Divas Don't Cry Page 4

  Besides, this was all bullshit anyway.

  This class.

  This subject.

  This school.

  Dreams.

  Sweetness.

  Memories.

  Love.

  Sobriety.

  Parents.

  Friendships.

  Second chances.

  All. Of. It.

  Bull. Shit.

  You know what’s real?

  Time.

  And no, time doesn’t heal all wounds. That’s a widespread lie. Like the tagline of some priest granting you forgiveness, it sounds good, but it don’t mean nothin’.

  Time is gangster.

  Thorough.

  Boss.

  Time has no time.

  It ain’t gon’ stop and wait. Or give you a minute to catch your breath, to think, or to see how you can redo a moment and make a new memory.

  You gon’ have to take whatever time gives you, and that’s it. ’Cause it don’t rewind. Otherwise, I’d jet back a year and never let anybody drag me off my hit Wu-Wu Tanner television show.

  Revert eight months and be a ride or die for the Luda Tutor comedy series, instead of letting Disney snatch the role from me, all because I had a tiny little skittles party that ended with a paddy wagon ride to jail.

  Summersault back six months, and instead of dropping two number one iTune hits, I’d slam ’em wit’ three.

  I’d damn sure fall back two months, two weeks, five days, twelve hours, and thirty-one minutes, to the moment before I met Nikki and never look her way. Never give her a chance to touch my shoulder, line my nervous belly with butterflies, or my cheeks with flushed heat, or hear her say, “. . . you look pretty... let’s take a selfie . . . my number’s in your phone.”

  Never spend time with her.

  Kiss her.

  Fall for her.

  Share secrets with her.

  Long to spend the rest of my life with her.

  Never hear her sob, “Heather! Reporters are all over campus! My family is calling me, demanding that I come home and explain what’s going on! My friends are questioning me! Why would you do this to me?!”

  “I didn’t do anything!”

  “Liar! You did! How else would the blogs and everybody know what we’ve been doing... when it was only the two of us! I’m finished with you!”

  I wouldn’t go through any of that.

  I’d make sure Nikki was reduced to my peripheral view—something I could see but really couldn’t see, all at the same time. A passing flash, a puff of fading color, worthy of nothing more than a sideway glance.

  But.

  I gotta deal with the crumbs of the clock. And be a heartbroken, D-list, reality-TV star, owned by the oracle of all things trashy, Kitty Ellington. Who for whatever sick and twisted reason thought it was a good idea to call me at six in the morning and piss on every ounce of my get-right high, by demanding to know why I’d given an “. . . extemporized concert in the middle of L.A., for free!”

  I couldn’t believe that pussy came at me all crazy. So I raised my head from my line of crushed Adderall, affectionately known as Black Beauty, sat up in bed, and gave Kitty what she called looking for. I said, “I gave the concert because I goddamn-mother freakin’ could, and what?! I gave the concert because that’s what I do, give concerts! Didn’t nobody stop me. Ain’t nobody ever gonna stop me. And guess what? When the mood hits me, I’ma do it again, and again. That’s why I did it, trick!”

  Click.

  Five minutes later, as I lay back against my goose-down pillow, being lifted up where I belonged, courtesy of Black Beauty, my mother, Camille, charged into my room. Like she paid the rent. A glass of scotch in her hand, spilling over her fingertips. The hem of her white, see-through nightie swished from side to side, and her matted mink slippers banged into the wood floor with every step she took.

  She stopped at the foot of my bed and screamed, “What did you say to Kitty?!”

  I blinked—not once, but three times. Then I said, “First of all, did you knock?” I paused, giving her a moment to reflect on her behavior. Then I pointed to the door and continued: “Now you wanna try that again?”

  Camille’s porcelain-colored face turned blotchy red. She took a sip of her scotch, then said, “I’m in no mood to drag your ungrateful and junkie behind out of that bed and stomp on it. I’ll let Kitty do the honors.” She took another sip. “I swear, you just don’t know when to quit, do you?! Somehow you have managed to piss Kitty off, twice in one week! Now she wants us to report to her office by three o’clock sharp this afternoon! And you had better be there, or else.”

  Now the “or else” is where Camille and Kitty had me effed up at.

  Let me be clear: I didn’t do threats.

