by Ni-Ni Simone
I sighed, lowering the roof of my new car. I pressed the button to lift the garage door, pulling out a pair of expensive sunglasses and putting them on. I was so over Kitty. But I’d let her think we were all coochie-coochie-crunch-crunch. . . for now, that is. It was only a matter of time before I’d drag her to the doors of damnation, then push her into the bowels of hell, where she belonged. And if I was feeling generous enough, I’d send her off with me pissing a little gasoline on her first, before I pushed her into the flames.
I threw the stick shift in first gear, jerked forward a few times before getting it together. I sped out of the garage. Swerved around the circular drive, then waited for the gates to slide open. I was making a quick escape from Senior Day Care to San Diego to see Midnight: Rich’s future ex-boo Knox’s roommate and fraternity brother.
I looked at myself in the rearview mirror. “Woof, woof! Knick-knack paddy whack, give that dog a bone! Yes, goshdangit!” I shook my head. “If that show dog holds his bone right, I might let him get a few tongue laps around momma’s milk bowl.”
Midnight and I’d been talking on the phone almost every night for the last few weeks. And he’d been sending me “good morning” texts every day since the day Rich and I fled to his and Knox’s apartment, where we stayed for almost two days after I whopped and popped her bum dog in Timbs, aka Justice, upside his nugget with my nunchucks. Mmph. But that’s another tale, for another time. This was about Micah Rufus Johnson . . . and me.
And as for us, we’d been going real hot and heavy, panting and moaning into the phone at wee hours of the night, talking all kinds of sweet and nasty goodness. We’d even sat up in bed on Skype and played a little game of “I’ll Show You Mine If You Show Me Yours” as we told each other dirty bedtime stories. Ooh, he was some kind of freaky.
Anyway, today was going to be our first time seeing each other in flesh and bone. And I was excited. But I was nervous too. And I didn’t know why. Well, I did. The truth was, I’d never really been on an official date with anyone before. Not out in public, anyway. Most of my so-called dates were more like “snack outs,” which usually ended in the backseat of a car, in one of the locked student lounges at Hollywood High, or down in a dark alley with my face buried in some boy’s treasure chest, or his buried in mine.
Although Midnight wasn’t officially my boo-boo, I liked him. A lot. But I wasn’t sure if I wanted him for a boyfriend. I was scared. I’d only had three boyfriends my entire life. RJ—Rich’s older brother, whom I’d given my heart and my gushy-gushy to. In fact, he was my first everything. My first crush. My first kiss. My first love. But that ended in heartache once he was shipped off to England for school.
Then there was Curtis, who I was with for four months and eighteen days before it ended in tragedy with Kitty screwing him sideways and silly on his eighteenth birthday. And let me not even mention Joey. My cardboard-box lover who’d haphazardly gotten himself stuck inside of Kitty’s sticky thong juice one late summer night. Being suspicious of Kitty’s sudden interest in Joey was what led me to follow her to a secluded location where I watched Joey slide into the passenger seat of her Bentley, then lean over and kiss her. I followed them down to Laguna Beach. And waited. Using a telephoto lens, I captured every dirty deed.
It ended with me slicing all four of Kitty’s tires down to the ground, then sneaking down to the beach and wrapping my hands into Kitty’s hair and dragging her half-naked body through the sand, macing Joey, then clawing up his face.
Mmph.
The gate slid open, and I was on my way. I shifted the gears and sped off. The sun was shining. The wind was whipping through my hair, blowing it every which way as I worked the stick like a crazed woman, shifting gears up and down, braking then speeding up again. I switched lanes, blowing my horn at any vehicle trying to block my wheel roll. Yes, gotdiggitydangit . . . I was driving the I-5 at racing-car speeds while I sang at the top of my lungs, sucking in the air that whipped inside of the cabin, every track of K. Michelle’s album Rebellious Soul, which is exactly what I was.
