by Ni-Ni Simone
“I’m not your damn aunt. And you can stop with the lies. You silly little girls are out of control. I don’t know what’s wrong with y’all, especially you, Heather. I had high hopes for you. Out of all of you, you are the one with the talent—true talent. But instead of using it, you choose to piss it away. Snort it away. Do everything but what you need to do—which is be the star you are destined to be and make this money.
“You are a beautiful girl! Beautiful! Mmph. But look at you. Laid up, all beat up, looking a hot crazy mess. What a waste. But since your mother is too busy drowning her demons in booze, I’m here to help you get your mind right, or help you find your way to the nearest gutter to crawl down in. The choice is yours. But know this: I will not tolerate you messing over my kindness. Now, you will be on reality TV. You will be paid one hundred thousand dollars per episode. And you will be happy about it.” She eased her fingernail back, flung my chin out of her hand and paced.
Reality TV? Was she crazy? She had to be! I wasn’t desperate.
“Camille will never agree to that!” I blurted out, feeling the walls around me starting to close in.
“She already has.” Kitty stopped in her tracks and faced me. “In fact, who do you think called me from jail? Therefore, you will be grateful to me. And you will not spit on my money.” Hand on hip, she stalked back over to me, narrowing her gaze. Her catlike eyes spooked me. For the first time, I felt a chill being alone in the same room with her; something I’d never felt before. “Cross me, disrespect me, and you will suffer the consequences. You will feel my wrath.”
I swallowed, hard. Blinked back the tears that weighed heavy on my lids.
“You want to be ratchet?” she continued, glaring at me. “You want to be ghetto trash? Then be just that. But know this: You and all of your ratchetness is going to air on television. And you are going to make both of us money being the little ooga-booga cockroach you seem so comfortable being. But if you cost me one red cent, I am going to shut your life down. You’ll never step foot on another set again. I promise you. Screw up and the next time anyone hears the name Heather Cummings, or sees your pretty little face on a flat-screen, it’ll be you eating out of a garbage bin, or somewhere with a needle dangling from your arm. Is that the life you want?”
I swiped tears from my aching face. My tongue felt heavy. My jaws felt stuck together. I had no words for what this cruel witch of a woman was saying to me.
Before I could flinch or get a word out, she had my chin in her clutches again. “Answer. Me!”
“N-n-no,” I stammered.
“I thought not.” She let go of my face. “Now get out of this bed and get dressed. The driver is downstairs to take you home. You know. The one Co-Co said you rented in 90210.”
22
London
“Wow, you look... amazing.” Daddy beamed proudly as he flipped through the pictures from my Pink Heat photo shoot. “My little girl is really growing up.” He looked up and smiled at me. “I’m so proud of you, London.”
Not for long you won’t be. Not after you learn about the brawl Rich and I had at Club Tantrum.
Daddy and I were sitting at a table having dinner at one of my favorite Japanese restaurants in West Hollywood, Nobu—just him and me. And as bad as I wanted to enjoy our father-daughter time together, as bad as I wanted to delight in my sumptuous meal without the prying eyes of my mother staring down my mouth and counting my calories, I was struggling to keep it together.
I was on the edge of a cliff, dangling on a thin thread of sanity. And, at any moment, my fingers would slip open and the shell of my body would fall into a dark pit.
That was all that was left of me. My body.
My heart was already snatched. Gone.
And now my mind was slowly going.
I felt it. Slipping in and out, seesawing back and forth between past and present. Snapshots of my entire sixteen years of life fast-forwarded and rewound and played over and over in my head.
I was fighting to hold on. Fighting to keep my emotions in check. Fighting to keep this fake smile I was wearing like a plaster cast mounted on my face. But it was beginning to crack.
My life was in shambles.
Rich and I still weren’t talking. Our fistfight at Club Tantrum happened several days ago and I still wore the bruises from our brawl. I had pretended to be ill so that my dinner date with Daddy could be postponed long enough for them to fade. I wanted another round with her. I was still pissed at how she’d treated me. Nasty. Talking sideways to me, and being condescending. Her bitchy meter had been cranked all the way up from the moment she sat down, and I had no clue as to why. I still didn’t.
