Diva Rules Read online

  I flatiron my hair, then slick it up into a ponytail. Once I’m done, I spritz some hairspray on my fingers then comb my fingertips through my bangs, finishing it off with a feathery side-swept bang.

  Next, I artfully spackle my lips with a layer of gloss.

  Then I slip into my wears—a red silk cami ’n’ pair of skintight True Religion jeans ’n’ very high heels. My eyes flick to the vision staring in the mirror in front of me.

  Voilà!

  Camera ready! Picture-perfect.

  I blow myself a kiss, then reach over ’n’ grab my cell. Click. Click. I snap several selfies, then post ’em up on IG and Twitter.

  Ha! Hate on, hate on! How you like me now?

  You mad, yet?

  I throw my cell into my Gucci bag, flip off the lights, shut my bedroom door, then hit the stairs.

  It’s time to turn up, boo!

  4

  “I’m out,” I say to my mother, more outta courtesy than necessity. Truth is, where I go or what I do is really none of her business. But to keep her from workin’ my last nerve I extend her my good manners ’n’ let her know—on those rare occasions when she’s home, instead of being posted up at the hospital where she works crazy long hours—that I’m bouncin’. Like now.

  “I know one damn thing,” she starts in as I’m walking into the kitchen to get my jacket hanging on the back of one of the chairs, “those dishes had better be washed before you leave up outta here trollin’.”

  Trollin’?

  Oh, she tried it. All I can do is shake my head. I swear. Misery sure does love company. Fortunately for her ’n’ it, Fiona Madison is not the one to entertain it. Trust.

  On cue, I roll my eyes up in my head.

  “You hear me talking to you, girl?”

  This chick better fall back! The only troll around here is her!

  I stalk out of the kitchen ’n’ head straight into the dining room, where she has her big, fluffy butt-cheeks pressed down into one of the chairs, a slice of lemon pound cake and a Diet Pepsi set before her.

  Um. Know this about me. I’m never disrespectful. But I do believe in putting a chick in her place. Even if said chick happens to be my very own mother. For all intents and purposes, she might have given birth to me. But she hasn’t mothered me. No ma’am, no sir! My four older sisters—Leona, Kara, Sonji, and Karina—have. They were the ones who practically raised me, especially Leona ’n’ Kara since they’re the two oldest. Let me see. Leona’s thirty-four, Kara’s thirty-two, Sonji’s twenty-nine, and my sister Karina is twenty-six.

  So don’t get it twisted. I mighta got pushed outta my mother’s womb, but it’s no secret around these parts that Fiona ’n’ Ruthie-Ann Madison don’t like each other. Trust. Let her tell it. I was a mistake. Girl, boom! She’s the mistake. As far as I’m concerned, she shoulda used a condom or popped a pill—better yet, kept her dang legs shut—if she didn’t want any more babies.

  But that’s neither here nor there. So, moving on.

  In spite of her ugly ways, this lady could be real fly if she fixed herself up. I mean. Jeezus. Can you say fashion catastrophe? Somewhere underneath her smocks ’n’ all that evilness, she’s hiding a very pretty reddish-brown-skinned woman with big, round, piercing brown eyes. And once upon a time—before slices of pound cake ’n’ chocolates wrapped around her hips ’n’ gut—there was a woman with a sassy shape. But now? Mmph. It won’t be long before she’ll be rolling herself outta here in a wheelbarrow at the rate she’s eating.

  And let me not even get in on her hair. She has thick, light brown hair that sweeps just above her shoulders. But she does nothing with it. Nothing! Does she even realize how many nappy, bald-headed souls there are running around in the world slapping on wigs ’n’ stitching in raggedy weaves, desperate to have hair like hers? Mmph. No. She’d rather wear hers either pulled back into some god-awful, old-lady nun bun—a bun for Christ’s sake! Or like some frizzy bird’s nest. Or she’ll wear it like a wild, stringy mop. Like right now. It’s just hanging. No curls. No bounce. No gloss. And all I can think is, Please, God, don’t let that ever be me! The lady needs a serious makeover. But that’s beside the point.

