by Ni-Ni Simone
I’ve tried everything.
Apologizing...
Texting him.
Calling him. Over, and over, and over again. All from different numbers and each time he blocks me.
Replacing the windshield that I kissed with a brick.
Replacing the entire car with a brand-new 2015 black Maserati with a red bow on top.
He sent the car back. Bow still intact.
I’ve done it all.
And still . . . nothing . . . but dead silence.
This is killing me.
And seeing Knox and being with Knox is no longer soothing me and distracting me long enough to keep my thoughts at bay.
And yes, I love Knox . . .
But Justice . . .
Maybe everybody is right.
I refuse to be single. Seriously, why would I choose to be without a boo? I know chicks who would slice their wrist to have a dude, but everybody thinks I should just choose to be alone? And then what?
Just because I have a man and a few side jawns does not make me a ho. And I’m tired of being called one. I like sex, yes. I like boys, yes. But am I easy? No. I’m not in a relationship with every dude I run up with. How desperate is that? Seriously, I’m not one of these needy chicks who’s emotionally open and on the prowl to be every boy’s wife. I know the difference between those you’re supposed to bed and the one you’re supposed to wed. Why do you think I hold on to Knox so tight?
That’s my husband.
I’m his wife.
Period.
It’s just that at the moment, I’m sixteen and choosing to live my life.
What’s wrong with that?
And my mother—this stupid broad, around here committed to a man who’s cheating on her every chance he gets—of course she doesn’t understand. Like really, that ain’t fly. That is so, so whack. Everybody knows my father keeps a stable full of hoes and that his office is his stroll. And instead of my mother attending to her man, she’s posted up all in my grill and all in my business, telling me what I better do. Kick rocks and drop! When you get a handle on your man then you can step to me. Until then, have several seats . . . waaaaay in the back!
I got this.
Besides, ever since Spencer and I went on that faux run—when we thought she killed Justice—and I returned home two days later, Shakeesha’s been acting funny. I sit down for breakfast and she gets up. Leaving me, my daddy, and the chef looking stupid. The other day my daddy—this hoodbugger—said to me, “Seems you really messed up this time.”
I was a cross between pissed and shocked. First off, I didn’t like him coming at me all sideways. And why do I always have to be the one to do something? Shakeesha turns it up too. Trust. And second, my daddy never, ever starts a conversation with me. The most he says to me, if he’s not spazzing because of some unwanted press, is “How much is it, daddy’s girl? You can have the world.”
That’s it. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Our relationship is based on staying away from negative press and finances. Period.
Anyway, he went on to tell me how he admired me and that I reminded him of himself at my age.
I almost hit the floor with that. Dead to the bed! I couldn’t believe he’d actually noticed me long enough to compare me to him. And just as I’d thought I was about to have the best conversation with him, his phone rang, and a woman’s voice echoed “Hey, baby,” and in two seconds flat he was up from the table and out the door.
Meanwhile, in the spa room his wife is clueless . . .
But whatever . . . that’s not my problem...
Missing Justice is my issue...
I’m not about to sweat him.
And to think that the last time we were together it was the perfect date...
He’d called me . . . randomly... and said, “Why don’t you come and chill with me?”
“Chill with you?” I know he could hear me grinning through the phone.
“Yeah.” I heard his smile. “Chill with me. I was thinking ’bout you and I wanted to take you out for a minute. Meet me at my spot and I’ma take us for a ride.”
I did.
And we ended up at Twin City Roller Rink in East Oakland. Of all places. And he knew I didn’t do the hood, but he promised me a good time—media- and drama-free. “Yeah, but will I need security?” I’d asked him.
He laughed . . . and oh, what a sexy laugh! “Love . . . ”—I loved it when he called me that—“the most you’ll get in the hood are some giggles and waves from a few little girls. Other than that, nobody will be on it like that. I promise. Now, if this was Hollywood or L.A., then you’d need to be afraid.”
I believed him.
And just like he promised, I got no more than a few giggles and waves . . . and truthfully, I’d never felt so free. There were no paparazzi hanging in trees. Nobody pointing, whispering, and giggling about me. I was with my baby, and while we danced and skated—well, I danced and he watched me—I teased him with the roller-skating version of the wobble. Then I topped that with the running man.
I skated over to him. “You didn’t know that I could bust it like this, did you?”
He placed his hands on my waist. “I never doubted your skills, love.”
“So why do you keep looking at me with a side grin?”
“ ’Cause I’m loving this. I’m loving being with you like this. You’re not all amped up. You’re just chill.”
“That’s ’cause I’m here with you.” I slid my arms around his neck. And we slow danced while skating.
“You think we could be like this forever?” he asked.
“Yes, baby.”
“Then I’ma need you to leave your man . . .”
Whomp . . . whomp . . . whomp, straight crickets after that. And no, I didn’t answer him then. And yes, I answered him later that night—when he was sleeping and I eased out of his apartment—leaving a Yeah Boo letter behind.
Leaving Knox was not and would never be up for discussion.
