by Nikki Carter
“You know they took that stuff out of context, Sunday, and you know I ride hard for you. Stop playing.”
“I don’t feel like you’re riding hard for anybody but yourself,” I say.
“Myself first . . . then you, boo.”
Bethany’s phone buzzes. And then it buzzes again. She still doesn’t check her messages.
Everyone’s attention goes from Dreya to Bethany. If Bethany is innocent, that scary look on her face is sure saying otherwise.
“Who in the world is blowing you up?” Dreya asks. “Sorry, Dilly, it’s probably someone else’s boyfriend. That’s what she does.”
“Don’t be a hater all your life,” Bethany says.
“Don’t be a skank all of your life,” Dreya replies.
Dilly says, “If it’s nothing, Bethany, why don’t you just read the text message out loud? Put everybody’s mind at ease.”
And by everybody he must mean himself, because I think Dilly’s the only one in the room who cares about who might be texting Bethany.
Bethany shakes her head. “No. I’m not doing that. If you don’t trust me, why don’t you just say it?”
Dilly stands up, walks away from Bethany and sits on the windowsill. “I. Don’t. Trust. You. Not after I saw what went down with you and Truth.”
Dreya bursts into laughter. “Oh, you don’t have to worry that it’s Truth! I’m just thinking that it’s some other dude. Truth was only playing with her.”
Bethany pulls her lips into a tight frown and swallows hard. I can tell she wants to say something, but for some reason she’s restraining herself.
Finally, she says, “Mystique told me that I don’t have to answer to any rumors. Y’all can think whatever you want to think. Dilly, I’m tripping on you. I really am. I thought we were past all that negativity. First of all, when me and Truth did hook up on the tour, we weren’t even official yet. So how does that have anything to do with you trusting me?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Just seeing it on the show was enough to make me not trust you. I don’t care if we weren’t official. We were officially flirting.”
And Dilly definitely officially liked Bethany before she liked him. So her hooking up with Truth really wasn’t playing Dilly. But it was playing Dreya. All day and all night.
“Listen, I didn’t come down here to talk to skanks about the reason why they’re skanky,” Dreya says. “Sunday, you wanted to talk to me about the blogs. And, you’re right. I was tripping about the Disney stuff. You’re far from Disney.”
My eyes widen. Is this an apology? Get the heck out of here.
“I mean,” Dreya continues, “you’re still no competition to me, but I was really mad when I did that interview. I had just found out you were getting a video shoot in the Caribbean when all of my stuff got shot in Atlanta. I was mad. I ain’t gonna lie.”
“So . . .”
“So I’m saying that I’m sorry! You gonna make me spell it out?” Dreya asks.
Is this some kind of alternate reality or something? “I can’t believe you’re saying sorry to me.”
“I don’t want my fans to think I’m some kind of mean girl after they read that post. I want the world to know that I love my cousin.”
Suddenly, it dawns on me. Dreya is one smarty-pants heifer. This was all part of her plan! Say some crazy stuff about me online and work it into my show, so she can have the spotlight and look like everything’s cool between us. That way she can smear me and still come out smelling like a rose.
And I played right into it.
The games she’s playing are dirty. But I can’t stoop to her level. That’s not who I am and it’s not what would make my mother proud.
So I chalk it. I shock the dummy out of Dreya by walking up to her and giving her a hug. She’s the one looking uncomfortable.
“I love you too, Dreya. And I want you to know that there’s room enough for both of us at the top. Let’s both promise to not trash-talk each other in the blogs.”
Dreya gives me the little half smile that she always does when she’s lying. Then she says, “Of course, I promise.”
Well, even if she’s not being truthful . . . at least the whole BET audience can love the way she lies. . . .
21
Zac is finally on the island, so Mystique thought it would be fun if everyone got together and had breakfast. Everyone in our group, except Dreya and Truth, is here sitting outside Zac and Mystique’s villa eating a catered spread.