  The point right now is, I’m done tryna be nice to this fifty-year-old lady, looking like she’s sixty. We will never see eye to eye on anything. Period. Never have, never will. We simply tolerate each other. And that depends on which day of the week it is. Or whose cycle has come first. She’s evil. And nasty. And miserable. And downright hateful. And if I was disrespectful like some chicks I know, ’n’ fought old ladies, trust. She’d be the first to get served. I would give it to her good. Mmph. Ooh, I’d beat the wrinkles off her. Well, okay, okay... she doesn’t have any wrinkles, yet. But, whatever! I’d yank her scalp. Yes, gawd, hunni! I’d lay her out in a casket.

  Anyway...

  It doesn’t matter to her that unlike almost every chick in my hood, I’m not pushing a stroller, haven’t been stretched out on some clinic table getting my insides scraped out, am not running the streets throwing up gang signs, or strung out on coke or dope. Nope, she couldn’t care less about all that.

  And it doesn’t matter to her that I’ve gotten straight As on every last one of my report cards since first grade—uh, well . . . with the exception of fifth and sixth grades, when I practically flunked everything. But, trust. I had a good reason for those Cs and Ds—okay, ’n’ Fs. Still... I was going through a difficult time in my life. But we’re not about to get into that. Not today. The fact is, nothing I do is ever good enough for this woman.

  Never!

  Instead of praise, she always has a way of finding something negative or derogative to say. And honestly, between you and me, I’m sick of it. She’d rather stress me out about dumbness, like dishes. Dishes!

  I rapidly bat my lashes. “Excuuuuuse me?”

  “You heard me. I said I want them dishes in that sink washed.”

  I raise a brow. Fold my arms in front of my chest. Then smack my lips. “How about you wash a dish for a change?”

  “What?” she shrieks. A hand goes up on her wide hip. A tinge of anger seeps up from the back of her throat. “Girl, you had better regroup before you get knocked to the floor! I pay all the bills up in here ’n’ make sure you have a roof over your damn head. And—”

  “That’s your job,” I state, disinterested in her rant. “That’s what you’re supposed to do. Or have you forgotten? You don’t get a medal or a standing ovation for doing what you’re supposed to be doing as a parent in the first place. That’s the least you can do since you don’t do anything else for me.”

  “Fiona! I’m warning you! I want them dishes washed and that floor swept before you leave up outta here.”

  “Oh, now you want the floor swept, too. Ha!” I shift my handbag from one hand to the other, then toss my hair. She hates when I do it, which makes me love doing it even more. “Mmph. Well, I’m sorry to inform you”—I toss my hair again—“but Hazel the Maid is off the clock. You can check back later. But whatever dishes were put in the sink after I already did them will stay there. And whatever crumbs there are on the floor will stay there. Let the mice have at ’em.”

  “You heard what I said.”

  Finger snap. “And you heard what I said.” I stare her down defiantly. And she doesn’t back down, her wide eyes narrowing into tiny slits. She doesn’t blink. And neither do I.

  I can tell she’s itchin’ to wrap her lips around her fork and sink her pearly whites into that big piece of cake, but she dare not break her stare, even for her sweet tooth. No. She’s stubborn like that. And so am I. But in this house, there can only be one winner.

  She blinks first.

  And tonight it’s me.

  “Don’t you leave up outta here . . .”

  I throw a dismissive hand up in the air. “Good night, ma’am.”

  “Your mouth is really gettin’ outta hand, lil girl.”

  I twist my lips. “And so is yours.”

  She gla
res at me. “Don’t try me, Fiona. I mean it. I will hop up outta this chair ’n’ knock you in your damn mouth.”

  “Uh-huh. We’ll see,” I snap back. “Let me know how you make out with that.” I toss my hair and head toward the living room.

  “And who you goin’ out with anyway?”

  I stop in my tracks. Crane my neck in her direction ’n’ give her a blank stare. Since when she start questioning me, like she cares? The one night she happens to be home ’n’ all of a sudden she wants to know whom I’m going out with. Chile, cheese! She better go have several seats.

  She’s been working the night shift at Jersey City Medical Center as a registered nurse since I was eight years old. And more often than not, she stays working double shifts, going in at three in the afternoon ’n’ not walking back up in here until after eight in the morning—when I’ve already gone to school—so I hardly see her.

  And that works for me. With all of my sisters out of the house, and her hardly ever home, I parent myself. I take care of myself. And I answer to no one but myself. For five years, I’ve been doing me just fine without her breathing down my neck. And we’re not about to change it up now.