When I finally arrived at my destination, I peered over the rim of my designer shades and eyed daddy long legs as Midnight stepped out of his building and swaggered his way over to the car, stylishly dressed in a pair of slightly baggy designer jeans, a black long-sleeved Gucci T-shirt, and a pair of very expensive slip-ons. The front of his shirt was tucked in just so, to show off the Gucci symbols on his belt buckle.
I could already hear the sound it would make as it hit the floor. I squirmed and bounced in my seat. I felt my hello kitty starting to purr and come alive. Oooh, sookie-sookie-meow-meow! Spankmybiscuitsraw! Umph-mmph. He was a tall, lanky glass of dark, smoldering sexiness!
I licked my MAC-painted, glossed lips. Come to momma, my little boo-daddy! I pressed the button to unlock the door, then watched as he opened it and slid in real smooth. I caught a whiff of his cologne. Mmmm, he smells delish, I mused as I played the guessing game of what scent he had on. He smelled like Kenneth Cole Black.
He leaned over and kissed my cheek, then flicked his long tongue along the side of my neck, causing me to shiver as a jolt of electricity zapped to the tip of my good ’n’ plenty.
“What’s good, sweet potato? You looking so tasty I could crawl up under your skirt, eat up ya crumbs, and get lost forever.”
“Oooh, you dirty dog!” I couldn’t help but grin as I playfully swatted his hand off of my thigh. I reached into my console and pulled out a spiked dog collar and studded dog chain. “You must want momma to strap you up and yank you by the chain.”
“Woof, woof! Strap me. Drag me. Yank me. Do me up right, baby. I don’t care what you do as long as you just get to it. And I like it real nasty.”
He puckered his lips up to get a kiss. And I happily smooched it up with him. I reached in his lap and grabbed his goody bag a few times. Midnight growled when I pulled away. “Hey, hey, don’t stop. You got my dog bone stretching. You got me ready to get up in them yams, sweet cheeks. I think I’ma fall hard for you, girl. You like a twelve-piece, extra-crispy, with a side order of slaw, rolls, ’n’ mac ’n’ cheese, baby.” He smacked his lips like he was sucking barbecue sauce from his fingers. “Yeah, you the full-course meal, boo.”
I giggled, pressing down on the accelerator and speeding off.
“Whoa! Whoa!” Midnight scrambled trying to put on his seat belt. “Wait! Wait! Please, don’t kill me! Please!” He wrapped his arms around himself. “I don’t wanna die!”
He started praying and chanting and rocking.
I snickered. “Oh, I’m not going to kill you, dark daddy. But I am going to tie you up, then introduce you to my weapons of mass destruction.”
Ooh, yes. I was the bone handler, baby. And when I was done nibbling on Midnight, he was going to be in the fetal position, sucking his thumb, drool slowly sliding out the corner of his mouth, his eyes rolling around in their sockets, and in need of a wheelchair.
Heeheehee.
9
Rich
I gripped the cool edges of my lava vanity, barely inching my throbbing head past my shoulders and up to the mirror to scan my reflection. My eyelids were creased and hung like crescent moons, making my irises look half their size.
I couldn’t believe this was happening to me again...
Not again . . .
Just when I had made up my mind that I was going to put my boom-bop-make-it-hot-and-make-it-drop on pause for a minute and collect my thoughts...
Just when I swore I was going to stop trippin’ over my latest bouts with whiny testosterone and the major shade it had thrown my way...
Just.
When.
I.
Decided.
To get my ish together, in stepped this . . .
I was pregnant.
Again.
I had to be.
I knew all the signs.
I’d been there too many times before.
Besides, I hadn’t seen my period in two months.
<
br /> My breasts ached.
My stomach hurt.
And I threw up every morning. Sometimes at night.
I needed my mother.
I needed her to show me a way out of this.
She was the only one who could help me.
But.
She hadn’t spoken to me in weeks. And she’d stopped making her morning rounds—coming to my room to wake me up for breakfast. And at breakfast, when I sat at the table, she got up.
Get it together.
I walked back into my room and as I sat in my day area, I could see my mother sunbathing by the pool while the dancing flames from the outdoor fireplace reflected in the round eyes of her bumblebee Chanels.
