by Ni-Ni Simone
“Oh. My. God.” Rich smacked her gums and banged a fist on the edge of our lunch table. “Really, though. London tries to kill herself and Westwick rolls out a national holiday?” She flicked a wrist. “Psst, please. Chile, cheese. Baby, boom! Attention whores stay doing the most.” She tossed a hard look over at me.
Spencer tsked and shifted in her seat. “I guess at any moment we’ll be bowing our heads and singing ‘Kumbaya’!”
“First Miley Cyrus,” Rich said.
“And now London,” Spencer added.
“Dear God . . . who’s next?”
I couldn’t believe it! These two slores were incredible. All I could do was stare at these insensitive tricks in disbelief. Did they really think this was something to laugh at?
And no, I didn’t like London. Actually, I hated her. She was phony. Stuck-up. Turned up her nose at people, especially me.
Still.
She didn’t deserve these cruel comments and snide remarks from the same chicks who I knew for sure would be smiling in her face and sending flowers. These hookers were out of control.
I leaned forward and frowned at the two of them as they sat across from me. “Obviously,” I sneered, eyeballing the two of them, “she was going through something. Something that pained her enough to make her feel like her life wasn’t worth living. But you two wouldn’t know anything about that since both of your worlds are so perfect.”
“Slow down, low-down.” Rich popped her glossy lips.
“No, you slow down! I don’t like the comments you made!”
Spencer batted her lashes. “Who died and made you London’s bestie? Since when did you become the spokesperson for the lonely?”
“I’m not her bestie! And I’m not her spokesperson. I just know what it’s like to take one too many pills on purpose. But clearly you two Gucci queens don’t. No, you’re too busy being mean and nasty and self-absorbed to know anything about that!”
“Well, dear God, Spencer.” Rich snickered. “I think we’ve just been read.”
“Mmph, sounded like a sermon to me!”
Rich said, “Hand me the collection plate.”
Spencer yanked her oversized bag open and pulled out a tambourine. She slapped it rhythmically against the palm of her right hand and Rich sprang out of her seat, hopped up and down, and sang, “The dead has arisen ’cause we’ve been read, honey! Yaaaaaas! We’ve been read! Give it to me, baby. Chile, cheese! Baby, boom!”
All I could do was shake my head. This was exactly why I was anti–dumb broads. They were soooo detached from reality. God, I hated them! And to think I’d actually entertained the thought of asking them to be on my show.
Not!
I was done with these two, especially Rich. The last time we were together she tried to read me for filth. But not this time! Mmph. Never again! No more high road. No more white towel. I don’t care if the producers don’t want to see me solo or they’re pissed off because Camille’s been discovered for who she really is. Whatever!
I looked over at Spencer and she was tossing twenties into the air while Rich popped a booty dance. “You two are a disgrace!” I shouted.
Immediately, Spencer stopped making it rain and Rich stopped dancing. “Screech!” Rich spat, as she placed a hand up on her hip and held an index finger in the air. “Who could be more of a disgrace than you, Ms. Baby Tylenol? And first of all and forever more, when I come to school I come to have a good time. Not be stressed over the woes of the young, the dumb, and the selfish. Okay, London did what she did. Boo-hoo. We’ve all shed our tears. Everybody’s sad for a second. But my world goes on. The school gave her a national holiday. What more do you want?!”
“Exactly.” Spencer tossed her curls. “And since you’re trying to come for people, Miss Fortune Reader without the cookie, let’s get you together. Now where is that Lamborghini?”
I drew in a breath. I’d forgotten about that expensive trash she’d given me.
She continued. “Yeah. You thought I’d forgotten, didn’t you? But I’ve seen you driving that old, souped-up, kitted-down whoremobile! Now where is that Lamborghini? And don’t lie.”
“Pause. Reeeeeewind,” Rich interjected, slamming a fist on the table and flopping down in her chair. “You bought this trickazoid a what? A what? A Lamborghini? Really, Spencer? A Ford Escort, okay. I can see that. I can even see you trying to upgrade her to an Acura. But a Lambo? Girl, you dead wrong for that. All you’ve ever given me is a chocolate diamond tennis bracelet with a BFF charm!”