Zac is seated at one end of the table and Big D at the other. Mystique is sitting at Zac’s right. I’m sure there’s some kind of pretend-rapper-mafia connection to this, but it’s whatever.
I’m sitting on the other side of Mystique. I whisper to her, “Is Dreya not coming?”
“Oh, wow! I totally forgot about Dreya,” Mystique says.
I don’t believe that for one instant. She knew exactly what she was doing when she conveniently forgot to invite Dreya to this breakfast.
“I’m gonna go and get her,” I say as I stand at the table. “We just made this pact and shared our cousinly love last night. I’m trying to keep the peace, you know.”
Mystique shakes her head. “I don’t know why you’re going. You know she’s in her room still asleep.”
There is a high probability that Dreya is asleep in her room. This I don’t deny. But since I was the one who told her that there was room enough at the top for us both, I have to act like I meant it, right?
“Oh, Sunday, sit down. We can send one of the butlers to get her,” Mystique says.
“Now you know she’s not getting up for a butler. Just let me do it. It will only take a few minutes.”
I guess the BET cameraman thinks there’s going to be drama when I go to Dreya’s room because he gets up and follows me. It’s always kind of weird when one of the cameramen is walking with me and I’m by myself. I always get the urge to turn around and talk to him, when I know I’m supposed to pretend he isn’t there.
If the BET guy had a hunch there would be some drama going on, he was right! If I can judge by the ridiculous amount of noise we hear as we approach Dreya’s room, it’s a major ruckus. It sounds like someone’s throwing something across the room.
As I lift my hand to knock on the door it swings open and Truth backs out the door. “Oh, hey, Sunday,” he says. “Your cousin is crazy.”
“I’m crazy, huh?” Drama hurls something through the air—a shoe—and thank God it misses the target.
I mouth the word camera to Dreya to try to get her to bring her anger down a notch. It doesn’t work.
“I know, Sunday,” she says. “I don’t care if the world knows how big of a dog he is.”
I step into her room, and purposely close the door behind me. Technically, the BET cameras are supposed to be able to record in every room that Epsilon Records pays for and public areas, but since Truth paid for this room (Dreya was supposed to be in one of the smaller rooms like Bethany and Regina) the cameras really can’t come in here without permission.
“What did he do?” I ask.
“He’s been kicking it with some girl. I caught him texting her last night in the bathroom.”
“And he let you see the text? He’s stupid.”
Dreya shakes her head. “No, he wouldn’t let me see his phone. That’s what we’re arguing about this morning. I asked to see his phone and he wouldn’t show it to me.”
“Okay, okay, calm down, though. Everyone’s at breakfast and I just came to see if you wanted to eat with us.”
“Oh, please, Sunday. Don’t act like you care about Truth being a dog or if I even have breakfast. The cameras aren’t on you now, so you can be for real. You don’t really care anything about what happens to me. No one does, except maybe my mom.”
I shake my head. “Why are you dead set on being in this all by yourself?”
“What do you want, Sunday?” Dreya asks. “Why are you even here?”
“We’re at Zac’s villa having breakfast.”
> “And y’all just accidentally forgot to tell me about it?”
I throw my hands into the air. “Wasn’t my thing to tell you about. It was Mystique’s breakfast.”
“She keeps treating me foul like she’s trying to destroy me or something. I’m gonna show her and everybody else.”
I sit down next to my cousin. At first, I want to remind Dreya that she’s not played nice with Mystique since day one. Dreya picked beef with Mystique like that strategy would catapult her into the spotlight. But Mystique’s defense was always subtle and out of the public eye, which just made Dreya look like a whiny, jealous hater. Basically, Dreya made this bed.
“I don’t think Mystique cares one way or the other about you, Dreya, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
“She only hates me so much because she’s afraid I’m coming to take that number-one spot. And I am.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, if we’re not going to have a real conversation, Dreya, I’m going to go back to my fresh pineapple and banana bread.”
“What do you mean a real conversation?”
