Lights, Love & Lip Gloss

by Ni-Ni Simone

  I grabbed my exclusive Louis Valtone Korean hobo bag, slid on my aviators, and sauntered past Camille. Brushed by the director of my reality TV show, who was red and screaming Kitty’s—the creator and producer of the show and owner of the Kitty-Kitty network—name into his cell phone, and past the cameramen who were clearly confused about whether they should follow me or not.

  I hopped in my ’57 Chevy and left ’em all in a puff of my tailpipe’s smoke.

  “Well, well, what alleyway are you crawling out of?” Headmaster Westwick frowned as I walked into his office at Hollywood High Academy, and he looked me over. “What, you just wake up from your Brazilian stupor, got yourself a new booty lift and finally realized that you needed to be at school? You were due back here three weeks ago. We don’t have any chairs to seat you and that monstrous behind of yours. And here I was prepared to send the truant officers to Sleazy Eight.” He picked up a manila file from his desk with my name and picture on it and tossed it into another pile marked “Derelicts.”

  I rolled my eyes to the ceiling and then dropped my gaze back over at him. “First of all. I’m not at Sleazy Eight and never was. Get your facts straight, Wes. Wick.”

  He tooted his lips and mocked me. “Get your facts straight, Wes. Wick.” He smirked. “And it’s Mr. Wes Wick to you, Missy Used-To-Be Wu-Wu.”

  I sighed. “Look. It’s lunchtime and I need a pass. I don’t feel like the hassle from security.”

  “Passes are a grand.” He held out his pink palm. “Black Card. Oops, bad credit. That’ll be cash or money order from you.”

  I blinked, and placed a hand up on my hip. My purse slid down my arm and hung around my wrist. “What?”

  “A grand. Or get sent home.”

  “If I pay you a grand”—I pressed my palms on his desk and leaned into his oval face—“then that means all bets are off. And your dancing on K-town bar tables in a mask, fishnets, and lipstick will no longer be a secret. And your wife will know all about it.” I stood up straight and his eyes burned into my gaze. “Now,” I said to him, “I need a pass.”

  He pulled out his brown leather notebook and slammed it on his desk. “This is it for you. No more chances and no more passes.” He scribbled Pass to Déjeuner Café on the thick ecru paper, stamped it, ripped it from his book, and handed it to me. “Now get out, Cummings.”

  I smiled and gave him a small wave. “Have a great day, Mr. Westwick!” I blew him a kiss.

  By the time I stepped through the sliding glass doors it was obvious that word of me being in the building had spread. The Stalkers and the Gawkers were all lined up, and the moment I stepped onto the red carpet most of them bowed down, throwing flowers at my feet. A few of them had even passed out.

  “Oh, bless you.” I smiled at my beauties as I stood back and took it all in. I’d been gone for a minute, but absolutely nothing had changed.

  Déjeuner Café could easily pass for any top-notch club in the city. White couches, white leather reclining chairs, lava-lamp-topped tables, and plasma TVs.

  Lunch was served via white-gloved waiters and everyone in here looked as if they’d been on pause since the day I’d left; all seated in the same exact place they’d always been.

  The Jocks table was next to the Cheerleaders, who sat to the left of the Glees. The Wannabes sat behind the Newbies, who sat across from their rivals the Fogies—better known as old money.

  The Foodies, who complained about their weight all day, and the Super Skinnies, who complained about their weight all day, both sat next to the hibachi and the dessert bar.

  The Preppies, who wouldn’t be caught dead not wearing Polo, and the Hip-Hop crew, who wouldn’t be caught dead wearing Polo, sat across from one another.

  The Rock Star Goth kids, whose parents hoped that one day they would appreciate the sun, and the half-dead Twilight kids who wore pale white makeup on purpose and whose secret code words for cuties were team Edward and team Jacob, opted to share a table.

  The Stalkers and the Gawkers sat near the door so they could welcome me in.

  And in the center of the room was the clique of all cliques: the It clique. The Hollywood Trolls and the Pampered Hoes. I frowned, and before I could decide if I wanted to go over there or not, I spotted Rich Montgomery ice grilling me.

  I swallowed and for a moment I felt myself shrinking.