She leafed through the pages of a book, the cover shielded by her hands.
Her life looked storybook perfect and for a moment I was pissed. How dare she ignore me? Not speak to me! Her own child. Who does that? Like really? Who did she think she was to treat me like this?
This had to end!
Today!
I pulled the drawstring in my black Richard Chai sweats tight around my waist, threw on a baggy hoodie, and walked outside. Poolside. Stood before my mother and said, “So you’re never going to speak to me again? Is this what your silent temper tantrums are about? You’re cutting me off? Who does that to their own child?”
I could tell by the lines around her mouth that she’d swallowed at least three or four things that she wanted to say to me, and it was obvious by the way her left hand clutched the reclining lounge chair she sat in, that it took everything in her not to jump out of her seat and drown me.
Instead she fluttered her mink lashes up at me and said, “Would you like Shakeesha to answer that? Or Logan?”
See, this is the bull-ish I’m talking about! Shakeesha Logan Gatling was gutter rat trash, but Logan Montgomery had class. And that’s who I need to speak to. “I want my mother, Logan.”
“Oh really.” She gave a half laugh, half grunt, and topped it off with a snort. “Since when?”
I sucked in a breath and shoved out a deep sigh. “I don’t like the way you’re treating me.” I placed my hands up on my hips and when I saw her eyes land on my stomach, I quickly took my hands down.
I sat in the chair next to her and crossed my arms over my breasts. She was sure to inspect those next.
“Ma,” I continued. “What you’re doing isn’t right. I’m only sixteen and every sixteen-year-old needs a mother in their life! One who speaks to them!”
“Well, I’m tired of being your mother,” she said with ease, returning to leafing through the pages of her book.
Tears rushed to my eyes.
She glanced over at me and frowned. “Please, not today.”
I wiped my wet cheeks with the backs of my hands. “Why would you say something like that to me?! Why? Don’t you know I have feelings? RJ is not the only child you have!”
She snapped her neck toward me. I knew that would get her attention. “Oh, now you’d like to be my child?” She was as calm as a brewing storm. “Is that so? Really? Last I checked you were tired of my bitchazzness.”
“I never—”
“Be. Quiet.” She slid her Chanels down the bridge of her nose and arched her brow with every word. She curled her lips in disgust. “All my hopes. Dreams. And teachings. Wasted on you! Laid up every week on some boy’s bedsheets.”
“Ma—!”
“Did I tell you to speak? You and little girlfriend tag-teaming some twins.”
Twins? My eyes scanned her face. How does she know that?
“Then there was Damon.” She ripped a page out of her book. “Jonathan.” She ripped another page. “Corey. Knox. The freak you picked up in the bar. Justice.” She paused and I watched the pages flutter like feathers. “Yes, Justice. And the umpteen other names I didn’t rattle off!”
My eyes landed on the pages as they floated to the pavers and suddenly the ground felt like it had opened up and was pulling me into the pits of hell.
She had my diary! My diary! In her hands! My whole world! Ripping pages out of it and taking my innermost thoughts and secrets and tossing them into the air like confetti.
I couldn’t believe it. My head was spinning and I could feel the bile rising at the back of my throat, bubbling its way onto my tongue.
She continued, “You’re up in lounges drinking. Walking around with fake IDs. Lying about being twenty-one. Stressing out and eating platters and platters of buffalo wings. All the money I spent on that bypass surgery. I should’ve let you stay fat. I would’ve had a better chance of you not turning into a whore!”
“How dare you!” I jumped up and she shot me a look that made me pause midair.
“If you take another step, Shakeesha will beat you like a woman in the street.” She waited and I sat down, humiliated, and surrendered to dying.
Dear God . . .
She continued on. “You’ve been pregnant so many times that I’ve lost count. And God knows you can’t have any more abortions because no doctor will touch you.”
I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t.
I stood up to leave and my legs were like willow branches.
But I had to get out of there some kind of way. Even if I had to crawl my way out.
