Rich Girl Problems

by Tu-Shonda L. Whitaker

  Vera agreed, “Therapy should be back and forth communication—”

  “Not with this bitch. She twisted my words around, and everything I said, she assigned it a double meaning. Had Bilal looking at me like I was fifty shades of fucked up! His big ass sitting there with his arms folded across his chest, sneering at me like I’m the damn problem and that trick has suddenly helped him see the light!”

  “Jaise—”

  “I swear I couldn’t say a word. I had to leave.”

  “Leave?”

  “Leave, bitch. And Bilal’s high yellow ass didn’t even come behind me. I knew then that he was about to lay his dick on her couch. That fuckin’ dick eater!”

  Vera’s mouth dropped open. This was insane. She looked over at the tray of blueberry muffins and they were all gone.

  “That skinny bitch,” Jaise carried on, reaching for the banana bread. “And if there’s anything I hate more than Bridget”—Jaise looked directly into the camera—“it’s a skinny bitch.”

  “Jaise—”

  “Don’t worry about me though. Because I know Jesus. And I have taken the time out to get to know myself.” She sipped her mimosa. “I don’t do negativity. I went out and purchased me a few self-help books, watched a few episodes of Super Soul Sunday, got my chakras aligned, and I’m living my life like it’s golden. Doing me. Fuck therapy. And most of all, fuck Bilal.”

  “Really?”

  “Hell, yes. I’ve signed myself up for Zumba class. I’m going to lose some of this weight. I did me a profile on eHarmony. I’m going to get me a little boy toy who doesn’t talk the hell back. I’ll be starting yoga next week—Wednesday. I’m taking back my life. Next week Thursday I’m getting me a colonic. And I’m flushing the shit down the toilet and the toxins away.” She reached for a pineapple fritter. “Now what’s going on with you?”

  “I—”

  Jaise pounded a fist on the table. “Hold up. Wait a minute! Why is there a viral video of you having Taj’s car towed? Why are you in everybody’s Facebook status? And why is the number one hashtag on Twitter, ‘You better get yo’ ass on the bus?’ Now, Vera. I’m only telling you this because I love you and we’re the best of friends, but you’d better get your damn mind right, because that shit you pulled on Taj was dead wrong. Unnecessary and so un-lady like. You tore his place up and now you had his car towed? Maybe you need therapy. Just don’t go see the bitch that I did.” Jaise’s eyes welled with tears again. “Because if you do, her skinny ass will be licking around the head of his dick. I promise you that. Now what are you going to do? Give your man away to the enemy or be his damn wife?”

  “I—”

  “You need to stop being so damn selfish and let him be a man. Men need to express themselves too. You can’t always shut them up and overtalk them. And back to what you did at his office parking lot. My God. I was so embarrassed. You were incredibly ghetto. Real hood and projectish. Showed exactly where you were from. And your aunt—”

  “Wait a damn minute now, Jaise. Your food isn’t that damn good where I’m going to sit here and let you talk about my aunt.”

  “Look, I love Aunt Cookie too, but let’s face the truth. She is too old to be that ratchet. And the last time I saw Aunt Cookie, she had on a pink pleather catsuit, platform heels, and feather earrings. My God. The devil is a liar.”

  “Jaise, I think we’d better move on. Now, as far as Taj is concerned, I’m not pushing him away. I had to check that ass. He’d lost his damn mind and I had to help him put a LoJack on it. Because I’m a good woman and if he doesn’t get his act together, then he will lose out on me. So you worry about Bilal and your dick-sucking therapist and let me contend with my husband and my business.”

  “Excuse me, Vera.”

  Vera looked over to the doorway where her assistant, DeAndre, and an unfamiliar man with frizzy brown hair and emerald green eyes stood. DeAndre knows I don’t do walk-ins.

  “DeAndre, can the gentleman wait in the lobby until after we speak?” Vera asked.

  “I tried to tell him that, but he insisted on following me.”

  The man stepped into the room and handed Vera an envelope. “Vera Bennett.”

  “Yes.”

