Diva Rules Read online

  Ugh! How gross!

  What a horrible way to end my dang weekend!

  6

  “Fiona! Heeey, girl . . .”

  I pause in the middle of checking my messages, looking up from my cell ’n’ scanning the crowded hallway. I spot Miesha—the only other real diva here amongst a sea of bottom-feeders ’n’ wannabe divas—walking toward me, smiling. Like me, she lives for fashion ’n’ stays dipped in all the hottest wears. She’s a McPherson High transplant from Fashion High in Manhattan. And she’s the only chick I really click with.

  I mean, yes, I eat lunch with the cheerleaders ’n’ I even hang out at the mall with ’em, but they’re definitely not who I’d ever call real friends. No. All we will ever be is grins ’n’ giggles. Nothing real. Trust.

  Miesha, on the other hand, is that chick, too. Maybe not as fly as me, but she serves it up real close. There can only be one chick holding the number one spot—me. But Miesha is definitely a close runner-up. And I like that about her. And after she had to take it to our school’s loudmouth mascot, Quandaleesha’s, face—not once, but twice—in the beginning of the school year, ain’t no one tryna see her with the hands.

  Annnywaaay, after a few weeks of watching her toss her hair ’n’ turn her nose up at everyone here, I decided it was time I stepped to her ’n’ introduced myself ’n’ welcomed her to McPherson High. I walked up on her at her locker ’n’ greeted her. But girlfriend wasn’t tryna have it. Ooh, you shoulda seen how she tried to give it to me, lookin’ me up ’n’ down like I was some scum beneath her cute lil heels. Chile, boom! Fiona can serve it back. Okay? Trust.

  And I was looking too cute to even care, in my white stretch jeans ’n’ white linen blouse with a white Gucci belt cinched around my ultra-tight waist. Mmph. And, yeah, I peeped how her eyes fluttered down at the slick pair of gladiator sandals I had on my feet that day.

  Chickie peeped my work. But she still tried to play me to the left, tossing her sleek wrap, staring down at my hand as I extended it to her. Ooh, yes, hunni! Lil Miss Miesha was a mess. But that didn’t stop a diva like me. I told her, “If you wanna be a snot, be one.”

  And just as I was about to spin on my heel, she came to her senses, okay. “Hey, wait. Thanks for the welcome. I didn’t mean to come off rude.”

  Girl, bye! I tilted my head, narrowed my green eyes to slits, ’n’ said, “Girl, please. Yes, you did.” Then I started laughing ’n’ so did she.

  And we’ve been fly ever since.

  Anyway, Miesha’s been saying since the day I met her that she hates it here ’n’ how she couldn’t wait to go back to Brooklyn as soon as she turns eighteen.

  Chile, boom-boom! I knew she wasn’t going anywhere; especially not after she snagged one of the finest boys at McPherson. Antonio Lopez. Mmph. Yes, gawd! Six four with a rock-hard body ’n’ a reputation for being a beast in the sheets. That boy has slung more meat than a butcher to the needy ’n’ the greedy. Not that I’m one to gossip. But, hunni . . . that boy knows he’s some kinda fine. And a real man-whore before he turned in his player’s card for love. Ha! Ain’t that something. Now ole cutie-boo doesn’t even look at another chick—from what I can tell, that is. Mmph. Miss Thang either sucks the watermelon juice like a pro or she really put the whammy on him ’cause she got that boy hooked.

  We hug ’n’ give each other cheeky air-kisses.

  As usual everything about her is stylishly fly, from the beaded knapsack I’m sure she’s designed ’n’ sewn, to her rhinestone-studded skinny jeans.

  “Girrrrrl, you better work!” I say, stepping back ’n’ wagging a finger at her. “I’m loooovin’ the bag, boo.”

  “Ooh, you like?” She spins ’n’ poses, modeling it for me. “I made it over the weekend.”

  See? I knew it. I can’t hate. Miesha’s exceptionally talented ’n’ I know she’s gonna go real far in the fashion world. Heck, she’s already been accepted into Parsons The New School for Design, Pratt Institute, and FIT, okay?

  She better werrrk!

  And here I am still trying to figure out what I wanna do with my life. Gettin’ up outta my mother’s house is definitely priority number one for me. I just need to focus ’n’ get a plan in action. Ugh. Let me not give myself a headache thinking too hard about that. Moving on...

  “Like? Girl, you servin’ me with this bag. Ooh, you so messy! It’s sooo cute!” She laughs as we start walking toward the stairs. “Where’s your boo-daddy at?”