  Furthermore, if I decided to make an appearance at the Litter Lounge, aka Kitty’s office, neither she nor Camille would see me at three o’clock. Mmmph, maybe at four o’clock. Maybe even four thirty. But three o’clock? Never. ’Cause don’t nobody tell me what to do!

  “Excuse you, Miss Cummings.” Mrs. James called my name, like getting my attention had been a struggle. “Are you going to answer the question or not?”

  I hesitated. “What question?”

  She pursed her thin lips. “The one on the board, beneath the graph.”

  I looked at the graph, then scanned the question: Is the graph of g(y) and that of g(y+2) the same?

  “No,” I said. Now move along.

  “And why is it different?” Mrs. James asked, clearly just to annoy me.

  I took in a deep breath, let it out, and said, “It’s not true because the graph of g(y+2) is that of g(y) shifted two units to the left.” Then I bugged my eyes, like duh! Mostly because I knew she thought I would get it wrong, but I didn’t.

  Now she was really pissed, and instead of smiling and calling on me again, like she usually did when a student answered one of her dumb questions correctly, she shot me a soft eye roll, scowled, and said, “Luck was on your side that time. But you need to pay attention.”

  Bish, please.

  I returned Mrs. James’s nasty look and she moved on to the next student.

  I twisted in my seat.

  Then sniffed.

  Sniffed again.

  Dang, I need some get-right.

  No, you don’t.

  Yes, I do. Just a pinch.

  You had some this morning... wait for the afternoon.

  Bzzz . . . bzzz

  I reached into my gold-studded black-rabbit clutch and took out my vibrating iPhone. I had five texts. All from Co-Co Ming, my BFF, my main chicka, my homie himself!

  His first text read, “WHERE ARE YOU, DIVA? I’M IN THE LIBRARY WAITING FOR YOU.”

  I looked up at the clock on the wall: 11 a.m.

  Dang!

  For months now, I’d met Co-Co in the library at 10:45. It was my job to slang to the stoners, who slipped out of class for their daily bag of Lolita, Co-Co’s name for his bomb weed sprinkled with dope dust. But ever since things fell apart between me and Nikki, I’d been slippin’ on my slangin’.

  The second text: “UMM. WHERE ARE YOU? IT’S TIME TO TAKE YOUR POST.”

  Maybe I can still make it.

  I looked at clock again.

  11:05.

  Too late.

  I read the third text: “HO, IZ YOU SERIOUS?”

  Ho? Oh, he got me messed up!

  Fourth text: “I’M DONE WITH YOU, HO. D TO THE O TO THE N TO THE E. DONE! YOU HAVE PLAYED ME FOR THE LAST TIME!”

  Up yours too, Co-Co!

  Fifth text: middle finger emoji, followed by, “YOU AIN’T ISH, HEATHER! AND YOU AIN’T GON’ NEVER BE ISH! YOU’RE FIRED, TRICK! I DON’T WANT NOR NEED YOU SELLING FOR ME NO MORE! IT’S OVER FOR YOU! LIFE AS YOU KNOW IT HAS BEEN SHUT DOWN, HO!”

  Oh, hell no!

  Co-Co got me all the way twisted! Wait ’til I see this queen, I’ma get him straight!

  He should be in the girls’ lounge, counting his money
.

  “Excuse me, Miss Cummings!” Mrs. James slapped a hand on my desk, snapping me out of my thoughts. “First, you’re late, then you’re not paying attention to today’s lesson, and now you’re being outright disrespectful by texting in the middle of my class!”

  I’ve had enough of this tramp!

  “Girl, bye!” I stood up.

  Mrs. James snapped, “Heather Cummings, sit back down! I did not give you permission to leave!”

  I didn’t even respond to that. I returned my iPhone to my clutch, then tucked my clutch under my arm, and sashayed out the room. My zebra catsuit clung to my curves, as my Cinderella stilettos clicked against the white marble floor, while my forty-two-inch, silky black, Korean ponytail rustled in the wind, and my ten-thousand-dollar booty bounced, one jiggling cheek at a time!

  6

  Spencer

  “You dirty whore,” Rich hissed the moment I sauntered through Déjeuner Café and slid my booty cheeks onto the plush chair across the table from her. It was fourth period and I was famished, and so not in the mood for Rich’s foolery.

  I slid my manicured hand over the crisp linen tablecloth and stared at her.

  Hard.

  Long.