“You’re tripping,” I say. “Talking about you’re gonna show Mystique! Why don’t you attempt to be friends with her? She is not that bad.”
Dreya stands up and paces the room. “Can’t you see what’s happening, Sunday? They were supposed to make me a star, but then you came along and everyone is trying to play me.”
“You’re so busy looking at what’s going on with me that you can’t focus on yourself!” I say, feeling the anger rise inside me. “You need to work on your image. That drama-queen stuff is played out. I don’t know how many people have to tell you that.”
Dreya shakes her head. “Sunday, just go ahead to breakfast without me. I’ve got to figure out what’s happening with me and Truth, and I don’t feel like playing nice in front of the cameras.”
“Why don’t we record a duet?” I ask.
“A duet?”
“Like when Brandy and Monica did ‘The Boy Is Mine.’ That was a big hit for them. I think we could do something similar.”
Dreya looks like she considers the idea for a split second; then her eyes darken. “You’re always trying to save the day, Sunday. Nah, I think I need to separate myself from this clique, and start over fresh while I still have time.”
“We’re family, Dreya. This ain’t got nothing to do with a clique.”
“It’s got everything to do with it.”
Dreya picks up the pillows and blankets strewn around the room. Her eyes light up when she sees what I see, a BlackBerry Torch on the floor. Truth must’ve dropped his cell phone in his hurry to leave the room.
She picks it up and starts pressing buttons. “Dang, it’s locked. Of course it’s locked. His sneaky behind wouldn’t leave a phone without a code.”
“Maybe that’s for the best.”
Dreya rolls her eyes at me. “Go ahead to your little Mystical Sounds–clique breakfast. I’m going to figure out his code, because it shouldn’t be too hard.”
I shake my head. “All right then, Dreya. The girls are supposed to be going out tonight to a Bajan restaurant in The Gap. You coming?”
“The girls? Is Bethany coming?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure she’ll be there.”
Dreya laughs out loud. “Sometimes, you’re just plain old dingy, Sunday. Why would I want to go anywhere with her?”
“Because you’re the one who said that you wanted to be wherever the cameras went. I’m just trying to help you accomplish your goal.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. Where are the guys gonna be?”
I shrug. “Zac’s taking them all somewhere.”
Dreya’s face twists into a frown. “Truth is not going anywhere without me.”
“That’s between y’all. I’m going back to breakfast.”
It’s a good thing the BET cameraman is not in this room, because the look of desperation on Dreya’s face as she crumples to the floor and presses buttons on the phone, is not made for TV.
When I get back to the breakfast table, Truth is there chilling like he and Dreya didn’t just have a major fallout. I roll my eyes at him before taking my seat between Mystique and Sam.
Sam whispers to me, “Everything okay?”
I shake my head no. “They’re tripping. Again. As usual.”
“So,” Mystique says, “I just told Big D and Zac about your video contest, Sunday.”
Big D nods. “Yeah, Sunday. That was a good idea. Get the fans engaged from the jump. That’s a great idea.”
“I wasn’t really thinking of it from a marketing perspective,” I say. “I just thought it might end the argument between Mystique and Lena.”
“Well, however you came up with the idea, it was a good one.”
My cell phone rings, and I get up from the table to answer it.
“Do you have to get that now?” Mystique asks, sounding quite annoyed.
“Yes. It’s my mom. I haven’t talked to her since yesterday.”
Mystique gives me a dismissive hair flip like she’s annoyed I’m going to talk to my mother. She needs to stop tripping.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Sunday, you haven’t heard from Carlos, have you?”
I can hear the alarm in my mother’s voice and it scares me too. “No, I haven’t. What’s wrong, Mommy?”
“I thought he would try to contact you, but I’m glad he didn’t. He’s in jail in Atlanta.”
“What? Oh my goodness! What is he even doing in ATL? I thought you said he was in Indiana.”
“He was, but apparently he’s back. He and his goon cousins tried to rob Club Pyramids last night, after the club closed.”