  “You have just been served.” He quickly exited the room and walked swiftly down the hallway. One of the cameramen flew after him as Vera stood in complete shock. A few moments later, she pulled a stapled packet of paper from the envelope and scanned the pages. “Oh, my God.” Her heart raced. “Here this motherfucker goes again!” Vera snatched her Louis Vuitton bag and rushed out of the room, leaving a stunned Jaise sitting there with a mouth full of cheese crepes.

  CHAPTER 11

  MILAN

  Milan sat on her snow white Lola leather sofa, her eyes roaming the white leather walls of her great room, as she soaked in the question the Sister 2 Sister magazine reporter had asked her. “How has your life changed since reality TV?”

  A simple, standard, and ordinary question that could easily be answered a million different ways that would all allow her to flee from being seen as messy. But, up until last season, before Vera came along, Milan had been the top reality star. Now she played second fiddle. The girl whom all of the blogs had cast as last season’s bore. A one-hit wonder.

  That bothered her.

  She had to get her shit together.

  Now.

  Right now.

  She refocused on the reporter and crossed her legs. “The truth is, reality TV hasn’t really changed my life . . . much.” Milan swept her wavy mane over her shoulders. “But if I were to name one thing that’s changed since I’ve been on television, I would say that the number of angry, obsessed, and jealous bitches who live to vilify me—every chance they get—has grown.”

  The reporter, Shakira Montgomery, a butter-colored black woman with an orange hue to her skin, raised a brow and then quickly lowered it.

  “Tell us, why do you think that?”

  “Think? It’s not a thought.” Milan frowned. “You read the blogs, the tabloids, TMZ, E! News. You watch the show. Just Friday, I met my newest costar, Journee Dupree, and this witch was filled with such venom and rage for no reason at all.”

  “Have you two ever crossed paths before the show?”

  “No. Never.”

  “So what do you think that was about?”

  “Jealousy.”

  “Jealousy?”

  “Of course. I’m beautiful. I’m married to an incredible man. I’m the mother of his son and I know for a fact that whenever you meet a woman and her approach is really odd and teetering on insane, and you have never met this person before—it is a direct reflection of their own insecurities, which unfortunately causes them to display undeniable jealousy.”

  “So are you saying your newest costar is jealous of you?”

  “I’m saying that Journee Dupree is one of many.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Really. But it’s not as if I’ve never experienced this before. All of my life I’ve dealt with black women and their shallowness. That’s why, with the exception of Chaunci, black women and I don’t get along.”

  “Did you say shallowness?”

  “That’s exactly what I said. Perhaps you would call it something else. But having grown up experiencing girls and now women upset with me because I have and have always had coal black, naturally wavy, thick, and extremely long”—she made invisible quotes—“good hair—as they call it. Or because I have no back fat, have never weighed more than one hundred and fifty-five pounds, have flawless honey-colored skin, or because my eyes are green in the summer and gray in the winter. I don’t know what you would call it, but I call it shallow . . . and ignorant. It’s as if they think I personally selected my gene pool. My mother is African American and my father is Italian, African, and Dominican, so black women need to stop throwing jealous tantrums when they see a naturally beautiful sister who doesn’t need a perm, a weave, a diet, or colored contacts.”

  “And why
do you believe these feelings exist within our community?”

  “Because most black woman are insecure.”

  Shakira hesitated. “Insecure?”

  “Insecure. You see them. There used to be a time when plastic surgery was the exclusive fountain of beauty for white women and now black women are off to the races and slicing themselves up. Getting their noses done, injecting their lips, their breasts, spending hundreds of thousands of dollars on somebody else’s hair to weave into their heads. Gross. Getting their breasts done, butt injections, and their skin bleached. As if any of that makes them fabulous. Truth is, they look hideous.” Milan flicked invisible lint off the crisp white, midthigh, sleeveless dress she wore. She crossed her legs. “Look at Lil’ Kim. Prime example of self-hatred. And Nicki Minaj calling herself Barbie. How laughable. There are too many black women not celebrating their own beauty; instead they are basking in ignorance.”