And now I didn’t give a damn. We’d fought before. And we’d had our share of arguments. But we’d always made up right after we finished tearing each other up. Either right afterward, or no more than a few hours, or a day later. But we never, ever, went this long without making up. No. This fight was different. It came from a very different place. Anger. It was a rage that bordered on hate. We punched and kicked and slapped and cursed each other like enemies, like two chicks who had something to prove. We tried to beat each other to the death. And neither of us wanted to go down.
I’d fought her over Justice.
Not because she’d said she wanted him. No, he wanted her. But she’d slept with him. My man. Then disrespected him to my face. So what if she didn’t know he was mine? She knew he mattered to me. And even though I’d asked her if she’d slept with him, she didn’t have to be so crass about it. It’d already killed me sitting there, knowing in the back of my mind that it would eventually happen—them, her and Justice, sexing. But to hear it, that she’d screwed him, sliced right through me. I didn’t want to share him. Not like that. Not without me having some control over it.
But I had none.
In the blink of an eye, everything had blown up in my face. And without even knowing it, that bitch, Rich Montgomery, was the one who’d pulled the trigger.
But it was all a moot point now. My friendship with her was over.
Dead.
I hated her. And, obviously, she hated me . . . for whatever reason.
Then there was . . . Justice. I still hadn’t seen him since I’d been back. Still hadn’t talked to him since he’d sent that text message and broken up with me. I still couldn’t believe he’d dumped me. Couldn’t believe that he refused to talk to me. Refused me the opportunity to understand what I’d done for him to push me away, to shut me out like that. He denied me the chance to, at the very least, explain myself—well, given how emotionally needy I was, beg him to take me back.
But it didn’t look like that would happen. Not now. Maybe not ever. Not after the way he’d treated me this time. Now I sat here feeling like a jilted ex-girlfriend on the verge of a nervous breakdown. And the pounding in my head told me what the aching pain in my heart didn’t want to know, didn’t want to accept. That Justice had meant what he’d said. I mean, texted. He was done.
It was over.
And the fact that he’d deleted and blocked me from his Facebook page, and blocked my number from calling him—something he’d never done before—it was crystal clear. The message was piercing.
He wanted nothing else to do with me.
After I’d given him every part of my mind, my body, my heart, my love, my life; after I’d lied and schemed and defied my parents and was willing to risk losing everything to be with him, he turned his back on me.
And, as if that wasn’t already enough salt rubbed into my wounds, Anderson told me he wanted me. That he wanted to love me. But he wasn’t going to share me; he wanted all of me, including my heart. Not pieces of it. All of it. But I didn’t have it to give. I tried to tell him that there was nothing else left of me. That Justice had taken everything that I’d freely given, and what he’d given back, what he’d tossed back at me once he was finished using me up, was destroyed. Damaged. Pieces. Shards of broken spirit, slivers of a shattered heart, shavings of brok
en promises, that’s all that was left of me. But Anderson wouldn’t hear it. And when I couldn’t make a choice—him or Justice—he kissed me one last time. He walked out on me in Milan, leaving me standing in the middle of my suite with my robe around my feet, naked and rejected, with burning tears in my eyes.
Now I had nothing. No one.
The only thing left for me to do was to wait for him to tell my parents that it was over between us, that he’d dumped me because he didn’t love me, then lower my head down into the guillotine and wait for the blade to come down.
On cue, Daddy’s voice floated into my consciousness. “Your mother tells me the ad for the perfume . . . uh, Pink Heat, right . . . ?”
I nodded absentmindedly. I wondered if he even noticed that I’d disappeared from the table; that I’d mentally checked out of the room.
“Right, right. She tells me it’s on a rush schedule and is going to start appearing in magazines in the next few weeks. Are you excited?”
I blinked. I no longer had to wonder. Either he was clueless, like everyone else, or I hid it well. Yeah, maybe that was it. I was good at pretending. Good at hiding. Good at keeping secrets.
