Heels, Heartache & Headlines

by Ni-Ni Simone

  But.

  I was stuck in my dressing room stuffed into a too-small Stuart Weitzman gown.

  To think I’d only tossed back a few drinks this week.

  And I starved myself all week.

  No carbs.

  Only water.

  But nothing worked.

  And here I was with ten unexpected pounds hanging around.

  Ugg!

  My divaliciousness was supposed to be on fleek, not meek.

  And usually I could slap on two pairs of Spanx and it would be “Boom, guess who stepped in the room.”

  But not tonight.

  Tonight, not even my Spanx would fit me.

  “Stephanie, Miss Rich.” I sucked my teeth; obviously, this cavity creep was trying to make up with me. He continued, “May I suggest the gold-beaded Gucci gown. It’s absolutely fabulous, and if I remember correctly, you haven’t worn it yet, Miss Rich.”

  I snapped, “Umm, excuse you, rainbow love. But I was saving that dress for when me and my baby-boo JB got back together and he won his first Grammy. Thank you very much!”

  “We’ll make you another one by then,” Stephanie said, sounding exhausted. “But that one is a little bigger in the waist than this one, and right about now, a little extra room is exactly what you need.”

  I rolled my eyes to the cathedral ceiling. I didn’t even have the energy to fight. “Whatever.” I snapped. “Get the dress.”

  A few minutes later, after I was dressed and all set to go, my mother’s rude behind flung my door open and burst into my room. “Your guests are all here, and you have them waiting a little too long for you.” She paused. “You changed your dress? Why?”

  None of your freakin’ business, lady. Now do me a favor and get out my face! “I just wanted to wear something different,” I said with a fierce attitude.

  Of course, Logan shot me a warning eye. Why? ’Cause she is mad petty and can’t ever let anything go, and that’s why after I said what I had to say, I gathered the hem of my swoop train and clicked my heels right past her.

  The closer I got to the ballroom, the more I could hear the buzz of the crowd. Nerves filled my stomach and made me even more nauseous than I was before. I did all I could not to walk too fast. The last thing I needed was to stumble, especially when all my Richazoids expected me to sparkle. So a misstep wasn’t an option.

  Besides, I didn’t need me falling on my face in the headlines. I needed the headlines to say, Rich Montgomery’s birthday party was everything!

  Therefore, no matter what I was feeling, I had to get my lil life together. Right now.

  I stood behind the ballroom’s French double doors, with my honey-colored and muscular escort at my side.

  “Hear ye, hear ye!” My trumpeters began. “Welcome, family and friends, to Princess Rich’s Birthday Ball!” The double doors opened, and my eyes drew in the beautiful royal court. From the gold and cream walls to the luscious red carpet. The gold chairs and round tables, draped in overflowing gold fabric and with large candelabras as the centerpieces. There were jesters and jugglers in every corner of the room. Balloons and streamers were everywhere. Sparkling lights hung above the DJ booth. And in the center of it all was a makeshift stage, where J. Cole awaited me.

  “Rich Montgomery! We love you, baby!” J. Cole said, as the crowd went wild and the paparazzi went crazy. Cameras clicked, and the guests’ phones were high in the air, recording every moment. I was on high.

  J. Cole continued, “Everybody join me as I wish the hottest chick in the room a very happy seventeenth birthday!”

  Er’body was hyped, and if I didn’t feel so faint I would’ve whipped the nae nae. But I couldn’t; all I could do was smile and grip my escorts’ arms as they walked me onto the stage, where J. Cole gave me the biggest hug in the world. “Happy birthday.” He lightly kissed me on my cheek as he whispered in my ear, handing me the mic.

  I cleared my throat and did my best to keep my balance. “Thank you all so much for coming.” I paused, as a cold chill ran through me. “And umm, I umm . . . appreciate everybody turning up for my birthday and—”

  “Hold up, Rich.” Heather popped up on stage outta nowhere, snatching the mic from my hand. She was dressed in a clear plastic catsuit with leopard nipple tassels and matching thong and seven-inch clear plastic platforms that lit up. Heather swung her twenty-four-inch Yaky drawstring ponytail as she said, “I’ma let you finish, but, umm, I need to say this, and it’ll only take a minute. No Pampered Princess’s birthday would be complete without a freestyle from me.”