  “Could it simply be you are someone they look up to? After all, you are on television and you’re married to a very successful black man. You seem to have a wonderful life that I’m sure a lot of women would love to have.”

  “Listen, I understand that I am the epitome of beauty and I keep the girls striving, but if their version of admiration has to be attached to the pure hatred that I’ve experienced, then they can keep it. And, yes, I have a great man, a wonderful nine-year-old stepdaughter—who by the way is spending the summer in South Africa with her best friend, Kobi. I have the most adorable six-month-old son, and a great life, but do you want to know why?”

  “Yes, I’d love to.”

  “Because I’m not some angry bitch, like my costar Vera Bennett for instance, who doesn’t understand that you have to put in work to keep your man.”

  Silence. Shakira appeared to sort through her thoughts, and just as she seemed to have something more to say, Kendu stepped into the room, holding a suitcase. “And speaking of your man, here he is.”

  Milan looked up and over at her husband, Kendu, who stood six foot three with a perfect athletic body, his skin kissed by the prettiest dark chocolate, and his almond-shaped eyes seeming artistically etched into his beautiful face. He walked over to Milan, and as the photographer snapped a picture, he leaned in and graced her with a soul-stirring kiss. “I love you, Mrs. Malik,” he whispered against her lips.

  “I know you do.” Milan wiped her gloss from his lips with the back of a thumb. “But I love you more.”

  “I’m getting ready to leave for LA, baby. The convention starts tomorrow and I need to get prepared.”

  “Do you have everything you need? I didn’t get a chance to finish packing your suitcase.”

  “It’s cool. I have everything.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, baby. I’ll miss you.” He leaned in and gave her a peck.

  “Don’t miss me too much.” She smiled. “I’ll be there in three days to make all of the homesickness go away.”

  Kendu stroked Milan’s hair. “I can’t wait.” He looked at the reporter. “Sorry to interrupt.”

  “It’s no problem,” Shakira said. “But would it be okay if I asked you a question before you go?”

  “Of course.” Kendu nodded.

  “Can you tell us what you think of your wife’s success as a reality TV star?”

  “I think it’s hot. I love to see my wife do her thing. Sometimes she has more fans running up to her than I have.”

  “Does that ever bother you? Or do you ever find yourself feeling a little overwhelmed by your wife’s success? The world seems to love the reality show she stars on and she’s always on the news, in the tabloids, the blogs. That’s a lot. What do you make of all of that?”

  “I’m very proud of my wife. She’s a wonderful mother to our children and a great wife to me, and her being a star doesn’t interfere with that. Besides, there’s a difference in being a reality TV star and a sports legend. One goes down in history and the other fades after a few seasons.”

  Milan felt an invisible drop kick to her chest.

  Kendu smiled. “It’s been great talking to you, but I have to get going.”

  “Thank you.” Shakira extended her hand. “I appreciate your time.”

  “You got it.” Kendu accepted her gesture before leaning in to Milan, kissing her once more, and then heading out the door where his driver awaited him.

  Milan peered at the space where Kendu had stood, doing her best to swallow the kick stuck in her chest. She turned to Shakira and mustered up a blush. “My husband is such a great man.”

  “Your husband is quite a hunk. How do you feel with him thinking your fame doesn’t match up to his and will end after a few seasons?”

  Milan frowned. “Don’t twist his words, because that is not exactly what he said. He was simply stating the difference in being a sports star and a star on reality TV. I thought he made an excellent point.”

  “Okay. Perhaps he did. Now, let me ask you this. It’s no secret that Kendu is the hottest thing on ESPN. There hasn’t been another football player as great since he retired, and I’m sure that a lot of women are trying their best to get his attention. Does that make you feel the least bit jealous?”

  “Never.” Milan batted her lashes. “I am not in the least bit intimidated. I know how to keep my man happy. I cater to him. I don’t emasculate him, and whenever he’s away on business—which is quite often—I always fly on the third day to wherever he is and please him in whatever way he wishes to be pleased.”

  “You sound very confident.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be? Kendu sees no one else but me. I’m not afraid to go the extra mile, unlike some of these black women who claim they love their men but have a ton of restrictions.”