I shrugged. “I guess so.”
God, I just want it all to end. Be over. Finished. I’m so tired of hurting. So tired of having my heart crushed. So tired of feeling empty and alone. I’m so tired of all this pretending...
“Your mother is excited. I haven’t seen her this happy . . .” His voice drifted off as if he’d gotten lost in his own head for a moment. He ran a hand over his handsome face. “Wow. It’s been that long.” He let out a chuckle that sounded more pained than not. “Once this ad starts appearing in magazines and on billboards, my little girl is going to be a star. Are you ready for all the attention? Should I get your autograph now or later?” he said jokingly.
I didn’t laugh. But I forced another smile. I wanted desperately to share in his enthusiasm. I wanted to be happy and excited with him, but I couldn’t. I had nothing to be enthused about or to be excited over. I was the joke. The dancing court jester on a string. And everyone was laughing at me.
London the dancing fool.
“God, you look so much like your mother when she was your age, modeling. I really hadn’t noticed just how much until now.”
I cringed. Hearing that—that I looked like my mother—was the last thing I needed or wanted to be reminded of. I still wasn’t speaking to her, unless I had to, for slapping me. But I’d already decided, agreed to, committed to, resigned myself to, being her property without any more fighting. I was tired. I was returning to Milan with her next week, in time for my fittings and rehearsals for the upcoming fashion show, and I would work the runway as she’d demanded. I’d give her and the fashion world something they’d never forget. She wanted me under the bright lights and in front of the flashing bulbs, so I’d give her exactly what she wanted.
Still, I was pissed at her. And I blamed her for taking me away from Justice. Again. Even if she didn’t know I was with him, this time. She still snatched my happiness away from me. She dragged me overseas to chase some damn dream that wasn’t even my own. Had to disrupt my whole world. Destroy my life. Kill my love.
She gave Justice the time and space to stop loving me, to stop wanting me. And it was all her fault. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was Rich’s, or some other ho’s doing. Maybe it was mine, for not doing enough. I don’t know. All I know is, had I still been here, had my mother not forced me to go, I would have had a fighting chance to keep him. Maybe. But I wasn’t here. And now...
I blinked. Blinked again. Suddenly aware that Daddy’s gaze was locked on me, I averted my eyes. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. I stared at my half-eaten shrimp and picked-over salad, glanced around the restaurant, fidgeted in my seat. Did everything but look into his face. The tears were coming. I could feel them welling up from somewhere deep down in me. My chest was tightening.
I had to get out of here. I needed an escape.
The molded smile I kept mortared on my face was cracking. I could hear the plaster fracturing. The mold was splitting open. At any second, the mask would fall off. And Daddy would see me. My lies. My loneliness. My hurt. My dejection.
He’d see my ugly scars. My insecurities. My fear. My secrets.
I felt light-headed. I was starting to feel disoriented.
Daddy’s brows furrowed. He searched my face. “Sweetheart, is everything all right? You look like you’re on the verge of . . .”
I quickly swiped a hand across my eyes. Lied. Told him I had something in my eye. Then, unconcerned with making a graceful exit, abruptly excused myself, practically sprinting in my six-inch heels toward the bathroom before all of my emotions came pouring out. And the minute I locked myself in the stall and slid down to the floor, everything inside of me erupted. The storm had come. A monsoon of tears flooded my eyes. I was drowning in it. And I had no one to pull me free.
I cried.
And cried.
And cried.
I didn’t know how long I’d been in the stall, on the floor with my knees bent up to my chest, sobbing, when Daddy’s voice startled me on the other side of the door. He was in the women’s bathroom. Tapping on the door. His voice filled with concern. Trying to get to me.
“London? Come on out and tell me what is going on, sweetheart. What happened? Why are you crying? Are you hurt? Is this about you and Anderson breaking up? You didn’t have to keep that from me, sweetheart. Breakups happen. It wasn’t your fault.”
God, he already knows! Anderson couldn’t even wait!
I sobbed harder.
