by Ni-Ni Simone
“Get out! Get out, NOW!” I kicked and screamed until he finally hopped out. I slammed the door, rolling down the window, sticking my head all the way out. “And STAY outta MY life!”
The driver drove off as I pulled my head back in and laid it on the headrest, pulling in a deep breath, allowing my tears to fall unchecked. This had to be some kind of dirty, vicious trick someone was playing on me. But there wasn’t any punch line. No. This was a bad dream. I kept squeezing my eyes shut, then opening them, hoping that the image and the stench of that raggedy pump being thrown at me with crap splattering everywhere would just go away. But it wouldn’t.
Stupid cameraman! Eff reality TV!
I tsked. Psst. Who does he think he is? Asking me who I am? What kinda question is that?
I shook my head. “I’m Heather Suzanne Cummings!” I muttered to myself, mocking Camille’s voice.
Okay? And who is she?
Who is she?
I blinked.
I felt the pounding in my chest as soon as I heard the answer in my head. She’s not the girl who gets asked to go to proms, or out on dates, by some wealthy rich kid! No! She’s the girl who gets told to pull down her pants and bend over a goddamn desk! She’s the wounded little girl who gets a hand placed over her mouth while told to spread her legs so some perverted, sick woman can slide down her body and tamper in her forbidden zones. That’s who she is! Scarred! Confused! Hurt!
I heard myself screaming, “But that’s not who I wanna be!”
No! I was Wu-Wu, beyotches! The pop-lock-and-droppin’-it, fun-loving, exciting, animal-print wearing, good-time party girl! I was Wu-Wu the suburban teenager with a little sister who worked my nerves and an old dog that did nothing but eat, sleep, and pass gas. I was Wu-Wu with two parents who loved me and adored and accepted all of my flaws and crazy antics. That’s who I was! That’s who I’d always be!
Wu-Wu effen Tanner!
A star!
And I didn’t care what Kitty, Camille, Spencer, the paparazzi, or anybody else had to say about it. Wu-Wu was not dead! Wu-Wu would never be dead! Because being anything other than Wu-Wu meant being a nobody! It meant I’d have to be stuck in my nightmare of a world as the biracial misfit with a white, angry drunk for a mother and a pathetic black father who knew I existed but didn’t care about me.
God! I need a Black Beauty!
Nothing too crazy; just a pinch to take the edge off...
I slid my hand down inside my handbag, felt around for the little silver case Co-Co had given me earlier, and pushed out a sigh of relief. My guaranteed escape! “This is them Pink Panties, honey.” He’d told me the pink powder base was speed that was mixed with Adderall and pinch of Molly. “Honey, this will have you soaring on twenties. Trust.”
I repositioned myself, sliding back the privacy partition. Then opened the case, admiring the pretty pink powder. My mouth watered. Ole junky!
I’m not a junkie!
Prove it!
I swallowed. Stared at the substance one last time before snapping the lid shut and tossing the pill case back into my purse. “Girl, psst. Screw them haters! You don’t need anyone! It’s you and me against the world, boo! You got this.”
Then why do I feel so lonely?
They had it all wrong! I needed to be Wu-Wu! Not being Wu-Wu meant being that lonely, pathetic girl who ached for acceptance; who hungered for love and attention and affection from someone that she could be herself around; someone she could share her fears, her secrets, and her first real kiss with.
I pulled out my cell. I needed a friend. I needed someone to talk to. Wanted someone to listen to me rant and ramble, or say nothing at all. And in their silence, I’d know that I mattered. That what I had to say, and what I felt, mattered.
I opened my call log and dialed Co-Co. The only pseudo-friend I had. I tried him three times and each time the call went straight to voice mail. I frowned. Any other time this trick is Johnny Gung Ho on the spot. Now he doesn’t pick up. I kept scrolling through my call log. What a loser! Co-Co was the only so-called friend I had. And the only things he was good for were gossip, parties, and pills.