  Stop it.

  I cleared my throat and flipped my hair over my shoulders. Besides, she was sitting alone. London and Spencer were nowhere to be seen. And I had a crew of at least fifty following behind me. Eyes fixed on my new booty, of course.

  I walked over to the It table and stood behind the chair where I would usually sit.

  “Rich.” I greeted her.

  She crossed her legs and for the first time I noticed that we had the same warm brown almonds for eyes.

  Richard Montgomery is your . . .

  Stop it!

  “And why are you eye-effen’ me, Heather?!” Rich spat. “I know you didn’t come over here tryna serve me. You better get your eye-swag together and stop looking at me all crazy. And after the stunts you pulled, you shouldn’t be over here.” She took half a breath. “And what the eff are you speaking to me for anyway? You need to keep my name outcha mouth and stop trying to revive your career off of me, Wu-Wu! You already know that I don’t do you. Never have. Never will. You out making broke-down BlackBerry videos talking about pampered trolls and pampered slores! Mmph, you must’ve been talking about your pet unicorn Co-Co and your drunk mother.”

  Oh. No. She. Didn’t! Tryna drag my two-faced bestie Co-Co Ming. I turned around and looked at the Stalkers and Gawkers, who stood in a semicircle behind me, glaring at Rich and waiting on my cue to bury this chick. But I didn’t need them to bring it for me. I could serve my own death sentence.

  I curled my lips and leaned into Rich’s face. “You Jenny Craig, gastric bypass, chubby trick! I will drag you up in this beyotch and have you crying for that slore mother of yours! You, your mama, and that whack clique you claim, are all a buncha lame label slores.” I snapped my fingers and the Stalkers and the Gawkers completely surrounded the table.

  Rich’s eyes swiftly looked from left to right.

  I pointed into her face. “And if you come for me again, I’ma take it to the streets on you. You might think you’re hood, Rich, but before I have you marked and murked, I will have you stomped down into the ground. Don’t play me, you chubby Smurf! What you better do is grab your Glock and call the cops when you see me. And all my girls circled around you that you’ve been bullying and disrespecting like you’re the only one around here with money.

  “Ya daddy’s a convict. Ya mama’s one too. You’re nothing but the offspring of a jailhouse. If you ever ice grill me again, I’ma take it straight to your double chin. Get smoked up! Eff around and have a heart attack messing wit’ me! And if your crew wanna come and see about me, then let them know that my new address is 555 West Lawson Boulevard.” I paused, made sure she was absorbing the thought of me busting her in the throat, and then I continued. “But until one of you slores gets the courage to come to my door, I advise you to shut the eff up and keep away from me!”

  And in the midst of cameras flashing and thunderous giggles, I spun off on my heels and left that crazy-lookin’ tramp sitting there with her face cracked.

  Boom!

  Guess who’s back!

  5

  Spencer

  I sat.

  Waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  I’d been sitting in this same chair, in this same spot, for the last four hours, waiting. Squeezing the valves to my kidneys and urethra shut to keep from spraying a golden shower all over myself. No. I was not moving until Kitty walked through the door and we got down and dirty once and for all.

  I was going to serve her, feet and hands.

  We were going to roll around on this floor and tear through this house like we used to when I was five and six, for old times’
sake. Yes, indeedy. I didn’t believe in giving to the greedy. But I believed in attacking the seedy. Now, now... that didn’t mean I enjoyed being a potty mouth or getting all happy-handed with Kitty. No. It gave me no real pleasure the way slipping my feet into a plush new pair of heels did. But, once again, Kitty dragged her cat claws into the wrong sandbox and crossed the wrong dang line. Now that trash-can tramp had to pay the sandman.

  “. . . She made it very clear she wasn’t interested. That we should find Dr. Ellington a nursing home with an ocean view somewhere here in the hills, but for us to keep him here . . .”

  She had no muthasuckin’ business telling anyone to put my father away in some old folks factory. None. Who the yabba-dabba-Scooby-Doo did she think she was? The only one who should be put away anywhere was her. How dare that gas-pipe sucker! That hookah!