“Rich, stop being so selfish! And be happy you received that bracelet. And besides, you’re not poor. Heather was homeless, living in a motel. In squalor. No transportation. And was seconds away from Camille tricking her out!”
“You mean renting her out!”
Spencer screamed in laughter. “Rent to own a ho!” She laughed so hard tears poured from her eyes. Then abruptly she stopped, looked back over to me and spat, “Now. Where. Is. That. Lamborghini?”
The veins in my neck felt like they were due to pop out at any moment. “You know what? I don’t have to take this!” I rose from my seat. “You two bishes are stupid. Ignorant. And I’m sick of y’all! Yeah, I was homeless. Broke. And I didn’t have a ride. But I’m not any of that anymore. And to think I wanted to invite you two to be on my reality show! Screw that and screw you! I’m tired of trying to play nice. Extending the olive branch and tolerating your foolishness.
“You are two of the messiest ballguzzlers I’ve ever seen in my life! And I don’t know what people see in you, but I’m over it! You’re overrated and so is your fake friendship! And when you get to fallin’ out, don’t come and see me, ’cause I’m not gon’ be checkin’ for you. And as for your Lamborghini, I sold it. It’s scrap metal! Now let me get out of here before I hook off on a beyotch!”
I twirled around, slung my twenty-four-inch ponytail, then patted my behind and said, “Now kiss what you paid for! I’m done with the Gucci clique! Click! Click!”
14
London
“You selfish trash . . .”
At first I thought I was dreaming. But then I heard the voice again.
“You despicable slore . . .”
No. This wasn’t a dream. Someone was in my room. Hovering over me. I slowly opened my eyes, and screamed. My worst nightmare was standing inches away from my face, sneering. She was the last person I expected (or wanted) to see. This was the second time she’d ever been inside my house. The first time being a few months back, at the beginning of the school year, when we were trying to patch up our tarnished media images by forging a faux alliance, while Heather was in rehab. Of course, nothing ever went according to plan when we were all forced to be in the same room for any length of time. She ended up whipping out a blade and wielding it at Rich, threatening to rock, sock, and slice her to sleep. Her words, not mine.
“Sp-Sp-Spencer . . . ohmygod! What are you doing here? Who let you in?”
She blew out a blast of watermelon-scented breath. “God, you’re so ugly. And, ohmygod, bring in the cavalry! Send in the fat gods! Where is the rest of your body? You’re a sickly sack of stones. No, twigs! You’re a skeletal disaster. Dear Lord! Have mercy on my eyes!”
I clutched the covers up to my neck, feeling ridiculously more unnerved, more self-conscious than I already was about the fact that I now weighed a hundred and two pounds. I’d been home for almost a week and had managed to gain two pounds. Still, it wasn’t enough. My doctor was concerned. I overheard him telling my parents I was deteriorating. That I would end up back in the hospital again if I wasn’t able or willing to consume food. And it has been the only time my mother has ever begged me to eat. I didn’t have much of an appetite. And what little I did attempt to eat I’d throw up. So now I was on a liquid diet. An IV drip. Followed by horrible protein shakes.
“What are you trying to do now? Slicing your wrists didn’t work so now you want to starve yourself to death? Is that it, Twiggy-used-to-be Miss Piggy?”
/>
I blinked.
“You want to run free and wild? You gotdang joy killer! How dare you try to steal my thunder! You, you, inconsiderate tramp-dog! Is this how you low-money, East Side, troll-dolls do it back across the dirty-dirty? In New Yawrk, New Yawrk?” She mocked, trying to imitate my New York accent. “Slicing and dicing yourselves up when life gets you down? Someone tosses you a bucket of lemons and you want to turn around and squeeze out prune juice. You want to hang up your big panties, then throw your hands up in defeat! You gotdiggitydang tramp! You sore loser! I should slap your dang sunken face, you snot ball! You quitter!”
Quitter? How is giving in to my truths—that I am unhappy; that I’m tired; that I am lonely; that I don’t want to live anymore—being a quitter?