  Her eyes light up as she smiles. “He texted me to say he overslept. So he probably won’t even get here until after homeroom.”

  I waggle my eyebrows. “Ooh, nasty girl. Let me find out you rocked him into a coma last night. ’Cause I know you keepin’ that boy flat on his back.”

  She laughs, waving me on. “Girl, bye. Not hardly. I spent the weekend in Brooklyn partying with my girls. You need to come chill with us the next time I go.”

  Now, I’m not one for slinging messy juice up on anyone, but Miesha’s girls, with their tore-up weaves ’n’ round-the-clock weed smoking ’n’ drama are straight ratchet. Hunni, please. I know I’m from the hood, but thank God I’m not a hood rat. Those Brooklyn roaches live for the hood.

  “Yeah, I just might,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can.

  “You should.” Miesha pulls out her phone, checking her messages, then drops it back down into her knapsack.

  “Yo, what’s goodie, Fiona, baby?” this boy Marcellus calls out with his tall, jet-black self. This boy’s the antithesis of safe sex. There’s no such thing, okay? He stays with a nasty drip.

  “This honeypot,” I say, patting the front of my goody-goody, “but you wouldn’t know about that.”

  He laughs. “ ’Cause you stay frontin’.”

  “No, boo-boo. Because you stay down at the clinic.”

  Miesha laughs, shaking her head.

  “Yo, that’s effed up, yo. I ain’t had an STD in over three weeks.”

  “Oooh, goodie,” I say, clapping my hands. “Now spell condom.”

  “Yeah, a’ight, yo. I got ya condom alright.”

  “Boy, boom. Try rollin’ it on that dirty stick then.”

  “Yo, you foul, yo.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say over my shoulder, “’n’ so is what’s hangin’ in ya drawz.”

  A few kids in earshot start clowning him, hard. He starts popping ish, calling me outta my name. But I ain’t worried. It ain’t ever easy being me.

  “Girl, you a mess,” Miesha says.

  I toss my bouncy curls. “But I ain’t ever messy, boo.”

  She keeps laughing. “Girl, okay. So what’d you do over the weekend?”

  “Got molested,” I say dramatically.

  She stops in her tracks. “Ohmigod! Whaaat? By who?”

  I laugh, waving her on. “Girl, relax. Just some fine, horny college boy who kissed real wet ’n’ sloppy ’n’ used his tongue like a dishrag, humped my leg like a dog, then squirted his mayonnaise all in his drawz.”

  “Ohmigod! You have got to be kidding me!”

  I twist my lips. “Mmph. I wish.”

  “Illll! How disgusting.”

  “And trust. I was disgusted ’n’ real pissed.”

  “Ooh, I woulda been too through. I probably woulda laughed all in his face.”

  “Well, I didn’t laugh in his face. But I was definitely lookin’ at him all sideways ’n’ crazy. Mmph.”

  “Ohh, I know you gave that boy the axe, too. Chop!”

  “Well, uh, no. Not exactly. Not yet.”

  She shoots me an incredulous look. “Wait. You like him?”

  I frown. “Girl, no. Not enough to ever make him my boo-daddy. But just enough to be something to do.”

  She glances over at me as we climb up the three flights of stairs toward our lockers. “So, what are you gonna do? Are you gonna chill with him again?”

  I purse my lips thoughtfully. “I don’t know. At first, I was like nope, never again. I mean, I know he’ll never get a
chance to tongue-wash my face again. And he’s definitely not ever pokin’ up in me with that toothpick of his. But now, after careful consideration, I’m thinkin’ about introducin’ his wet juicy lips to my cookie.”

  She cracks up laughing. “Ohmigod! Girl, I can’t! Only you!” We stop at her locker first. She takes a few moments to stop laughing, wiping tears from her eyes. “Fiona, you’re a hot mess, girl!”

  I twist my lips. “Uh-huh. But I’m keepin’ it a hunnid, boo. And you know I ain’t ever messy.”

  She shakes her head, pulling open her locker then taking out books for her first three classes. She slams her locker door shut, then walks with me to the bank of lockers along the other side of the long hall so I can get my things out.

  “Do you need a ride home after school?” Miesha asks, checking her phone for messages again.