  Daddy was the same man who’d taken that little tramp stamp in and given her a home when she was streetwalking the pig feet circuit. Wait, wait . . . I mean the pigtail . . . no, no. Not that. When she was crawling through pig guts trying to find a come-up. Daddy was the one who cleaned her up and got her out of whatever life she’d come from. Mmph.

  Not that I knew much about the secret life of Kitty-Kitty Smut-Smut since she was so ziplock tight about her past. Other than her being from some small town in North Carolina—Muffinsboro or some silly mess like that—and being raised by her grandparents because her parents were killed in a house fire, that’s all I really knew about the elusive woman who was supposed to be my mother instead of trying to be an enemy of mine.

  Bottom line, Daddy was dang good to her. Even after he found her hanging upside down performing tongue tricks on our pool boy’s man-hose when I was seven, and even after he caught her doing a Russian split over our chef’s face when I was nine, Daddy still remained loving and kind when in fact he should have tossed her out in nothing but her birthday thong. But he didn’t! And this was how she wanted to repay him! Abandon him! Toss him aside like some used tissue, like she’d done me for most of my life!

  “Oh, by the way, your father and I are getting divorced. And you’re going to South Africa to live with him . . .”

  “What? South Africa? Oh no, I’m not . . .”

  “You heard what I said. You’re going to live with your father. It’s time he started acting like a parent instead of running off into the wilderness. He’s the one who wanted you in the first place. I’ve done my part. I gave birth to you. Now it’s time for me to start living my life . . .”

  I blinked. So that’s why that heartless witch divorced Daddy. She didn’t want to play Daddy’s nursemaid, or deal with his illness. Instead of being his wife and standing by her vows, she pulled open her booty cheeks and told him to kiss where the fresh air didn’t blow. Just like that. Kitty had gotten too gotdang fancy!

  Well, I was sick of it!

  I don’t know what kind of Wizard of Oz games my mother thought she was playing with me. But I was not the one, the two, or the gotdang three. My name was not Dorothy, Tin Man, or Cowardly Lion, or one of the gotdang Munchkins.

  No.

  My name was Spencer Ellington.

  And this girl was on fire!

  So my mother had better click her heels three times and get it right. Or get burned down in the flames. Either way, she was going to learn today. Well, tonight, since I’d been sitting and sitting on my numb booty cheeks for almost forever. Waiting and thinking. Thinking and waiting.

  Waiting.

  Thinking.

  Ever since she’d parted her red sea and gave birth to me, I’d been nothing but loving and kind to that woman. Coo-cooing and drooling and smiling, pretending to be her bouncing bundle of joy when all I’d ever been to her was a means to building her billion-dollar media empire.

  What a trickster! A scammer!

  All she’d ever done was do whatever she could to hurt me. To see me broken. It seemed like, felt like, her life’s mission was to see me miserable.

  Well, guess what?

  It was working.

  First, she snatched Esmeralda and Solenne—my caretakers the first three years of my life, the only women I knew as mothers—away from me. They nursed me from their breasts. They loved me. And what did she do when I’d cry out for either one of them? She fired them.

  Then from ages six to nine, after Constantina, my third nanny, worked her way into my heart and I grew to love her like a mother, she got rid of her. Then age nine, came Vera. My auntie Vera. The woman with the thick Trinidadian accent who loved me, and catered to me, and made me feel as if I were one of her very own.

  Then, as punishment for my loyalty to Vera, the minute I turned twelve that evil hooch shipped me off to Switzerland under some flimsy guise that living and going to school abroad was the best thing for me. Hogwash! It was best for her. She wanted me out of her life.

  Every- and anything that woman has ever done has been best for her. Not anyone else.

  My nose flared.

  Every time I tried to forgive Kitty for abandoning me, for dumping me on everyone else, the despicable woman did something else. Like stalk the schoolyard and sleep with my ex-boyfriend Curtis on his eighteenth birthday. Like crawling her way into my ex-boyfriend Joey’s tent and hiking up her skirt and letting him dig in her cat box with his man tools.

  Like her trying to feed Anderson Ford her ratchet roadside scallops, knowing good dang well I was trying to sink my own clampers into his man meat. So what if he was London’s cover-up? Kitty still knew my mouth watered for a taste of his custard. And he should have been off-limits to her. But, noooo. She had to try to seduce him on the sly. Kitty was a relentless vulture, always somewhere trying to swoop down on someone else’s prey.

