you. You’re about to have me praise dancing up in here.” She bent over and grabbed her ankles. “Ooh, I’m starting to feel the Holy Ghost.”

  Rich could be so, so . . . ghetto-trash. But I couldn’t hold that against her. She really couldn’t help herself for being who she was. After all, both of her parents were straight from the gutters of the hood.

  So it was genetic. To be ghetto. And trashy.

  I leaned forward and smacked her on her pound cakes. “Oooh, giddy-up, little pony. Shake it like a salt shaker.”

  Rich yelped. “Ahh! Clutching pearls! Tramp, you’re way out of order!” She straightened herself, slammed her book shut, then eyed me. “You stay doing the most with your freak nasty self. I’m not going to keep being a friend to you, Spennnnnncerrrr, if you’re going to keep taking me for granted. You had better start showing me some appreciation. And I mean it. Now, back to what I was telling you. Can you believe that whore?”

  “What whore, Rich?”

  Rich slapped her notebook down on the counter. “Ohmygod, Spencer! Wake up! London, girl! That’s the whore I’m talking about. But if you want me to talk about you instead, I’d gladly oblige. Now keep trying me.”

  “Oh, Rich,” I calmly said. “Relax your hoofs, girlie. I heard everything you’ve said, which, if you ask me, is about a bunch of nothing. Why you care what Low Money says? If you think London’s a liar, then why are you sweating it?”

  “Sweating it? Clutching pearls? I’m a lady, tramp. I don’t sweat. I perspire. I drink water . . .”

  I rolled my eyes. “And while you’re over there perspiring and drinking water, Miss Wet Stains, riddle me this: What if that thug dog you’re rolling around on that flea bed with is the real liar?” I paused for a beat, blinking my lashes and letting my words float around the bathroom. “I mean. What if he and that East Side gutter rat did go together?”

  “Whaaaaat? Clutching pearls!” Rich pounded her fist on the countertop. “Whore, you’re way out of order! You’ve stooped to an all-time low with that, trick! And that’s not saying much since we all know how low you and your rusty knees can go. You ole nasty dome licker! Justice is a good man, Spennnncerrrr! How dare you try to defame my man’s name with slander! He would never sleep with that girl. Or mess with that girl. So you had better watch your mouth before . . .”

  “Rich, drink bleach.” I slid my hand down into my purse. “You must want me to snatch your breath, huh?”

  “Whaaaat?” Rich squeaked, snatching her phone out of her purse. “Oh no, oh no! I will not be a part of your homicide. You will not yellow-tape me. You wanna pull out weapons on me? First you insult my man’s integrity. Now you wanna take my life! Girl, you are waaaay out of order!”

  I rolled my eyes, pulling out an ashtray and my jeweled cigarette case. “Oh, Rich, shut up. If I wanted you dropped and bagged, do you think I’d do it right here in the girls’ lounge? Right here on campus, no less? Think, Rich, think. I’ve watched enough episodes of How to Get Away with Murder to know how to do you, girlie. I’d get you right after you’ve gotten all tanked up on hot wings and beer. Jeezus. I’d gut you while your belly was full so I could watch your bowels empty out. I know your insides are filthy.”

  “Oh. Girl, don’t scare me like that. Wait. I’ll have you know, my insides are springtime fresh. And I just had a colonic two days ago. Don’t do me. Now back to your delinquent ways. You’re lucky I didn’t press DIAL. You know I have SWAT on SPEED DIAL, girl. They would have swooped in and took you down, like the crazed psychopath you are.”

  I waved her on. “Girlie, bye. I’m no crazier than you are for thinking Mister City Slickster couldn’t be up to no good. I don’t trust him. And you know I don’t like him.”

  Oh, I know. If I wanted to, I could simply tell Rich what I knew about her boo-thug and London. But what was the fun in that? No. This man eater needed to stumble on that news the hard way.

  “That’s because you’re hateful, Spencer. And you don’t want to see me happy.”

  “No. I don’t want to see you get hurt. That boy is no good, Rich.”

  “He’s a man. Don’t let me tell you again. And he’s good for me, and good to me. And he feels good. And we’re in love.”

  I frowned. “Oh, really? Since when? I thought you didn’t—quote, unquote—do love. Ever. Remember?”

  She sucked her teeth. “Spencer, this is why I hate you, okay? You can’t be trusted with nothing. I tell you something in confidence, then you turn around and throw it up in my face. What a slore! I told you I didn’t do love when I was still trying to find myself.”

  “Oh? And where were you looking, beneath some boy’s stained bedsheet? In the backseat of his Maserati?”

  “Girl, no. I gave up backseats and other boys’ bedsheets a long time ago. And I’ll have you know, Tramp, the last time I was on some unknown bedsheets was at the Howard Johnson when Corey called me
.”