Then why isn’t it enough... ?
Knox used to be fun . . . but what we used to laugh at he no longer finds funny.
Now he gets pissed when I’m on the blogs or in the gossip rags.
There was a time when I could tell him anything... everything... and now... I don’t know what to tell him.
He’s always complaining.
He’s always telling me how to act and what to do.
I got a nagging mother for that. I get enough from her!
And dear God, his routine! Strangle me now! Shower by 6 a.m. Gym by 7 a.m. Class by 8 a.m. Return to the dorm by 3 p.m. Chill with Midnight from 3 to 5 p.m. Eat dinner by 6 p.m. Do homework by 8. Chill with his frat brothers by 9. Call me by 10. Tell me he misses me. Loves me. Then sweats me about where I’ve been, who I’ve been with, and why I haven’t called him, blah . . . blah . . . blah . . . End nag session with me by 12. Talks sweet and tells me he loves me again by 12:15, and by 1 a.m. he’s in the bed asleep.
This is Knox. All day. Every day.
Yawn . . . stretch . . . yawn!
Nothing new. Nothing different.
Just stale.
And to think, if I wanted some excitement out of him I’d have to tell him my period is late.
He’d be sure to lose his mind then.
But I’m not in the mood to watch him squirm.
So I’ma just leave it alone.
I love Knox . . . but I just want the old Knox back. The one I could call and tell anything to. The one who used to drive by here and invite me outside and we’d chill, laugh, and just have fun. That one. I want him back now. Pronto. Because if not, then
I’m not leaving him.
But what if he’s never enough... ?
Am I the only one who thinks it’s an impossible task... ?
I dropped my blue Tiffany pen and watched it roll over the page to the edge of the bed as I lay back, arms stretched above my head, and prayed that the urge to track down Justice went away.
It�
��s Thursday. He plays the Kit-Kat Lounge and if I leave now...
No.
Eff that.
I’m not sweatin’ him.
I’ll get through this.
The blaring of my ringing cell phone interrupted my thoughts.
Ten p.m.
Knox.
As usual.
I rolled my eyes up in my head. “Hey, poo!” I answered my phone and added the extra amp for good measure.
“Wassup? I missed you today.”
“Awwwl, poo. I missed you too. I was just thinking about you. Watching the phone and waiting for it to ring.” I twisted my lips.
“Why didn’t you call me earlier?”
“I don’t know, baby. I was so wrapped up in this homework and everything. You know Logan stays sweatin’ me.”
“I know.”
“Were you thinking about me today?” I asked him, rolling my eyes in my head again. Of course I was thinking about you. I think about you all the time.
“Of course I was thinking about you. I think about you all the time. You know what else I was thinking?”
“What?”
“Why don’t you come down here and chill with me tonight?”
I paused. “Tonight? On a Thursday? You usually want me to come on Fridays.”
“What? I can’t switch up?” He laughed.
You never have before. “Okay, baby.” I smiled. A genuine smile. “I like the thought of you switching it up.”
“Besides, tomorrow I won’t be here.”
And where is he going? “Where are you going?”
“Vegas.”
I don’t believe this. “Vegas? And you didn’t ask me to go?”
“Jealous?”
“Never.”
“So are you coming down here to see me?”
Hell, yes. “I’m coming now.” And not so much because I want to see you, but I need to clear my head.
I grabbed my keys off of the nightstand and stepped into my pair of broken-glass-encrusted Marc Jacobs sneakers. Instead of pulling my hair back into a ponytail, I let it flow over my shoulders. I grabbed my Louis Vuitton handbag and couldn’t beat it out the door fast enough.
One good thing about my mother acting funny, she wasn’t sniffing around my door hounding me and I didn’t have to wait all night for the right time to sneak out.
I tossed my purse on the passenger seat of my car, placed Knox’s call on speaker, and took off for the highway.
“Rich, are you in the car already?” Knox chuckled.
“Yes, I am.” I laughed. “You know I love being with you. And I’m sorry that the last time I was there I had to leave before you got back from class. But you know Spencer, the drama queen, she just had to get sick. Probably from all that drinking she does.”
“Spencer?” he said, shocked.
“Umm, yes. Spencer. Don’t let that innocent face fool you. That’s my girl, but she will drink a grown man under the table! That chick will knock off pitcher after pitcher of nothing but beer.”
He laughed. “Speaking of beer. Wassup with you and London? I see the blogs have nicknamed the two of you ‘The Beer Brawlers.’ What happened?”
Dear God. I rolled my eyes quickly to the car’s ceiling and then looked back to the highway. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
“You and these blogs.”
Here we go.
He continued. “I’m just saying. You need to stop showing up on them every week.”
Whatever. “I know.”
“I’m serious, Rich. It’s too much . . .”
For the next forty-five minutes I tuned him out and instead of continuing south toward San Diego, I took the exit for Manhattan Beach.
“Ohmygod!” I interrupted Knox’s lecture.