  And now this...

  The news of my father having some Alzy-palsy old timer’s disease was still gnawing away at me. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew . . . Your father has Alzheimer’s . . .”

  Then to learn that Kitty had known for at least a year that Daddy’s mind was slowly rotting away like some raggedy basket of old fruit had my burners on high. And the more I replayed the call from early this morning in my head, the longer I had to wait for Kitty to meander her scandalous, messy self home, the more agitated I felt myself becoming.

  I was molten hot lava.

  And it didn’t help matters any that my stomach was packed with gas from holding everything in. I’d been calling Kitty all dang day, leaving her message after message to get her mind together because we were going to have it out the minute she stepped her jeweled heels through the door.

  Ugh! That selfish woman didn’t even have the decency to return any of my calls. No. The only thing she did was send me some drab text message: SPENCER! MAKE YOURSELF USEFUL & STOP ACTING LIKE DAMAGED GOODS! SMOOCHES!

  Oh, I’ll show her damaged goods all right!

  I was on the verge of hurling out red-hot ash, rocks, and a slew of dirty words.

  The nerve of her!

  Kitty was the worst kind of heathen there was in this world. She knew nothing about worshipping in the House of Good Deeds. No. My mother was low-down and dirty. She was down-low and shady. She was a swing low, hateful bat.

  I crossed my legs at the knees and bounced a heeled foot up and down. It was all I could do to keep from leaping up and slinging syrup all over the kitchen and smearing cream cheese from this morning’s breakfast all over the windows.

  I’d let the house manager and the rest of the house staff leave hours ago. The movers who’d helped me get Daddy’s rooms ready had already come and gone about two hours ago. I wanted everyone gone when Kitty and I got footloose and fancy and danced this dance.

  My pulse quickened the minute I heard the alarm chirp.

  Yessss, gotdiggitydangit, ring the alarms!

  Turn up the flames!

  It’s getting hot in here!

  Turn it up! Turn it up!

  Kitty was home.

  And I was about to tear the roof off the mothersucker!

  I reache
d for my crystal flute, guzzled back the rest of my bubbly mineral water, then wiped my wet mouth with the back of my left hand. I rubbed my palms together, then shook the nerves out of my fingertips.

  It was time to skin Kitty’s fur back.

  6

  Heather

  “Okay, that’s a wrap!” a thick-muscled, dark-skinned guy said into the intercom from the mixing board on the other side of the glass. “Wu-Wu, baby. You killed it! This that fire, ma!”

  I stepped back from the mic, blinking out of my lyrical zone. For the last four hours, I’d been floating on a musical cloud with a little slice of get right to keep my mind in full gear—nothing too serious, though, because I didn’t want to be up in the booth tweaking, like this bish, Co-Co. His eyeballs were about the size of golf balls. Now he was standing here grinding his teeth. This geisha boy had his crunk-meter turned all the way up from doing lines of Murder. I passed on that craziness. I wasn’t messing with that ish. One, I didn’t like how it made me feel the one time I tried it. And, two, I wasn’t even about to let myself get turned out and end up some street-corner junkie turning tricks for a few crushed lines of powdered treat. No, ma’am. Being some junkie was not in my future. So I wasn’t interested in becoming one. But I did get my spirits lifted off a few hits of that Suicide that Miss Co-Co brought along in his satchel. I needed to be in control, so I wasn’t about to do anything else. Besides, I just needed a little pinch of goodness so I could rip through my verses for the single I was dropping on iTunes.

  I was trying to get this money up. I wasn’t about to let nothing stop my hustle and flow. I was back. And I planned on claiming my spot on top where I belonged; especially after Kitty had the audacity to tell me I was going to eventually end up being a washed-up actress like my mother, when I’d stopped by her estate yesterday to discuss my issues with doing this reality TV crap. I was sick of it. As far as I was concerned, it was a step down from my real worth. Reality TV was for losers. It was cute for someone who wanted a start, someone who wanted to break into show business. Or looking for a comeback.