  I blinked. “Oh, really? When was that, Rich?”

  “Last week. And he said he’s sorry about what happened when you were upside down in that ditch.”

  I rolled my eyes. I was not even about to revisit that despicable day. Corey was the dang reason why my car ended up in the ditch alongside the road in the first dang place. With his six-foot fine self. That no-good pound puppy had told me he was going to dump Rich, so that he and I could continue our little undercover freakfest. Sure, he was Rich’s man at the time. But he was my little lickety-lick, creep-creep.

  But that was beside the point. The point was, he’d said he was dumping her. But instead, I caught him and her over by the gazebo after school with him dropping his spit and tongue all down in her throat after I’d just had him—with his True Religions wrapped around his ankles—in one of the girls’ lounges earlier in the day.

  Ooooh. Seeing the two of them all lick-em-up lovie-dovey had me on fire. I’d skidded off in my car, sideswiping parked cars, then swerving all over the road until I’d lost control of my Benz. It flipped up in the air, then landed on the roof.

  The. End.

  Mmmph.

  “Justice is all I need to get by, Spencer,” Rich carried on, snatching me from the memory of being upside down in the ditch. “You know I tried to shake him once. Okay, twice. Okay, okay... three times. But”—she bounced her shoulders—“my boo knows how to make it rain down on me.” She patted her forehead. “He makes me wanna do things I’ve never done with anyone else. I’m talking chandelier swinging.” She shimmied, then did a two-step.

  And I felt myself throw up in the back of my mouth a little bit.

  Yuck.

  “And I’m happy,” Rich continued, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “So stay out of grown folks’ affairs. And stay the hell out of my life, Spencer. I’m one pen-click away from drawing a line straight through your name on the guest list. I promise you I am.”

  I grunted, ignoring the last part of what she said. Like I gave a damn about being crossed off her silly party list. That crack-ho must have forgotten who I was. Or she’d known I’d rev my engine and speed roll right through the dang building. Then smash cake in her fluffy face.

  Try me.

  I rolled my eyes at her. “Mmmph. Is that what they’re calling keying up cars and smashing out windows these days? Happy?”

  She waved me on. “Look, Spencer, like I told you before, until you fall in love, don’t question what me and my man have. We have that ride or die, dirty-fighting kind of love. We fight hard. And love harder. That’s grown folks love, girl. You know nothing about that. Look at my mother and my father. Logan’s smashed out her share of car windows and dragged plenty of hoes by their edges over him. And she’s still dragging them, Spencer. Because that’s what real hoes do. And that’s what love makes you do.”

  Lawdgawd . . . nail me to the cross! This girl was really starting to give me gas. All I could do was clench my booty cheeks and shake my head.

  “No, thanks. I’ll have a colonic instead.” I twisted the cigarette butt. Then shifted my booty up on the countertop. “Woman to woman, Rich . . .” She watched as smoke started rising from the electronic tip. “No, shady trees over here, but . . .” I took a pull from the cigarette, then tooted my lips and blew out invisible smoke. “What do you really know about that boy Justice?”

  “Umm, correction, tramp. Justice is a man. All man, I might add. Get it right. Now don’t let me tell you again. I’m warning you. Don’t have me pull your invitation to my birthday party. And you know I will. Now get your mind right before I get it right for you. Justice is a M-A-N-N. But you wouldn’t know about having one of those since you’re only interested in playing doctor with little boys running around in purple pajamas. I swear. Midnight is about as goofy as you are, Spencer. But you don’t hear me saying anything about his ole skinny, rusty behind, do you? All I ever do is shower you with happiness and good wishes because I know the two of you junkyard freakazoids really deserve each other.”

  I tilted my head. Narrowed my gaze. Then blew smoke at her. “I know we do. Now back to you. Have you done a background check on him?”

  “A background check on who? Justice?”

  I took a deep breath. Then slowly said, “Yesssss, Rich. Justice.”

  She frowned. “Girl, no. I don’t even know his last name.”

  Ooh, I was slowly starting to lose my patience with this Paddington Bear. How do you not know your own so-called boyfriend’s—oops, fiancé’s last name?

  Alrighty then . . .

  I see this dog isn’t tryna hunt. So let me let it lie right where it is. On top of a pile of horse poop!

  My work here was done.

  I set the cigarette in the ashtray. Slid off the counter, then reached into my purse and pulled out my cosmetic case. I slid a coat of lip gloss over my lips. Then popped my juicy-glossed lips.

  Rich eyed me. “Where are you going?”

  “To class,” I responded, shutting off my cigarette and tossing my ashtray back inside my bag. “You have completely bored me. I’d rather stare at Mister Sanders’s trousers sucked up into his man cakes than to listen to you ramble on about nothing.”