My jaw drops. “Are you serious?”
“Yep. I’m just glad you kids were nowhere near the place. There was a shootout. Bryce got shot, but I hear he’s fine and already released from the hospital.”
“I don’t think they’ve told Dilly,” I say as I glance back at the breakfast table. There’s no way they told Dilly about the shooting, because he’s still having a great time.
“Well, don’t tell him, then,” my mother says. “His sister will call when she wants him to know. I only called you because I thought Carlos would be crazy enough to call you from jail.”
“Mom, are you okay?”
I can hear my mother’s sigh over the phone. It sounds heavy, sad, and full of regret. “I am okay. I think I’m getting to a happy place again. I had been holding out the hope that Carlos had given you that money, but when I found out it was your father . . . I just didn’t hold on to Carlos anymore.”
I turn my back to everyone, including the camera, because I don’t want them to see me tearing up. As ratchet and raggedy as Carlos was, he was the closest thing I had to a father. He and my mother had been together for three years. That’s the longest she’s ever dated a guy since she split up from my biological father.
Now she’s back at square one. I’m sad for her and with her.
I’m here in Barbados enjoying the fab life, and my mom is back home enduring the heartbreak of a deadbeat boyfriend. Something about that doesn’t seem fair.
Isn’t it crazy how it can be the best of times and the worst of times at the same time?
22
“We’re about to go on a tour of Harrison’s Cave,” I say to the cameras in my confessional. “It sounds like a lot of fun.”
“Is everyone going?” the producer asks.
I know he’s asking, in a roundabout way, if Dreya is going on the cave adventure with us. I haven’t even asked her, to be honest, and it doesn’t have anything to do with Bethany or Truth. Dreya is not a nature girl at all. She is in no way, shape, or form in touch with anything outdoors.
“Have you met Dreya?” I ask. Immediately I regret this sound bite, because I know they can use this whenever they please, and completely out of context.
“Everyone is not going,” I continue. “Dreya doesn’t do caves, and Dilly is still under the weather.
The only ones going are me, Sam, Mystique, and Zac.”
The producer motions to the cameraman to stop shooting. I guess I’m too boring for him this afternoon. Whatever.
I leave the hotel room and meet up with Sam, Mystique, and Zac outside of Zac’s villa. I laugh out loud when I see Mystique’s shoes. They are some kind of designer, ten-inch, heels.
“What are you tripping on?” Sam asks.
I point at the shoes. “Mystique, you do know we’re going to a cave right?”
“Yes.” She looks down at her feet. “What’s wrong with my shoes? They have a tram and an elevator.”
“But once you get inside the cave, you have to walk on some pretty uneven surfaces,” I reply.
“Well, I’ll just skip that part.”
Zac says, “Babe, maybe you want to put on some sneakers. The best part of the cave is the walking part. You won’t be able to see anything good with those heels on.”
Mystique sighs and motions for me to follow her back into the villa. She goes straight to one of her gigantic trunks and pulls out two pairs of sneakers.
“Which pair?” she asks.
“Either, I guess. They both match.”
Mystique shakes her head and says, “How can they both match? One is white and the other is black. One has to be better than the other.”
“It’s not like this is a red-carpet affair. We’re going to a cave.”
“You’ve never had your fashion choices ripped apart by a blogger, so you don’t understand. Once, I was on my way to Target, and I was wearing a cute jogging suit with my favorite workout sneakers. They called my look ‘hobo chic.’ ”
I cover my mouth to hold in my giggle. “How do you know that wasn’t a compliment?”
“It was Sandra Rose.”
I can’t help it now, the giggles just tumble out. “Sandra Rose is funny. You shouldn’t take that stuff so seriously. I think some of the bloggers post that kind of stuff just so people will click on their page, and they can get advertising money.”
“It was mean,” Mystique says. “And now, I can’t go out without wondering what she’s going to put in her blog about me.”
“So why don’t you do your own blog? Get the bloggers back?” I ask.