  I knew I needed to snatch the mic back, but I also knew if I moved I was gon’ pass out. So I stood still and watched Heather carry on, “Everybody, clap your hands! Clap! Clap! Clap! Ah, clap ya hands!” She waved her arms from side to side, and the crowd screamed, “Go, Heather!”

  She rhymed:

  Unicorns don’t exist and butterflies wanna die.

  It’s all an illusion except the conclusion and the confusion.

  “The Gucci Clique” whispered is she white, is she black, or is she Mexican behind my back.

  Never ever caring how I felt about that.

  Well, I can’t take it anymore, and I gotta kick in the door.

  Waving the .44.

  All you heard was Heather don’t hit me no more.

  But I got take it to her chest, ’cause she started this mess.

  And let her know her know before I go

  That we share the same daddy.

  Richard Montgomery . . .

  Now take that, whore!

  She threw the mic down.

  And then the room started to spin.

  All the air left my body.

  And just before I collapsed and tumbled to the floor, the last person I saw was London carrying a gift, walking through the door.

  DON’T MISS

  Dear Yvette by Ni-Ni Simone

  All sixteen-year-old Yvette Simmons wanted was to disappear. Problem is: she has too many demons for that. Yvette’s life changed forever after a street fight ended in a second-degree murder charge. Forced to start all over again, she’s sentenced to live far from anything or anyone she’s ever known. She manages to keep her past hidden, until a local cutie, known as Brooklyn, steps in. Will he give her the year of her dreams, or will Yvette discover that nothing is as it seems?

  Chasing Butterflies by Amir Abrams

  At sixteen, gifted pianist and poet Nia Daniels has already known her share of heartache. But despite the pain of losing her mother and grandmother, she’s managed to excel, thanks to her beloved father’s love and support. Nia can’t imagine what she’d do without him—until an illness suddenly takes him, and she has no choice. And Nia’s in for one more shocking blow. The man who’d always been her rock, her constant, wasn’t her biological dad. Orphaned and confused, Nia is desperate for answers. But what she finds will uproot her from the life she’s always known...

  Available wherever books are sold.

  Turn the page for an excerpt from these exciting novels . . .

  1

  Y’all Ready for This . . .

  Let’s be clear: I’m not no snitch.

  I ain’t no chicken-head neither.

  Yeah, I got high. A couple of times. Offa weed.

  But e’rybody smoke weed.

  Includin’ my cousin, Isis, and my ex-homegirls, Cali and Munch, who been out here draggin’ my name.

  And maybe I popped a pill here and there. Or sometimes laced my weed wit’ some coke.

  But so what?

  And ok . . . yeah, I hit the pipe. Once. Okay, twice. Maybe three times wit’ my daughter’s father, Flip. Mainly ’cause he was doin’ it and I needed somethin’ to clear my mind. And Flip was always chilled, so smokin’ rocks wit’ him seemed like a good idea. Plus, he swore it would take the edge off.

  It didn’t.

  It made me feel sick. Twisted. Paranoid. Scared the cops was always lookin’ for me.

  So I stopped.

  I
had to. ’Cause I wasn’t about to be nobody’s junkie. Turnin’ tricks. Or holdin’ down no pimp. Now that woulda made me a chicken-head.

  All I wanted was to get my buzz on.

  There’s a difference.

  Anyway, that was then and this is now.

  Now I got a daughter to take care of.

  Somebody who loves and looks up to me.

  There’s only one problem though.

  My rep is ruined and thanks to my old crew who turned on me, e’rybody lookin’ at me like I’m some crack whore, wit’ ashy lips, beggin’ for money, and wildin’ out in these streets.

  Lies.

  All lies.

  I barely leave Douglas Gardens, better known as Da Bricks, the complex where I live, in apartment 484.