“Look, I know you don’t want to hear me telling you this over and over again—”
“That’s not it,” I said, aggravated. “It’s a fifty-car pileup out here!”
“What?” he said in a panic. “Fifty cars?”
“At least!” I said, pulling into Justice’s apartment complex. “And the police are making everybody get off the highway. Telling us to turn around! I’ll never get there, poo.” I parked in the back of the parking lot, diagonally across from Justice’s assigned spot, so that when he pulled in—at whatever time tonight—I’d be able to spot him.
“I was looking forward to seeing you, too,” Knox said, clearly disappointed.
“I could always join you in Vegas,” I said, turning the engine off.
He laughed. “Vegas is for the bruhs, baby.”
“I understand.”
“I’ll stay on the phone and we can talk until you get back home.”
And stay past your one o’clock bedtime? No, thank you, sir. Go to bed, on time, like you always do. “Don’t worry, baby. Plus my battery is dying and I forgot my charger.”
“Call me when you get in then.”
“I will.”
“I love you, Rich.”
“I love you more.”
I turned off my phone, nixed the inkling of guilt that tried to convict me, and waited.
A READING GROUP GUIDE
PUT YOUR DIAMONDS UP
Ni-Ni Simone
Amir Abrams
ABOUT THIS GUIDE
The following questions are intended to
enhance your group’s reading of
PUT YOUR DIAMONDS UP.
Discussion Questions
What did you think of the way London’s mother pressured her to be perfect? Do you know anyone whose mother treats them like this?
What did you think of the way London feels about herself? Do you know someone who has low self-esteem, or who doesn’t like who they are?
Heather has had a serious battle with drug use since the beginning of the series. Do you believe she can ever be completely drug free? Do you think drug addicts can ever truly change their lives around? Why?
What did you think of Heather’s relationship with her mother? How was it different from all the other girls’ relationships with theirs?
Rich can’t seem to keep her love life straight. Why do you believe she continues to make bad choices? Do you think she’ll ever be with one boy? Do you think Rich knows what true love is? Why?
Why do you think Spencer continues to save Heather time and time again? Do you think it’s because she’s a true friend? Or because she’s lacking something in her own life?
The Pampered Princesses are at it again in the
4th installment of the Hollywood High series
Fame of Thrones
1
Rich
2 a.m.
I will not be played.
Or ignored.
And especially by some broke side-jawn.
Never!
I don’t care if he is six feet and hey-hey-hollah-back-lil-daddy fine.
Or how much I scribble, doodle, and marry my first name to his last name.
He will never be allowed to come at me crazy.
Not Rich Gabrielle Montgomery.
Not this blue-blooded, caramel—thick in the hips, small in the waist, and fly in the face—bust ’em down princess.
Psst.
Puhlease.
Swerve!
And yeah, once upon a time everything was Care Bear sweet: rainbows, unicorns, and fairy tales. He was feeling me and I was kind enough to let him think we’d be happily ever after.
But. Suddenly.
He turned on me.
Real sucker move.
And so what if I keyed up his car.
Tossed a brick through his windshield.
Kicked a dent in his driver’s side door.
Made a scene at his apartment building and his nosy neighbor called the police on me.
Still...
Who did he think he was? Did he forget he was some gutter-rat East Coast transplant?
He better stay in his freakin’ lane.
I’ve been good to him!
I repla
ced the windshield and had all the brick particles swept from the parking lot.
The next day, I topped myself and replaced the entire car with a brand-new black Maserati with a red bow on top.
The ungrateful slore sent the car back. Bow still intact.
I’ve done it all.
And how does he repay me?
With dead silence.
I don’t think so.
I’m not some ratchet ho.
I don’t have to take that!
And if I have to sit here in my gleaming silver Spider, in this dusty Manhattan Beach apartment complex, and wait another three hours for Justice to get home, I will.
4 a.m.
I should leave.
Go home.
Call my boyfriend, Knox.
And forget Justice.
If he can’t appreciate a mature, sixteen-year-old woman like me, then screw him.
No. I can’t leave.
I have to make this right.
No I don’t.
Yes. I do.
5 a.m.
Where is he?
6 a.m.
There he is.
But where is he coming from?
Was he with some chick?
My eyes followed a black Honda Accord with a dimpled driver’s door as it pulled into the half-empty parking lot and parked in the spot marked 203.
The red sun eased its way into the sky as I took three deep breaths, doing all I could to stop the butterflies from racing through my stomach.
I should go home. Right now.
After all, he is not my man.
My man is at his college dorm, thinking about me.
I chewed on the corner of my bottom lip. Swallowed. My eyes moved from the brick, two-story, U-shaped, garden-style complex Justice lived in to the small beach across the street where an overdressed homeless woman leaned over the wooden barrier and stared at the surfers riding the rough waves.
“What the hell? Are you stalking me?”
I sucked in a breath and held it.
Justice.
I oozed air out the side of my mouth and turned to look out my window. There he was: ice-grilling me. Top lip curled up, brown gaze narrowed and burning through me.