  “Don’t sit there and give me that dumb look, trick,” Rich sneered. “I should sling this drink in your face.” She slid the straw between her greedy lips and sipped her frothy concoction, then flicked her tongue over her lips to catch the drippings.

  She let out an obnoxiously loud, foul-smelling burp. It smelled like sewer. Like skunk booty. Goshdiggitydangit! Rich was so dang uncouth. Rancid. Toxic. But I dared myself still. Refused to flinch, frown, or fuss.

  “I swear, Spencer, I don’t know why I ever wasted my whole fabulous life and my entire soul being a good-good friend to you, when all you’ve ever done is whore and lie and turn your back on me.”

  Finally, I blinked. Tilted my head. And blinked again. Obviously, the belching twerk queen was having a moment. And right now, all of her moments were colliding together. She clearly needed me to reach over and slap her face. Whap, whap . . . pow! Slap her right back into reality. But instead, I reached over and laid a hand over hers.

  “Umm, Rich. Have you taken your meds today?” I patted her hand. “Do you need another round of shock treatment?”

  She yanked her hand away. “I don’t need treatment. I need to know why you can’t ever be what I’ve been to you—a good, loving friend.”

  I rolled my eyes up in my head.

  She sighed, then licked cocktail sauce from her fingertips. “All my life I’ve had to fight, Spencer . . .”

  “And you loves Harpo, too. Don’t you, Miss Sophia?”

  Rich slammed a shrimp down on her plate, her brown orbs widening. “Harpo? Who the hell is Harpo? How dare you try’n play me! I’ve never been with... wait. Is that the name of that cute boy with the curly chest hairs I met one night down on the beach?”

  “The beach,” I repeated, surprised. “When were you on the beach with some curly-chest-haired boy?” Rich was such a smut.

  “Girl, one night when I was waiting all night for my man to come home”—she reached for her linen napkin and dabbed at her lips—“there was an angel that came down from the sky and comforted me. But that was so two weeks ago.” She narrowed her eyes. “And none of your dang business, you nosy troll.”

  My lips curled into a sly smile. “Oh, another one-night anonymous romp.”

  “Clutching pearls! I don’t do romps, you dingbat! And I don’t do one-night stands! I’m a lady, Spencer. I do rendezvous. I do quickies. I do overnighters. I lay down on my back. I don’t stand up for nothing! Not even for a night.”

  I smirked. “Uh-huh. And you’ll do anything with a pulse.”

  “Lies and deceit! Don’t get punched in the throat, Spencer. You know who my man is. And you know he is the only man I will ever be true to! I subscribe to the prescription of good loving and being with one good man. And Justice fills my prescriptions and satisfies my every need.”

  I laughed. “Ooh, the trickery. The lies. You can’t even spell one, Rich.”

  “Lies and deceit,” Rich snapped. “Double you-ohh-enn. Won. Now what, slore?”

  I snickered and clapped my hands. “Good girl, Rich. Good girl.” I scooted my chair back and crossed my legs. “Once again, you’ve proven my point.”

  Rich shot me a nasty look. “And what point is that, Speeeencer?”

  “That you are not the brightest of us all,” I said snidely.

  Rich pinned me with a hard stare. “Exaaaactly. I am not bright. I got melanin. Don’t do me. And don’t try to tear down my skin color. And I’m glad to see you finally know your place. Beneath. Me.”

  I chuckled, but the old me would have hopped up and slapped her with my flyswatter. But today was a good day, and I wasn’t about to let this Jezebel steal my joy.

  “Oh, Rich.” I shook my head. “Rich, Rich, Rich. Don’t flatter yourself, hon. Even if I were a bedsheet, I wouldn’t want to be beneath you. You soil easily. And I don’t do stains.”

  “Clutching pearls! Hooker, what are you tryna say? I always keep a clean pair of sheets in my travel bag.”

  “You mean ho bag,” I corrected over a snicker. “And it’s a set of sheets, not a pair.”

  She frowned. “Ohmygod, Spencer. You’re such a dumbo, an airhead . . . but whatever. Your hate for all of my fabulousness is atrocious. Sickening. Embarrassing. Why don’t you face it, Spencer: You’ll never be me. But I’m sure you’ll die trying, so let me get out my black gloves and veil and start working on my eulogy, because it’s over for you. You’ll be stretched out in your coffin in no time.