  Twenty L-shaped, seven-story buildings that take up four blocks. All connected by a slab of cracked concrete—dubbed as “the courtyard.” And a scared security guard, who stays tucked away in a locked, bulletproof booth that sits behind the black-iron entrance.

  To the right of the gate is a basketball hoop. No net. Just a rim. To the left is a row of twenty rusted poles, where clotheslines used to be. It is always somebody movin’ out and a squatter movin’ in.

  Old ladies stay preachin’ out the windows one day and cussin’ out anybody breathin’ the next.

  Winos stay complainin’ about yesterday, e’ryday.

  Ballers stay servin’.

  Then there is me and my two-year-old baby girl, Kamari, usually in the middle of the courtyard, chillin’ on the park bench, and mindin’ our bissness.

  Sometimes I’m sippin’ on a forty.

  And sometimes I’m not.

  Sometimes, I take a long and thoughtful pull offa loosie.

  And sometimes I don’t.

  Depends on how I feel.

  But still.

  I’m not sellin’ pipe dreams and droppin’ dimes to pigs.

  I’m too busy tryna decide my next move. Like how I’m gon’ get a job. Raise up outta Newark, New Jersey, and finally live.

  Yeah, I am only sixteen, five feet tall, and a hundred and ten pounds. Smaller than most girls my age, but I am grown. I ain’t no punk. And I ain’t gon’ let nobody play me for one.

  Family or no family.

  Friend or no friend.

  My rep is not a game.

  That’s why, when my ex, Flip, spotted me earlier this evenin’, on the corner of Muhammad Ali and Irvin Turner Boulevard, comin’ out the bodega, I couldn’t believe it. The last time I’d seen Flip was a year ago, right before he got locked up over jailbait. Flip was thirty, and the broad was fourteen, same age I was when I got pregnant with Kamari. Only difference was the broad told on him when she had her baby. I didn’t.

  So anyway, about an hour ago, I’d looked Flip over in disgust, from his untamed high-top fade to his worn-out BKs. His six-foot frame was raggedy as ever, and his half-rotten mouth was loaded and leveling a buncha bull. “Heard you been out here snitchin’,” he’d said.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” He returned my nasty look. “You used to be down. But now e’rybody say you buggin’. Guess I’ma have to watch my back fo’ you drop a dime on me too.”

  He was tryna play me. I looked around and the block was buzzin’. The sun was fallin’ and the night crawlers was makin’ they way outside. People was e’rywhere. Some pouring out the bodega and some on the block just standin’ around. I caught a few folks peepin’ at me, like they’d heard what Flip had said and was tryna figure me out.

  My grip tightened on Kamari’s umbrella stroller. I needed to do somethin’ to keep from stealin’ on this mothersucker, so I snapped, “Word is bond . . .”

  “A rat’s word could never be bond.”

  My heart raced and my chest inched up from me breathin’ heavy and being heated. I pointed into Flip’s face. “You must be talkin’ about them rattin’ young cherries you bustin’. ’Cause from where I’m standin’, you ain’t nothin’ to drop no dime on.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Ain’t nobody tryna hear all that. All I know is my mans told me that he messin’ witcha fat homegirl.”

  I curled my upper lip. “Who? Munch?”

  “Yeah, that’s her name.”

  “And? So?”

  “And she told him that you a rat. And the reason they got locked up was ’cause you ran to the cops shootin’ off ya trap. Mad ’cause you broke.”

  Out of shock, I took a quick step back, then a quicker step forward. “What the . . . Excuse you?”

  “Don’t front. You know that Isis, that white girl, Cali, y’all used to hang with, and Munch all got busted for slang-in’ in school. And Munch said you was the one who told on ’em. And I believe it ’cause you stay in e’rybody’s bidness.”

  “You need to . . .”

  “No, what you need to do is learn how to shut up, carry yo’ li’l azz in the house sometimes and keep my daughter out these streets.”