“Sit. Down,” my mother said calmly. “Now. You wanted me to speak. Well, I’m speaking.”
Completely lost to the moment, I did as she said.
“You think being out here in these streets is something big.” She rattled off, “You think it makes you relevant. You think because they write articles about you on all the blogs, the gossip sites, and because little girls dream of being like you that you have made it. Ha! Well, honey, let me inform you, because obviously you’ve been misguided. At the rate you’re going, those same sites, blogs, and little girls, will be mourning you soon.”
“I can’t believe you said that!”
“Believe it. You don’t use condoms. You don’t use discretion. Who would’ve ever thought that Knox—your father’s accountant’s son—would be the best decision you’ve ever made? All of these wealthy families with sons who have promising futures, and your best choice is the help. And then Justice. Some R & B, dime-a-dozen wannabe. All he’ll ever do is smoke-filled lounges and child-support courtrooms. That’s about it.”
She drowned me in more ripped pages of my diary.
“You do horrible in school. You’re a C and D student on your best days. Countless checks we’ve written so you would have decent grades. Countless teachers we’ve paid off and still nothing works. No child left behind except Rich.
“And you called me stupid? You actually wrote in here that you thought I was stupid.” She stabbed an index finger into my diary. “Isn’t that amusing. You think I don’t know anything about your father’s five and six mistresses? His whores? Little girl, they are not even worthy enough for me to speak their names. But guess what? I’m number one. I don’t compromise. And any man who has ever hit this, knows that he received a prize, not some everyday, common good-time-number-on-the-bathroom-wall slore! So no, there’s nothing stupid about me, honey.” She tossed her hair over a shoulder. “But you’re entitled to your opinion.” She ripped more pages out of my diary and tossed them at me.
I swear, I could feel the heat from the hellfire engulfing me and the sinking Earth pulling me down into it.
“And now”—she closed my diary—“you’re pregnant again. And I bet you don’t even know who the father is.”
I felt a round of bullets splash open my chest and every particle of air left my body. I wanted to speak but I couldn’t. My tongue was frozen, heavy, and I couldn’t move.
The truth was: I didn’t know who the father was. And I’d been trying to figure it out. Pinpoint a day. A time. A minute. A moment. But I couldn’t. All I knew for sure was that the baby could’ve been Knox’s, Justice’s, or...
Tears escaped down my cheeks.
After a long and deafening pause my mother ea
sed out of her chair, grabbed her outdoor chiffon robe, slipped it on, and tied the belt around her waist. She slid her Chanels back up the bridge of her nose. And as she tossed my diary into my lap she spat, “Put it on Knox.”
10
London
Milan, Italy
This was it. The Fashion Week finale was finally here. It was over. I kept my eyes focused on the photographers at the end of the runway as I glided, one foot in front of the other. Flashbulbs went off and I got lost in the moment until I got to the end of the catwalk.
Justice’s face flashed in front of me, his lips curled into a sneer.
“Ain’t nobody checkin’ for ya . . . you worthless . . . Ain’t nobody gonna ever love you like me . . . stupid trick . . . you make me sick, yo . . .”
I didn’t know who I was without him. He’d been all I’d ever been. All I’d ever known. Everything I was had been wrapped up in him. But it was over now.
I blinked. Turned and posed for the cameras.
“Look at you, six-foot-tall, giraffe-neck self... big-foot Amazon . . . I was the best thing you’ll ever have...”
I was becoming overwhelmed with emotion. I stood in a defiant pose, hand on hip, and realized as the photographers took shots of my dress that I was just as soulless as the industry my mother had forced me to be in. Sadly, in the end, when each model’s mask was removed and all the layers were pulled back, we were all the same.
Insanely insecure.
We all wanted the same.
To be beautiful.
To be wanted.
To be loved.
To be seen.
And, yes, whether I openly admitted it or not, I wanted what every one of these attention-starved girls wanted . . . to be in the spotlight.
But fame came with a price.
Being beautiful came with unwanted attention.
Being wanted came with rejection.
Being loved came with heartache and no guarantees.