  “And why are you sitting here, all up in my beautiful face, anyway?” Rich continued, not realizing I hadn’t made one caustic remark back to her. “Ruining my appetite. I can’t be with you hoes. You bobblehead trolls stay testing me.”

  I dropped my eyes to her almost empty platter of shrimp, jumbo crab cakes, and calamari, then fluttered my gaze back to her as she bit into another shrimp, then swirled it into more sauce.

  I pressed my lips together and glanced around the café, taking in the white leather sofas, lava-topped tables, and white-gloved service. Mmmph. I took in the table where all the jocks sat, then rolled my eyes when I spotted Corey. Ugh.

  I slid my eyes over to the cheerleaders’ table right next to theirs. The cheerleaders in their little skimpy skorts were laughing and leaning into someone else’s ear, whispering their dirty deeds. Next, I glanced over at the geek squad table, the doofy and the goofy table. Heeheehee.

  The café was alive with chaos and chatter.

  I slid my hand down into my handbag and pulled out a pair of mother-of-pearl binoculars and peered through them. I grunted out my disgust at the sight of Co-Co Ming, slinking through the café’s sliding glass doors donned in a black catsuit and a pair of silver—what looked to be peep-toe—pumps, along with a pillbox hat atop his little peanut head.

  “Ugh. Motherofsweetbuttermilk! That wet noodle is a hot mess.”

  “Trick,” Rich hissed. “Who are you stalking now?”

  I turned my attention to her and screamed. “Aaah!” I clutched my chest, staring through my binoculars. “Ohmygod, you have a big face,” I said, feigning fright. “There should be a law against faces that huge. And your eyeballs! Ohmygod! They look like golf balls.”

  “Oh, shut up, Spencer,” Rich spat. “You birdbrain. And tell me who you were eyeballing through them binoculars.”

  I sighed, dramatically, removing the binoculars from my face. “Co-Co.”

  Rich rolled her eyes. “That thing. Please. Next.” She looked over at him as he talked and laughed and waved his pageant wave at anyone who would pay him attention.

  “I see he doesn’t have his pet, Heather, with him.”

  Rich laughed. “She’s probably under some rock, drooling.”

  “Real crackhead-ish,” I said over a giggle.

  Rich snickered. “Yasss, h
oney, yasss. Real ashy-lipped.”

  “Hood booger-ish.”

  “Ghetto-tramp-ish,” she countered.

  “Ooh, ooh,” I said, excitedly. “Trashy-ratchet-ish.”

  Rich frowned, then narrowed her eyes to thin slits. “That’s not nice, Spencer. Talking about Heather like that. You are so dang phony. Two-faced. Heather’s done nothing to you for you to drag her like that. I can only imagine what you say about me behind my back.”

  “Girl, choke on a breath mint,” I snapped. “I don’t say no more than what you say about me behind mine. So get over yourself. The only one two-faced is you.”

  Rich pounded her fist on the table, rattling plates and cutlery. “Lies and deceit! I have only one face, trick! The face of fabulousness, and I resent you trying to defile my character and ruin my good name. Wait. Are you coming out for cocktails later? I need to let my hair down and just relax. You know school stresses me out.”

  I gave her a long, hard stare, then reached over and grabbed her hand. “I can only imagine how stressful failing would be.”

  She tsked. “Failing? Girl, lies. I stay winning. There’s no fails over here.”

  Blank stare.

  “Anyway,” she prattled on, “I have never talked about you, slore.”

  “Rich, lies. You—”

  “Tramp, can I help you?” Rich snapped, cutting me off, her eyes flashing with anger.

  I glanced over my shoulder and looked into the face of Rich’s new source of agitation. London. Heeheehee.

  “Oh, hey, Cruella,” I said casually. “Where are your one-hundred-and-one Dalmatians?”

  Rich grunted. “Mmmph. Beast girl probably ate ’em. All those cute li’l puppies floating in her stomach acid.”

  “Whatever, Rich,” London replied, pulling out a chair.

  “Oh no, ohhh nooo,” Rich said, tilting her head. “Did we invite you over here? Did we send you a telegram saying it was okay for you to be in our company?”

  London swiped her bangs from out of her eyes and took a seat. “Rich, I’m not here to fight. But, sweetie, I sit where I want. You don’t own this table. And last I checked, you didn’t own me. If you don’t want me sitting here, then you leave.”