My breath caught in my chest and I felt those same unexplainable feelings I’d felt the night she’d introduced herself to me. “Girl, you are beautiful.” I felt my face flush and my body heat as I stared at the contact with the picture of the two of us, remembering everything about that night. I touched the side of my face, remembering the way her hand caressed my cheek. I felt the butterflies fluttering in my stomach just thinking about it; felt warm excitement coursing through my veins.
“My name is Nikki . . .”
Ohmygod! This is craziness!
Before I could stop myself, I pressed CALL, holding my breath. Heather, what are you doing? Are you insane? Hang up! Hang up the phone! I hung up on the third ring, tossing my phone back in my bag. Oh, you’re really tripping, girl.
I took a deep breath. I could hear Camille’s mouth now. “Heather Suzanne! You’re spending too much time with Trans-Confusion. I don’t know what you’re doing, but I ain’t having no shortbread sugar cookies up in here . . .”
I shook her voice out of my head, turning toward the window and staring out into the darkness. Camille was my Achilles heel.
I hated that she used me. Hated that she needed me. Hated that no matter how many times she treated me like dirt—no matter how many times she tossed back a drink and I’d find her passed out drunk; no matter how many times she blackmailed me or threatened to have me put away—I couldn’t hate her. I tried to. Wanted to. But somehow I’d always come up stuck somewhere in between disdain and disgust. Most times my feelings stayed miserably matted, like Camille’s raggedy mink slippers, somewhere between helpless and hopeless. Because, the truth was, that’s what I was—helpless and goddamn hopeless!
I was miserably helpless without Camille. And I was miserably hopeless with her. Yet, I effen needed her! She was all I effen had! Because no one else wanted me!
I was all she effen had!
Because no one else wanted her, either!
I was my mother.
And my mother was I . . .
And here was another goddamn truth: No matter how many awards I’d won, no matter how many red carpets I’d strutted down, no matter how many Wu-Wu fans I had, there’d always be some hater somewhere, lurking, quietly waiting to toss eggs and goddamn tomatoes at me! Or throw a shoe full of doo-doo at me!
There’d always be some dirty trick somewhere in the crowd, reminding me that no matter how high I climbed, no matter how high I was perched up on my throne, I was still nothing but country-hick, trailer-park trash!
No matter what I did, I was still the bastard daughter of Norma Marie Schumacker (daughter of Ellie Lou and Gomer aka Big Daddy) of West Virginia, by way of some dirty backwoods town in Mississippi.
“I swear you’re just like—”
“Like who?! My father . . . ? Well, who is he?!”
“Heather, I know who your father is . . .”
“Who is he, Camille? Say his name! Tell me! I’m tired of not knowing!”
“He doesn’t want you! He’s never wanted anything to do with you . . .”
“I wanna know who MY FATHER IS!”
“He’s Richard—”
“I was supposed to have an abortion . . .”
“He’s Richard—”
“He already has a daughter... he doesn’t want you . . .”
“He’s Richard—”
“He’s never wanted anything to do with you . . . !”
The minute the limo pulled up into my Beverly Hills driveway, I swung open the door and jumped out, leaving it wide open as I raced up the walkway, storming through the door. There she stood, in her latest nightwear getup—a white chiffon two-piece nightgown and crystal-studded pencil-heels—at the bar, dropping ice cubes into a crystal tumbler, then filling it with scotch.
She turned toward me, shooting me an annoyed look. “Well, it’s about time you—�
�
I cut her off, hand on hip. Face wild and crazed. “Is RICHARD MONTGOMERY my FATHER?! And don’t you DARE lie!”
The drink in her hand dropped to the floor, the glass shattering everywhere.
“I’ll take that as a yes!”
8
Spencer
“Strike me down, thunder, and hear me roar!” Daddy bellowed, as he stood in the middle of the hall, barefoot, wearing some god-awful Tarzan wrap made from a bedsheet, a safari hat atop his head while he beat his bare chest like an ape. “Oooh-ooh-ooh-aah-aah.” He mimicked the primate by sticking his hands under his armpits and hopping from one foot to the other. “Oooh-ooh-ooh-aah-aah . . .”
I blinked. Sweetnutcrackersandbuttwhackers! Daddy had always been a bit eccentric, but this was going way overboard, even for me. He was acting like a real live jungle creature. And I didn’t find one dang thing humorous about his rainforest shenanigans.