“I just got off the phone with him. I know it’s . . .”
“I don’t care about that, Daddy! It was my fault! All of it!”
“What, sweetheart? What was your fault? The breakup? No, it wasn’t. Anderson told me—”
“I don’t care about what he told you!”
“Then what is it, sweetheart?” he asked, sounding exasperated. I could tell by the tone of his voice that standing on the other side of the door listening to my tears and not being able to do anything was more painful than seeing me . . . like this. A broken mess! Distraught. Snotty nose. Swollen eyes.
“London, please, sweetheart. Talk to me. Is it about your modeling? I know it’s a lot of pressure on you, but isn’t this what you wanted?”
I wailed louder. “I don’t care about that!”
“Then what is it? I can’t help you if you won’t let me. Talk to me, please.”
“All I want is to be wanted and to feel loved! I don’t want to keep hurting! I don’t want to keep having my heart broken!”
“London, sweetheart, you are loved. Your mother and I love you very much. What is this about, huh, sweetheart?” The door shook. “C’mon, London, open the door. I don’t want to see you like this, please.”
More tears splashed out of my eyes, stinging and staining my cheeks. I coughed and cried out in agony. “Then why does Mother want to drag me to a plastic surgeon to have a bunch of surgeries to get rid of my breasts and butt? Why is she always ridiculing me? Why, Daddy, why? Nothing I do is ever good enough for her! Never! If she loves me, why is she always trying to change me? Huh?”
“Say what? Your mother did . . .” Silence. Even he was at a loss for words.
I croaked out a groan and wept louder.
“Your mother couldn’t have been serious about that, sweetheart. You’re perfect the way you are. There has to be some misunderstanding.”
“There is no misunderstanding! I’m FAT! And UGLY! And WORTHLESS!”
“London, you are beautiful, sweetheart.”
“NO, I’M NOT! I’m an AMAZON FREAK! A BIG FOOT! Everybody hates me!”
“No, you’re not. Who told you that?”
“Juuuuuustice!” I growled out his name between heavy sobs. I hadn’t meant for it to happen. But it had. And Daddy had heard it, too.
“Justice?” he repeated.
I couldn’t hold
the rest of this pain in any longer. It was eating away at my insides. Burning me like acid. Justice had hurt me deeply, this time worse than ever. His name was hot fire in the back of my throat, blazing around in my head. “Yes! Justice! Justice! Justice!” His name shot out of my mouth over and over, hot and angry and filled with hurt and sadness and defeat and lots of spittle and snot. “JUSTICE!!!! He is the reason Anderson broke up with me! I hurt him, Daddy! And now he hates me! My own mother hates me! Justice hates me! I hate me! And n-n-now youuu hate meeeee!”
“No, I don’t, sweetheart. Please.” He sounded frantic. “Please, London. Stop crying. And come out. I could never hate you. I love you.”
“Yes, you do. I know you do! I just want to close my eyes and never wake up. I want everything to be over.”
I was sinking in anguish. Being swept under by emptiness. I couldn’t move. I felt paralyzed. My arms, my legs, everything felt heavy.
“London, please. You’ve got to come out of there.” He violently shook the door. I could hear the alarm in his voice. I’d never heard him like this. Frightened. Scared for me. Nervous. Maybe I was imagining it. Maybe I wasn’t. Maybe I needed it to be real.
But it was. Real. The minute the door swung open and my father scooped me up into his arms and carried me out—not caring who was looking or how many cameras were flashing, while I screamed and sobbed and held on to him for dear life—the minute I looked into his face and saw his own tears brimming in his eyes, I knew. It was real.
And he knew.
I was at the end.
He was losing me to it.
The raging war inside of me.
I’d given up.
I’d dropped my white flag . . . and surrendered.
23
Rich
Dear Diary,
Jazmine Sullivan’s “Lions, Tigers, & Bears” is my theme song at the moment. I’m listening to it now and I’ve had it on repeat all week. And every time I hear it, I get lost in it and a million wanted unwanted thoughts of Justice bombard my mind and demand all of my attention.