  I give her a look, opening my locker door. A folded piece of paper flutters to the floor. “Girl, you know I do,” I say, squatting down and scooping it up. I grab my Spanish IV book, then shut my locker. “I’ll be glad when my sister Sonji finally gets her new Lexus so she can give me her old one. Bummin’ rides is so not cute. And you know I don’t play the foot game. Me ’n’ walkin’ home ain’t it.”

  Miesha chuckles ’n’ shakes her head. “I know that’s right. I wish I had four sisters who gave me anything I wanted. You’re so lucky.”

  Boo, if you only knew . . .

  Between you ’n’ me, if it wasn’t for my sisters, there’s no telling who or what I’d be. Mmph. Probably some raggedy hot mess, like Miesha’s girls in Brooklyn, real busted ’n’ stank.

  “Yeah, they my boos. Ohmygod. I love ’em to death.”

  “I know that’s right.” She points to the note in my hand. “What’s that?”

  I shrug, flipping the folded piece of paper over in my hand. “I have no clue.” I glance at it, stopping in my tracks. For your eyes only is scrawled on the front of it.

  WTH?

  I open it. It’s a poem.

  OMG! No one has ever written me a poem before.

  I Confess

  I’ma keep it straight up, baby

  I’ve been secretly crushin’ on you hard for a

  while

  No matter how hard I try

  I can’t seem to get you outta my mind

  Maybe it’s ya smile

  Or the sparkle in ya eyes

  Or the way you move ya hips

  Or the sexy way you lick ya lips

  Or the way you say my name

  All I know is

  I dig ya style

  There’s something special about you, girl

  That makes me wanna have you in my world

  I ain’t lookin’ to spit game, baby

  I want you

  I need you

  I gotta have you

  More than you’ll ever know.

  “Ooooh, Fiona has a secret admirer,” Miesha says in a singsong voice, laughing. “Fiona has a secret admirer.”

  “Girl, hush your lies,” I say, folding the note back and tossing it into my bag, waving her on dismissively. “It’s probably some psycho playing games. And you know Fiona ain’t with the games, boo.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s what you get for giving out all them free samples of that good-good. Now you have a potential stalker on your hands.” She laughs.

  “Ooh, don’t do me, boo. Oh no, oh no. Lies ’n’ fabrications. This juicy-juicy does make the boys go cuckoo, but I ain’t signing up for the stalkers association. Oh no. Whoever it is better go stalk themselves on over to Thot-dot-com and catch the special on hookers ’n’ hoes. Because Miss Fiona ain’t on the list.”

  She keeps laughing.

  I suck my teeth. “Boo-boo, I don’t see nothing funny.”

  “Girl, relax,” she says, shouldering her book bag.

  “Yo, Fee,” someone calls out in back of us as we snake our way through the crowded hallway.

  I glance over my shoulder. It’s Ceasar Mitchell, aka Lil Cease—although there isn’t one thing lil about this six-five, two-hundred-plus pound boy with his fine, sexy self, trust. But that’s what they call him because he’s named after his dad. Whatever. Cease stays having these lil McPherson High hot pockets tossing their panties at him. Ugh! Next to Miesha’s boo, Antonio, Cease is second-in-command of the kingdom of whoredom. I think he’s probably slept with as many girls as Antonio has; if not more.

  I’m just glad he’s never had any of my cute lil panty sets pasted up on his bedroom wall for wallpaper, or dangling from his ceiling fan. No ma’am, no sir.

  “Ohgod,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “What does this hound want?”

  “Who?” Miesha wants to know, glancing back. “Oh, Cease? Girl, be nice.”

  I smirk. “Mmph. I’m always nice.”

  “Yo, what’s good, My?” he says as he’s walking in step alongside us, wrapping his big muscled arm around me.

  “Hey, Cease,” Miesha says, smiling.

  “Yo, what’s good, Fee?”

  “You’re looking at it, boo,” I say real sassy-like, tossing my hair, then pushing his arm off me. “Nature’s goodness. Now how can I help you?”

  “What you doing tonight?”

  “Not you. Why?”

  He laughs. “You cold, baby. But you know you still my boo.”

  “Yuck,” I say.

  Miesha laughs.

  I roll my eyes.

  “Yo, Fee, you need to stop playing with my emotions, for real for real,” he says, feigning hurt.

  “Boy, bye. And you need to stop playing with them nasty gizzards hanging in ya drawz, but you don’t hear me talking.”

  He and Miesha crack up laughing.

  “Girl, I can’t with you.”

  “Yo, Fee, you shot out,” he says, shaking his head. “That’s why I effs with you, yo. I’ma catch y’all later, though.”