  “I’m going out with a friend.”

  She twists her lips. “Uh-huh. Well, make sure this friend has your hot-azz back up in here before two A.M., or you better stay where you at.”

  Chile, bye. I’ll get home when I get home. Like I said, she’s never here, so I have no set time as to when I come home. I make my own damn rules.

  I swing open the front door.

  “And you better not come up in here pregnant.”

  Pregnant?

  I grip the doorknob. “Uh-uh . . . don’t clown me, boo. Where they doin’ that at? Not over here, okay? I’m not you. I don’t do nothin’ raw.”

  “Well, if you kept your legs shut. And what I tell you about calling me your damn boo?”

  Bam!

  I slam the door shut, cutting the rest of her words off. As usual, she is waaaay outta order!

  5

  “Damn, baby . . .”

  “Boy, you ain’t ready for this heat,” I say all sexy-like. Of course, I’m all tease with very-little-to-no pleasing going on. Please. I’m not feeling as inspired to remove all my clothes as I had thought I would be before I slid into this boy’s car.

  “Yeah, a’ight,” he groans low in my ear. “You stay playin’, yo. You got me on rock, ma. When you gonna stop frontin’ ’n’ let me crack that?”

  Okay, let me just put it on here now so we’re clear: I have a weakness for tall, tatted, rugged thug-boos with swag. And if he has dreads and he’s dark chocolate... whew! Yes, lawd . . . then it’s about to be a situation. Every diva needs her a nice hunky chunk of dark chocolate to bite into from time to time.

  But every now and again, like right at this very moment, my lil chocolate stud daddy winds up being a real lame. A dud. A terrible disappointment. And, sadly, a waste of my time.

  And the only reason I have to try to bow out of this tragic predicament gracefully is because King’s really, really a nice guy. Yes, King. King Matthews. He’s eighteen and a freshman at Saint Peter’s University. Six-three. Chiseled. Dark. Fine. And ohh so sexy!

  I met him at a college party the Kappas were having two weekends ago at NJCU—New Jersey City University. I was lovin’ his swag. And he was lovin’ all there is to love about the fine, fly, fabulous me. Yes, boo. I’m a hottie. He knew it ’n’ so did everyone else, which is why he stepped up to me in the first place, the minute he peeped me in my wears—skintight 7 For All Mankind jeans poured over my hips ’n’ a cute lil low-cut T-shirt with the words HOT POCKET scrawled across my chest in red script. Oh, ’n’ the six-inch Gucci heels—straight out of my sister Sonji’s walk-in closet.

  King ain’t no fool. He knows quality when he peeps it. A five-star bish, boo. Thought you knew. I strutted up in that beeeyotch like I owned it. I served it!

  Dropped it. Popped it. Twerked it. Swept the floor with it. Gave all the hot boys something to drool over. And the hatin’-azz chicks something else to add to their bucket lists: how to be me.

  All I could do is give ’em that look that said Go have several seats ’n’ take notes!

  Anyway, King and I danced almost the whole night. Then chopped it up real lovely outside for almost an hour in the parking lot after the party was over. Before we finally exchanged numbers ’n’ bounced our separate ways.

  Now here we are.

  And guess what? King can’t kiss. He’s all teeth, tongue, ’n’ a buncha dang spit! No. Seriously. His lip game is capital h-o-r-r-i-d. Scraping his teeth against mine ’n’ licking my mouth like it’s a dog bowl is so not sexy! And usually for me, a whack-azz kisser is grounds for immediate, on-the-spot dismissal.

  Poof!

  See ya’self to the door!

  But he’s so dang fine. And somehow I’ve managed, along with the two blunts we’ve smoked, to let him melt away every ounce of my good dang sense, thinking—okay, hoping—that after a few practice runs he’d get it right.

  Not. Epic fail!

  And now I’m turned off ’n’ royally disgusted.

  He tries to kiss me again ’n’ I jerk my head back just as his overly wet lips graze the side of my neck. I feel like I’m in the backseat with an overexcited Rottweiler the way this boy’s tryna slobber me down.

  Ewww.