  I paused. I couldn’t spaz on Flip ’cause I had Kamari wit’ me, so I swallowed the urge to slide the blade from under my tongue and said, “Yo’ daughter? Boy, please. I don’t know why you worried about her being in these streets when that’s all you do. Held up in some alleyway suckin’ glass dicks. Or is you skin poppin’ now? Yo’ daughter? You better off bein’ moondust than somebody’s freakin’ daddy. You shouldn’t even wanna claim that title. Yo’ daughter? Know what, let me just get away from you before I end up slicin’ yo’ throat for talkin’ slick!”

  “Whatever, Snitch. Bye.”

  Flip was still running his mouth and poppin’ off when I walked away.

  Once I got home to Da Bricks, I went straight to my room. My mind was spent and my stomach was in knots. I hated my hands was tied for the night, and it was nothin’ I could do. Isis, Cali, and Munch had all moved out Da Bricks. Accordin’ to Nana, Isis moved out of state with her mother, Queenie. She ain’t know what happened to Cali.

  But Munch.

  I’d seen her from time to time, and I knew she lived somewhere around here. Plus, she still went to the same school. And one thing was for sure and two things was for certain, her lyin’ behind caught the city bus to school, e’ryday.

  At the same time.

  E’ry mornin’.

  I smiled.

  Closed my eyes.

  And waited.

  1

  The Umoja—pronounced oo-MOE-jah—(meaning unity) Poetry Lounge in L.A. swells with lively chatter and fiery energy. There are drums and congas and tambourines and hips swinging.

  We’ve taken the twenty-five-minute drive from Long Beach—where I live—to be here tonight. It’s a Thursday evening, and open mic night.

  I’m at my table scrambling to finish my piece. It’s a last-minute surprise for Daddy, who’s sitting at the table with me.

  And I’m anxious, really, really anxious.

  This time.

  As if it’s my first time taking the stage.

  My nerves are fluttering up around me.

  Why?

  Because I’ve decided at the very last moment—less than ten, no . . . eight minutes before open mic starts—to change my piece. And now I’m frantic.

  Most of the people here are spoken word artists, like myself, but much older; college-age and older, but an eclectic bunch nonetheless.

  I’m one of the youngest.

  An eleventh grader.

  But I’ve earned the respect of the more seasoned poets. The poets with tattered notebooks filled with much more life experience and depth than I can possibly have at sixteen.

  Still, I hold my own among them.

  Being on stage is the only time I feel . . .

  Liberated.

  They embrace my innocence.

  Embrace my openness about the world around me.

  And allow me license to just be.

  Me.

  Free.

  That’s what I love most about poetry. The creative freedom. The freedom to weave words together. Colorful
expression. A kaleidoscope of emotions, imagination, passion, hopes, and dreams. We are surrounded by similes and metaphors.

  We listen.

  We hear.

  And tonight will be no different, no matter how anxious I am becoming. There’s an uncontrollable energy that lifts me, and sweeps around the room. The feeling is indescribable. All I can tell you is I feel it slowly pulsing through my veins.

  Like with all the other open mics, there are no judgments, no stones cast.

  Well . . . not unless you are just unbelievably whacked, that is.

  I am not.

  Whacked, that is.

  Well, okay . . . at least I don’t think I am. So I know I should have no reason to be worried tonight.

  But I am.

  See. Tonight is special. I mean. It has to be special. It’s Daddy’s birthday. I brought him here for dinner. And then, I had this bright idea to surprise him with a poem. My dedication to him, my way of thanking him for being the most wonderfully incredible father a girl could ever ask for.

  I am an only child. And Daddy is my only parent.

  See. My mom was killed in a car accident when I was six. So for the last ten years, Daddy has been singlehandedly raising me on his own. Well, wait. Okay. He did have help caring for me the first five years after my mom’s death. Nana. My maternal grandmother, she stepped in and helped Daddy provide some normalcy in my life.

  But then . . . she died, too, from cancer.

  I was eleven.

  So you see, Daddy is all I have.

  It’s him, and me.

  And, no, this isn’t a sob story.

  It’s my reality.

  My truth.

  I’ve endured heartache and loss; more than I’ve ever hoped for. But I know love, too. Real love.