  “Bye, Cease,” Miesha says, waving at him.

  “Yeah, whatever,” I say, eyeing him as he makes a beeline into the boys’ bathroom.

  “Girl, you know you need to stop throwing Cease so much shade.”

  I swipe my bang from my face. “Girl, bye. I’m not thinking about him.”

  As soon as we round the corner, I spot loudmouth Quandaleesha. Not that I’m into being messy. But, chile, she’s ratchet at its finest. And she’s nuttier than a peanut patch. She’s also Antonio’s ex-boo. But I ain’t one to gossip.

  I glance at my watch. “Girl, we better step on it ’n’ get to homeroom. You already know you can’t be late. And Mr. Evans will flip his pacemaker if I step up in his homeroom late again. And trust. I have better things to do with my time than sittin’ up in somebody’s ole funky detention today.”

  “Later,” she says, laughing as she steps into her own homeroom just as the bell rings.

  “Ooh, bish,” I hiss, racing down the hall. “I hate you.”

  7

  Always keep a BWB—Boo With Benefits—on speed dial...

  Miesha pulls out into the traffic, making her way across the other side of town to get to my house. As she drives I spot a group of boys coming out of a corner store ’n’ immediately start salivating.

  “Oooh, cutie alert! Blow the horn, girl!” I say, all excited as she drives by a group of sexy stud muffins walking down the Ave. “Oooh, yes. Three of ’em look like they could get it.” I roll the passenger-side window down ’n’ yell out, “Hey, boo-daddies. I see you.”

  They call out, holding their arms open like, “Yo, wassup, baby . . .”

  I stick my head back inside the car. “Girl, stop the whip. Pull over.”

  She presses down on the accelerator, rolling up my window with the press of a button, shutting down any hopes of snatching up a new boo-daddy. “Wrong answer, girl. I don’t think so. I’m not checkin’ for none of them boys.”

  “Umm, hellooo?” I snap a finger in her face. “I am. Just because you’re all stuck on lover’s island, doesn’t mean you gotta try’n sink my ship. Let my boat float,
boo.”

  “Well, you can float it on ya own time, girl. I’m tryna get home. It’s bad enough I stayed behind waiting on you after school.”

  “Ooh, don’t do it. I told you I couldn’t be late to homeroom. It isn’t my fault that old sea monkey, Mr. Evans, has it out for me. That man lives to do me in. ”

  She laughs. “Well, that’s what you get. You see I made it on time.”

  “Oh, whatever. The least you coulda done to help ease my detention woes was pull over so I could find solace in the arms of one of them sexy thug-daddies.”

  She glances over at me. “Not today. Not on my time.”

  I roll my eyes. “Party pooper.”

  “Whatever. Talk to the hand. You’re too boy crazy.”

  I bat my lashes ’n’ feign insult. “Who, moi?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “I beg ya pardon. Never that! I’m not boy crazy. My boo juice doesn’t splash for just any ole boy, hun.”

  She laughs. “If you say so.”

  “Ooh, ya messy behind’s tryna serve me.”

  “Girl, bye. Think what you like. I’m tryna keep you from a buncha mess.”

  I give her a look. “Uh-huh. Sounds more like you tryna call me a ho on the low.” I laugh. “And it ain’t no secret, boo. I know I am.”

  She makes a left turn onto Martin Luther King Boulevard, stopping at a light. I hear someone standing on the corner yelling out my name. I look. It’s one of my ex-boos. Jerrell. Ooh, he’s looking too damn fine for his own good. And mine. He isn’t one of the tallest boys I rolled around ’n’ got tangled up in the sheets with, but he sure was one of the sexiest. Deep, dark, delicious chocolate, mmph; need I say more? At five eleven, boo-daddy was (and still is) built like an African warrior. Chiseled outta soot. Dark like tar, but sweet like molasses. Mmm, yummy. And trust. What they say about the darker the berry the sweeter the juice, ain’t no rumor, boo. And it ain’t no lie, either.

  Oh, then why aren’t we still together?

  Uhhh, hellooo, hellooo . . . ding, ding, ding! Because like with all the rest, I got bored with him. After about six weeks of feasting on his goodness, I dismissed him. Chile, cheese. He was tryna boo-bag me up ’n’ I was not havin’ it. What I look like, being wifed up? No, hun. Fiona Madison doesn’t answer to no boy. And she doesn’t commit to just one boy, either.