  Here’s the thing with me. I flirt. I tease. And I might even do a lil lickin’ ’n’ kissin’ if I get real hot ’n’ frisky ’n’ my ho-meter kicks up a notch. But be clear. I ain’t givin’ up the cookie to every boy with a hard-on.

  No. You gotta earn this.

  My name is not Trixie. And I am not giving out treats. No. But tonight, what I am givin’ out is a bad case of blue balls to this fool right here; especially after laying my hand down in his lap and feeling what he’s carrying in his blue American Eagle boxers. Ugh! This boy has two big potato sacs and no dang meat.

  Blank stare.

  See. I already know I’m dead wrong for even being in the backseat of this boy’s 2008 Durango stretched out on black leather seats, letting him think I’ma let him tear it up. And the minute I slid in the front seat of his whip when he picked me up tonight, I knew I was making a mistake. I knew it was a bad idea. But noooo. I just needed to get out of the house and away from the likes of my mother.

  So here I am.

  The sexy sounds of R. Kelly flooding the space around us.

  Weed smoke thick in the air.

  Windows all steamy.

  One perky boob out of my red lace bra, and this boy’s rough hands squeezing ’n’ kneading me like I’m a ball of pizza dough. Yeah, after talking to him on the phone I thought I wanted to give it to him in every position. But, womp, womp, womp . . . he is sooo not what I’m in the mood for.

  He’s breathing hard.

  And I’m suffering; bored outta my mind.

  “Damn, you got me turnt up, ma.”

  And you got me sick to my stomach!

  “Ohh, okay, boo . . .” is all I say, rolling my eyes up in my head.

  So what’s a diva to do?

  Give in ’n’ go at it, watching him make crazy faces until I fake an orgasm? Close my eyes ’n’ imagine it’s Trey Songz’s hands ’n’ lips all over me?

  No, no. No can do. Trey Songz is grown-man status, although it doesn’t hurt to fantasize. Still, he’s waaaay too old for me to even be thinking such dirty things.

  So when in doubt, blame it on your cycle ’n’ cramp it out. Trust. Tell him it’s a crime scene in ya panties ’n’ that’ll stop him in his tracks. Or simply tell him no, thank you. If he’s respectful, he’ll pull up off ’a you, fix the situation in his pants, then shift gears.

  I decide to go for the latter. After all, honesty is usually the best policy, right?

  King starts grinding on me, deep ’n’ hard.

  Oh no . . . oh no . . . not dry humping me!

  “Listen, boo,” I say, tryna push hi
m up off me. But he’s already gone. Lost in a zone as he grabs my hips ’n’ starts grunting ’n’ pumping a mile a minute, like a dog in heat. And I have no one to blame but myself for allowing this mess to get this far. “King, stop! Get off me!”

  It’s too late.

  He growls.

  Then shudders.

  Sweat drips from his face.

  I blink.

  King blinks.

  Did this boy just make a baby in his own pants?

  Yes. He. Did!

  Ohhhhmigod! Yuck.

  Ohhhkay. I am officially done! Dead to the bed! Flat-lined! Sticky Drawz can now take me home. I blink several times, tryna wrap my mind around what just happened here as he finally lifts up off of me.

  I eye him as he reaches for his shirt and slips it back over his head, then adjusts himself in his jeans. I try not to frown at this horn dog. But trust. I’m looking at him sideways ’n’ all kinds of crazy.

  For some reason, I feel dirty.

  Violated.

  I slip my boob back into my bra, slide my shirt back on over my head, then climb up into the front seat. Speechless.

  He doesn’t even try to sop up the mess he’s made in his underwear with napkins, a towel, nothing. He simply climbs out of the truck, opens the driver-side door, then slides behind the wheel and drives off like everything’s everything.

  Alllllrighty then.

  “Yo, why you all quiet over there?” he finally says, glancing over at me while we’re stopped at a light. “You good?” He reaches over and places his hand on my thigh. His hand slides up farther than what he’s earned.

  I look over at him. Are you effen kidding me?! I grab his hand, gently remove it from out of my crotch. “Uh-huh,” I say dryly. “Just dandy, boo. You good?”

  “Yeah, yeah. No doubt.”

  His hand goes back up on the steering wheel, where it belongs.

  I fake a tight smile, then turn my head toward the window and stare out into the night. Yeah, I bet you are, with ya drawz all sticky ’n’ stained with a bunch of man gravy!