I frowned. I didn’t have the strength or the energy to engage in a battle of words with this trick. All I wanted to do was sleep. My life away! Close my eyes and hope to God that when I opened them again it’d be full of bright white light, colorful butterflies, and angels playing harps. Seeing this devil incarnate, standing here in all of her fine jewels and a pair of exquisite heels, shooting fire at me, was more than I could bear.
“Spencer, get out of my room now. And out of my house before I have you tossed off the premises. How dare you come in here and try to judge me.” My voice cracked. “You don’t know me! You don’t know what my life has been like to come up in here and tell me anything! So don’t stand there and try to throw stones at me! Now get out!” I reached for the house line to call down to security. However, Spencer was quick on her feet, slapping my hand down and snatching the phone from off my nightstand, then yanking its cord out of the outlet. She then snatched my iPhone out of my hand.
“Oh no. Oh no. You are not having me escorted out of here. I’ll leave when I’m good and gotdiggitydang ready. And not a minute sooner. I’m here to see you through whatever it is you’re going through.”
“I’m touched,” I said sarcastically. “I didn’t think you cared.” I folded my arms across my chest. “Now get out!”
She smirked. “Oh no . . . oh no, Little Miss Murder Warrant. I am not here to host your pity party. I would love nothing more than to lay you out and roast you on an open barbecue pit and watch your skin snap, crackle, and pop. But that’s not how I do mine. I don’t ever break bones or throw stones at hookers who are already stretched out on their backs. No, ma’am. I build you up to tear you down. I’m here to nurse you back to health, Miss Death On A Stick. Then—”
I gave her an incredulous look, cutting her off. “Nurse me back to health? Are you frickin’ serious? I don’t need your help. I need you to find your way to the door and out of my house.”
Her thick diamond bangles clinked as she clapped her hands. “Heeheehee. Instead of wasting good seconds and minutes and hours of the day trying to slice yourself up, you need to be trying to get your neck game up. Maybe you wouldn’t be in this pathetic mess you’re in, Miss Lonely.”
“Miss me with your fake concern and your twisted anecdote for my recovery. I’m not interested.”
“Well, you just ought to be. Look at you. You’re a mess. What a waste of good space.”
“Why do you care? What does my mess have to do with you, huh? Riddle me that. My life and what I do with it, or in it, is none of your concern. So get a life and have several seats.”
I evil-eyed her as she sauntered around my suite, sliding her fingers over the furniture as if she were checking for dust particles. She turned toward me, cocked her fingers like a gun, pulled an imaginary trigger, then blew on her fingertips.
“Boom, swamp thing, boom! Do you think I want to be here? You think I want to be standing up in this makeshift mortuary with you, scarecrow? I have better things to do.”
I rolled my eyes, letting out a disgusted sigh. “Then go do you. I didn’t ask you here. I don’t even want you here. And I definitely don’t need you or your phony concern.”
“Umm, look around you, ditsy doodle, and tell me what you see.” She swept her eyes around the room, then landed them back on me. “That’s right, you guessed it. Nothing. No one. That’s what you see. And you want to know why? Because you have no friends, London. No one likes you, boo. And the one half of a friend you did have, you back-stabbed and gutted. And now she’s somewhere doing your thug daddy.” She covered her mouth. “Oopsie . . . was I supposed to say that? Oh well.”
She chuckled.
I choked back a sob. This girl was so hateful and hurtful. And for her to stand here and confirm what I already knew in my heart—that Rich was sleeping with Justice—was unconscionable. Spencer was a ruthless snake. And Rich was just dirty!
They all deserved each other!
I quickly turned my head from her so that she wouldn’t be able to see the tears building up in my eyes.
“Oh yes, honey. I’m here to deliver the gospel truth. And the truth is, you’re an epic fail! Trying to hurt yourself like that! How could you, London? And please tell me this isn’t over that bum. That Mister Thug Delight who can croon his way into a girl’s sheets and leave his stain marks behind. Ooh, he’s the pimp daddy of destruction. I mean, really. You might not want me here, London. But you better thank the high heavens somebody’s here right up until the bittersweet end.”