“Daddy, how about you put crazy back in the jar for a while, and let me have your assistants help get you out of that diaper you have on.” I walked over to the wall intercom and pressed a button. “Consuela,” I said to the house manager, “where are Daddy’s nursing assistants?” She told me they were both on break. My eyes widened. Then I went off. “Break? And Daddy’s up here running wild? Ring the alarm, gotdangit, because I’m about to turn the gas up in here! You tell that mountain trash they have ten seconds to get up here and put my father back together again, or find themselves working at the local zoo sifting through elephant dung with their front teeth.”
Daddy took off running down the corridor. “You’ll have to catch me first, tootsie roll!”
I glanced at my watch. It was almost noon. I didn’t have time for Daddy’s foolery. I had somewhere to be. And I wasn’t about to be late, pitty-pattying with him. Not today.
Daddy had been home only four days, and had already managed to tear my nerves down to the seams. Dealing with him was like having a wayward puppy. If he wasn’t running up and down the halls, making all kinds of tribal chants and calls, he was on repeat nonstop, saying the same things over and over or singing verses of the same song over and over and over, loudly.
It was becoming nerve-racking.
Last night, he sang a verse from “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” literally a hundred and twelve times as he paced up and down the corridor. I know because I counted.
If he wasn’t taking off his clothes and walking through the house naked, he was picking in his butt crack or playing with his hairy meatballs. There was nothing more disgusting than seeing Daddy naked. Oh, or walking in on him playing with his limp noodle. Gross!
And it doesn’t help that yesterday someone jimmied the lock to the liquor cabinet and stole bottles of liquor. When I asked Daddy about it he said, “I haven’t been downstairs all day. You keep me chained and locked in my room, gal. How am I supposed to go anywhere under these horrid conditions? By the way, did I tell you I saved millions of dollars divorcing your... your, um, uh . . . your mother today?”
Blank stare.
Daddy must have forgotten that Kitty divorced him—months ago.
Anyway, seven o’clock this morning I caught him red-handed with a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black and a shot glass up to his lips. When I asked him where he’d gotten it from, he simply stated, “You must have snuck in my room and put it here.”
“Daddy, hush with these tales,” I said, grabbing the bottle from him. “I did no such thing.”
I started looking around his room, opening up his drawers and closets. He jumped up from his chair. “You can’t go in my things! What is the nature of this breach of privacy? You are in violation of my Fourth Amendment rights.”
“Daddy, you can’t go around breaking into the liquor cabinets stealing booze. If you have this bottle, then I’m sure you’ve hidden other bottles somewhere around here.”
He huffed. “Nonsense. I’ve done no such thing. You’re pathologically obsessed like that Kitty gal I married.”
“Daddy, that gal is my mother.”
“Then that explains it,” he said, giving me a pitiful look. “Both of you are scandalous thieves. And we all know there’s no honor among hoes and thieves.”
My jaw dropped. “Daddy!” I shrieked. “How could you say such a thing? I’m not a ho! I can’t speak for Kitty, though. I’ve never taken anything from you. But I’m going to leave you before I say or do something that you will regret.”
“You better not take my money with you! I’ll have you put away with the rest of the crooks!” Daddy snapped. Then he started yelling at me for no ding-dang reason. “Thief! Thief! Thief! Liar, liar, liar!” He’d never done that before. Yelling. Accusing me. Calling me a thief and a liar.
How dare he! I’d never stolen anything. And I wasn’t a liar. No. I was the chickie who said what she meant, and meant what she said. And I told you to your face. So him saying that to me stung worse than when I’d gotten zapped on the tip of my nose by a wasp last summer, and my nose swelled up like a pickle. I was never so hurt in my life. I had to walk around for weeks wrapping silk scarves around my mouth and nose and wearing head wraps to keep from being spotted with that hideous bulbous lump on my face.
And now this!