  “Restrictions?”

  “Yes. They won’t suck. They won’t swallow. They don’t do anal. All they do is lie on their asses and bore the hell out of their man in missionary position. All three holes should be for your husband’s satisfaction and if they’re not, then you are wasting your man’s time. And he will stray and he will run into the arms and the legs of someone else. This is why I’m writing my book, Choose to Be Happy.”

  “Oh, you’re writing a book?” Shakira asked, surprised.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Congratulations. And what will you be writing about?”

  “Helping my sisters find their way to happiness.” Tears welled in Milan’s eyes and she dabbed at the corners with a Kleenex. “I honestly want to see them get it together.”

  “You seem awfully passionate about this subject.”

  “I am. There are just too many of our sisters with the angry black woman syndrome. Screaming they don’t need a man yet dying on the inside for one. Pushing all of our good black men away and into the arms of our Caucasian sisters. And when black men turn to white women, do you know where that sends the average black woman?”

  “Where?”

  “Off to the prison yards standing at the gates and waiting for the electronic doors to slide open so they can be patted down and escorted to the playground of jumpsuits and numbers.”

  “That’s quite an interesting perspective.”

  “There’s no other perspective to have. Why do you think we have black women with four and five baby daddies? Sleeping with all of these men and with no condoms, as if they are exempt from AIDS. Can’t keep their legs shut to literally save their own damn lives. Sending the AIDS cases in our community soaring.”

  “So black women are responsible for the AIDS epidemic?”

  “There you go again, twisting words. That’s not what I’m saying, so please don’t put words in my mouth and don’t put that in the article. I’m talking about the angry and irresponsible black women. The grease-eatin’ ones, some with double chins, some rail thin, polyester hoarders, the ones who go to the liquor stores and choose names for their children: Alizé, Hennessy, Hurricane Hulk, and Chardonnay. Or the ones who go to the used car lot and name their children: Mercedes, Porsche, Jaguar, Lexus, Co
upe de Ville. My Gawd.” Milan fanned her face. “These are clearly the last days.”

  “How do you think this affects their children?”

  “I feel sorry for their children. And God forbid if their mothers don’t like their fathers. Who do you think they take it out on? They take it out on these babies, and before you know it, child protective services are raising their kids with my tax dollars. And don’t even get me started on the subsidized housing and the welfare checks that these triflin’ women sit on their behinds all day and collect, instead of getting a job. I truly want my sisters to understand that happiness is possible, but they have to start with loving themselves and embracing who they are.”

  “So are you saying that it’s the poor black woman who’s angry?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I’ve had hard and trying times. Why would I blame it all on the poor? I know plenty of rich black women who are angry. Look at my costar Jaise. She’s quite wealthy and she is the nastiest and most ignorant woman there is.”

  Shakira raised both brows. “Really?”

  “Yes. And her son, Jabril, is a disgrace.” Milan shook her head. “His mother is ruining him. And the way that Jaise is enmeshed in his relationships is so . . . so . . . off. Borders on sadistic, but I’m not one to spread lies and gossip. However, I will say this—their relationship gives you pause and makes you wonder what really goes on when the lights go out at night. I don’t believe in talking about other people’s children—even if they are unemployed, with no skills, have an arrest record, and two children with two different baby mamas. All of ’em packed up and are living in Jaise’s home. She may as well be running a shelter. But I digress. I was simply using Jaise as an example of an angry black woman who’s rich and can’t keep a man because her attitude is the pits.”

  “Isn’t she married?”

  “Yes. But they’re still separated. And leave it to Jaise, when she’s completely done with her husband, he’ll be gay. Chased right into the hairy chest and arms of some down low brother. I only want what’s best for my sisters, which brings me back to the reasons I’m going to be writing my book. It will teach self-love. The power of forgiveness. To never settle. To always keep your eyes on the prize. And to know that a good man will stay with a good woman and he will marry her. But the only title an angry black woman will ever hold is baby mama.” Milan wiped her eyes and looked over at Shakira, who watched her in silent amazement. “Shakira, are you with me?”