I blinked back tears. Her words were like a thousand razor blades slicing into my flesh. “What do you want, Spencer?”
“Oh dear. Isn’t it obvious what I want? Haven’t I made myself clear?” She opened her large Bottega Veneta and pulled out a black flyswatter. Whap! She swatted the foot of my bed, hard. “Let’s try this again. Shall we? I want you to get it together, London. Get up and fight! I want you back at Hollywood High so I can annihilate you. So whatever demons you got eating up your insides, go get you a flush, a deep-rinse cleanse, or whatever, and let it go. Move on. Capisci?”
No! Did she understand? No matter what anyone said about moving on and letting go, I still didn’t think I could live without Justice. I knew I wasn’t ready to accept the fact that he’d moved on—from me—to Rich. That he’d let go—of me—for Rich. I didn’t know who or what I was if I wasn’t his girlfriend. Didn’t anyone see that’s all I was now, all I had been? Justice’s girl.
I gave up everything for him. I picked him over my parents. And what did it get me? Spat on! Kicked in the gut! Punched in the throat! Stabbed in the back! Disrespected!
Didn’t that boy know everything I had been, everything I did, was for him?
And that was a big part of the problem. I existed for him.
What hurt the most was knowing that after everything we’d shared, he hadn’t even tried reaching out to me. I’m sure he’d heard what happened. The media and blogs had been buzzing for the last week or so over my suicide attempt.
He could have sent a text. He could have called. He could have in-boxed me on Facebook, or hit me up on Kik.
All it would have taken was two seconds, if that. But it didn’t matter to him. I didn’t matter to him. And I needed to find a way to accept that and push through it.
But how?
I felt the sting of tears. I turned away slightly so that she wouldn’t see me on the verge of crying. I willed myself to keep it together. Having another crying spell, another meltdown, right here, right now, in front of this messy troll was not an option. I’d rather slice my arm off and eat a pile of army ants than allow her the privilege of seeing me any more broke down than I already was.
God, I couldn’t stand looking at her. Miss Flawless. She was effortlessly beautiful and didn’t even know it. I hated to admit this, but there had been times when I wished to be Spencer and Rich, in the worst way. I didn’t want their lives, or any of their despicable ways. And I didn’t want to trade places or parents with them; just wanted to trade in my imprisonment for their freedoms. I wanted to swap out my size nines for their dainty size five feet. Wanted to be their normal height in heels, instead of always feeling like a giraffe on stilts.
Where Rich was short an
d thick, Spencer was built like a dancer. But they were both, God help me, beautiful—on the outside, anyway. Still, they had the kind of carefree, I-don’t-care-about-the-world-or-anybody-in-it attitude that I envied, admired, and despised all at the same time. Still, parts of me craved the kind of reckless abandon they had. They didn’t care about pretenses. Or how they carried themselves in public. They didn’t care about social graces, or being refined. Sit up. Back straight. Chin up. Legs together when sitting. Feet crossed at the ankles. A young lady never belches or poots out loud in mixed company. A young lady is never loud, obnoxious, or crude in her behavior. A young lady never uses profanity.
No. Rich, in particular, didn’t care about social etiquette or proper decorum. She simply lived in the moment. Enjoyed life. Ate with her hands when it required it; licked sauce off her fingers without regard; belched and passed gas loud and proud. All of them, Rich, Spencer, and (eyes rolled up in my head) Heather, did whatever they wanted without restrictions, or someone hovering over them, or ambushing and bullying them into doing what they didn’t want to do.
In that regard, they were so lucky! And I wanted that. A mother who just didn’t care what I did, or who I did it with!
“Well, I think my charity work here is done for the day,” Spencer said, bringing me out of my reverie. She glanced at her jeweled timepiece. “If I hurry, I might be able to catch the second half of my physics class.”
“Thank God for small favors,” I muttered under my breath, relieved to see this trick finally leaving. She gathered her coat, then reached inside her handbag and pulled out a beautifully wrapped gift. She handed it to me. I frowned. “What’s that?”