I stormed out of his sitting room, then took off for the garage like a bat out of hell. When I hit the switch on my remote, the car chirped and the doors unlocked, the sounds echoing throughout the heated six-car space. I eased open the car door, tossed my handbag over into the passenger seat, then slid behind the steering wheel of my navy blue Rolls-Royce Phantom Drophead Coupé. It was Kitty’s latest gift to me to calm my roaring sea. A peace offering she called it, since she’d come to her senses and realized she was dirt wrong and gotdang cesspool messy for keeping Daddy’s condition from me. So, now, ever since our little knock-down, drag-out brawl, she’d been trying to play Miss Nice-Nasty. Still, no matter how little she tried, she couldn’t undo the damage she’d already done or take back the hurtful things she’d already said to me after I’d told her that Daddy was on his way back from Africa.
“For the love of God!” she shrieked when I confronted her in our kitchen. “You have got to be kidding me! Why in God’s name would you do that?”
“Because Daddy’s not well. And he needs to be home.”
“Oh, spare me the pity party. Crying over some man who barely remembers his own name, let alone yours. Mmph. I’d probably have done better with a junkie for a daughter than you. At least she’d have an excuse. But you, you ingrate, you get attached to the servants. You pine over some old man who doesn’t know you. Never even taken the time to get to know you. But you want to play Florence Nightingale. I don’t want him here. Do you hear me?”
“Well, I don’t care what you want, Kitty. This is his home too. And he’ll be here in less than sixteen hours, so you had better get used to it!”
“I tell you what. If you bring that man here you had better keep him in your wing of the house because I don’t want to see him, smell him, or hear him. Because, make no mistake, my darling daughter, if I do I will open up the terrace doors and usher him toward the railing, then show him the way to the promised land. I’ll open the doors and let him wander out and get lost. And there’s a steep hill out there. It’s a hell of a cliff we live on, and he’ll be found at the bottom of it if I even see him anywhere on my side of the house. Do you understand me?”
“He’s my father. And I want him here. Period, Kitty!”
“Oh, now I’m Kitty. Is that it, little girl? Are you that desperate for attention, Spencer, that you’d drag some infirm old fart into this house? Really? Nothing is ever good enough for you? Heather would love to have access to unlimited money. But you . . .” She shook her head. Then tsked me. “Pathetic. All you want to do is complain and moan. And now you want to walk this sick man into my life again. I divorced him for a reason. You must really want your father falling over that cliff outside. Well, test me if you want. I’m going to tell you what I told them wh
en they called and said he needed to come home: You had better find him a nice little nursing home with an ocean view, feed him intravenously, and throw away the key.”
My head jerked back. I batted my lashes. My heart began to pound a little faster. Before I could bring it to Kitty real good, she let out a cruel laugh that made my insides knot. I blinked.
I bit my bottom lip. My head felt like it would explode any second. Kitty had gone too far this time! All the other times she’d been messy and hurtful, I’d excuse it. I’d lock myself away in my room and cry my eyes out. But this time . . . oh no! Oh no! This time that ole dirty skunk had to get skinned and torched. This time Kitty had to feel every gotdiggitydang inch of my pain. And I didn’t give a hot damn what happened afterward. My mind was made up! Kitty was getting rolled out in a trash cart!
Tears sprouted from my eyes, blinding me. I clenched my fists, feeling the blood boil through me as I screamed at the top of my lungs. I felt myself getting drunk with craziness. “You evil witch! You hateful, soulless wench! You have run your clap-mouth one time too many, Kitty! And you are going to feel my wrath! And by the time I’m done with you, you’re going to wish you were born a man and had never spread your legs to have me!”
“Save yourself the trouble, Spencer, dear. I already do! Now do me a favor, little girl. Get out of my sight! I have a new boy-toy I picked up today and I want to break him in. So I need you to make yourself scarce so I can have full use of the house.”
She spun on her heel to walk away, tossing her hair. I jumped up from my seat and ran across the floor into the foyer, my heels clicking loudly, and grabbed the crystal flower vase off the large entryway table, and hurled it at her back, knocking her to the floor. She was lucky I’d stepped over her body and left her lying on the floor instead of going wild and bashing her skull in. All I could do was give praise and thanks for being a changed woman.