  “Whaaaaat? Clutching pearls! Class? Ohmygod, Spennnncerrrrr, you’re so damn thoughtless!” She snatched open her journal. “That’s it. You’re done, Spennncerrrrrr. Finished! This is why we can never manage to stay friends longer than”—she glanced at her Platinum Pearl Master—“fourteen minutes and twenty-two-point-four seconds. Then on top of that, you have managed to rack up three-hundred-and-fifty-seven demerits in less than one hour. It’s over for you, Spennnncerrrr. You’ve officially been axed!” She made a chopping motion across the palm of her hand. “Chop! You’re outta here, girlie. This friendship is over!”

  I gathered my belongings, and headed for the door. There was nothing more to say. This girl was a lost dang cause. “Good day, ma’am,” I tossed over my shoulder as I walked toward the bathroom door.

  “You don’t tell me good day,” Rich snapped, slinging her notebook at me. It flew over my head and hit the door. “You’re trying to wish me dead saying some damn good day when the day’s not even over. You selfish trick! What you should be saying is good morning. And you better meet me at the Kit-Kat Lounge at four o’clock. And don’t be late, whore!”

  “Rich, eat my panty liner!” I snapped as I stomped on her notebook and unlocked the door. “And chew it real good.” I slung open the door, then slammed it shut behind me as I walked out.

  Trick, please.

  17

  Rich

  I’m sorry for trying to hook you up with Justice. I should have told you that we were going together.

  Stop it! I slammed my hand on my Ferrari’s dashboard, swallowing tears. I was parked in the back of Justice’s apartment complex, debating whether or not I should go shut down his spot. But. I wasn’t really in the mood for his neighbor to call the cops on me, again...

  You think your life is so perfect. Enjoy it while it lasts, sweetie. But know this: That little fairy tale you’re holding onto is going to go up in flames, real fast. And you’re going to soon find out that your life isn’t all that picture-perfect after all.

  “Uggggg!” I screamed, my head reeling.

  I had to shake these thoughts.

  I had to.

  Otherwise, I was gon’ go into American Lit class, grab London by her infusion weave, and beat. Dat. Azz.

  I can’t believe she came at me and my man like that! I should’ve just taken my box cutter, gave it to her, and told her, “Please finish what you started.”

  I’m way too kind, though.

  Thoughtful.

  Generous.

  And I’ma lady. So I was trying to be calm, but the sound of London’s voice stuck on repeat in my head was sending me straight into whup-a-trick mode.

  She tried it, though. Tried to read me for filth. And truthfully, it knocked me off my square, but only for a moment.


  Heck, I had to digest how I’d been played for the third time in a week.

  First Spencer.

  Then London.

  And now Justice? Justice, my man. My baby-daddy. My ride or die. My hitter. My flip it up and rub it down-wheel barrel-boo. My chocolate thirst quencher. The one I’d given my all too. My trap-king. How could he lie to me?

  And yeah, yeah, yeah, I know I said it was over between us before, but I reaaaaalllllly meant it now. This time, we were done. For. Everrrrrrr!

  Finished.

  Over. With.

  No coming back.

  No looking back.

  No more Princess Rich and Peasant Justice.

  Eff him.

  Eff his mama.

  And eff the crack house he grew up in.

  Sucka!

  Bum nucca!

  Like he’s even all that. Puhlease. Not. London can have him back.

  Mmmph! I was doing him an upgrade by being with him. He ain’t do nothing for me. Never have and never will.

  And yeah, he might be hey-hey-holler-back, daddy pull my hair and let’s pop-pop tonight fine. But so what? I can’t let him play me.

  I can’t.

  I stared out my car’s window and did my all not to let one tear fall. I couldn’t believe that Justice and London really had a bromance.

  Like stud muffins. Huddled up and cuddled up.

  I huffed and flung away a stupid tear that dripped down my face. It’s cool, though. Justice may have gotten this off, but believe me, it’s more than one way to muzzle a dog.

  I pulled out my phone and posted a pic of a burning broken heart on Instagram.

  Then I went on Snapchat and posted a video where I simply said, “Single again and keepin’ to myself. Who wanna turn up? I’m open and ready.”

  After that, I took to Twitter and tweeted out, “Nucca’s ain’t ish. I’m done wit’ er’body. Can’t nobody say nothin’ to me. Eff y’all!”

  And lastly, I texted this low-down scum-bucket of a boyfriend and said, “I’m done witchu. Eff you and your whole hood bugger family. You tried to play me for dumb and didn’t think I would find out about it. But I did. This is the thirty-fifth time, and you not about to get a thirty-sixth time off. Peace to the Middle East and peace to you too, boo-boo. #mytimeturnuptimeisreal #abouththatsinglelife #hatenuccas #dontcallmeeveragain #Ilovedyou #she-didnt #triedtoplayme #butIainttheone.” I pressed SEND.