Diva Rules Page 5

  Quanda sucks her teeth. “Oh, this ain’t over.”

  “Girl, bye! Kiss my phatty, silly trick.”

  I step off just as the bell rings.

  9

  By seventh period I push into Mr. Nandi’s African-American Studies class, exhausted ’n’ so ready to get this class ’n’ the rest of this day over with. And it doesn’t help that my G-string keeps irritating the heck outta me. Oh, this is so, so not cute. I slide onto my chair in the back of the class, pulling out my notebook ’n’ pen from my bag.

  I glance up at the wall clock. The bell rang four minutes ago ’n’ there’s still no sign of Mr. Nandi. He’s always late. Mostly because the old freak be all up in the staff lounge tryna sniff up in the French teacher Mrs. Duvet’s drawz. She’s married. He’s married. And they both being messy. The whole school knows that she doesn’t have a class seventh period, so he sneaks a few minutes right after his sixth period class to make goo-goo eyes at her. If you ask me—which you didn’t—I think Mrs. Duvet gave his ole nasty butt some.

  Ugh. How sickening.

  “Yo, you ready for the test?” Travis Richardson says as he slides into the seat next to me. He’s one of my ex-boos. Dark chocolate, just like I like ’em. Okay, okay. He’s not dark chocolate; try blueberry black. But whatever. Miesha has him in one of her classes. Algebra, I think. Anyway, she can’t stand him. She calls him Crispy Critter. Yeah, he’s exceptionally ugly in the face, but his body is ridiculous. Whew! Yes, lawd gawd, hunni! Seeing him standing in the middle of his bedroom in his wifebeater ’n’ his boxers with a pair of Timbs on used to give me life. Yes, hunni! Muscles everywhere. But, honey-boo, trust. The minute he stepped outta them drawz. Womp, womp, womp. Chile, boom! Ring the alarm. Who stole the beef, boo? Just sinful. But whatever. I’m not messy so I’m not gonna go in on him like that. All we ever did was kiss ’n’ grind ’n’ I gave him a lil hand time, if you know what I mean. But whatever. That itty-bitty situation he’s got going on in his lap is not my concern. Finding out more about this test is.

  I peel my gaze from his big juicy lips ’n’ look him in his eyes. “What test?”

  He shakes his head, gettin’ up from his seat. “Damn. I was tryna cheat off you. But I see you just as effed up as me. Wit’ ya ugly azz.”

  I suck my teeth. “Boy, bye. Don’t do me. Have you seen a mirror lately? Ugly is ya birthmark, boo. You wear it every day.”

  “Yeah, a’ight. I got ya ugly, all right.”

  I flick him a dismissive wave. “Yeah. You wish. It’s painted on ya face.”

  “I got—”

  “Okay, class,” Mr. Nandi says, whisking through the door carrying a stack of papers. Silence quickly fills the air. Everyone knows Mr. Nandi can get real slick at the mouth, so no one says or does anything to get him turnt up. “My apologies for my tardiness. I was having copies made.”

  I purse my lips as he makes his way up to the front of the class. Uh-huh. Sure you were. He sets the stack of papers on his desk, then walks over to the chalkboard and starts writing.

  “I need for everyone to clear off their desks. The only thing you should have out is either a pen or pencil. Nothing else. If you do, I will fail you.” He turns to the class. “Is that understood?”

  Everyone responds. Well, almost everyone. I’m still stuck on the fact that there’s a test today. A test I do not recall being apprised of. Ooh, this is so, so, not good. Now I have to try to stage an escape so I don’t wind up failing it. Getting an F is not an option. Oh no, boo. Fiona doesn’t flunk, okay?

  “Umm, Mister Nandi, sir?” I say all sweet ’n’ whatnot, raising my hand.

  He turns from the chalkboard ’n’ looks at me. “Yes, Miss Madison.” He tilts his head. If I were a wacko pervert who was into stalking senior citizens, I’d probably have a slight crush on him. He’s tall ’n’ blueberry dark with smooth, shiny skin. Not a wrinkle in sight for an old man. I’m not even gonna lie. But, um, he probably could get it, too, if I were like in my forties.

  “How can I help you?” he says, smirking. “Let me guess. You didn’t know there was a test today, so you’re not prepared. Is that it, Miss Madison?”

  I twirl the end of a curl, then toss my hair. “No. I’m prepared . . .” Lies. “I’m not feeling good, though.” I lean forward, clutching my stomach. I grimace. “Uh. I really need a pass to the nurse’s office.”

  He scans the classroom. “Who else needs a pass to the nurse’s office because they’re ill-prepared for today’s test?” Everyone turns ’n’ looks over at me.

  I blink. Oooh, he’s tryna do me!

  “Well, I’ll tell you what, Miss Madison.” He walks over to his desk, pulls out a pink-slip pad, then starts writing. “If you need to make a mad dash for the nurse’s office then go right ahead. But know this. You will still get an F. There will be no makeup tests. Do you understand?”

  He tears off the hall pass then lays it on the edge of his desk.

  I swallow. “Umm. That’s okay. I’ll wait until after I’m done.”

  “Smart girl. All right, class,” he says, grabbing the stack of papers from off his desk. “Once the test is in front of you, you may begin. There are a total of ten questions, each worth ten points.”

  I say a silent prayer as he finally gets to my row ’n’ places the test paper in front of me. The first question: How did the slave trade in Africa differ from the Atlantic slave trade?

  I blink. Stare at the question for several minutes, then skip down to question number two: What was the Middle Passage?

  Okay, okay. I know this one. I write in my answer, then move down to the next question: How did the American Revolution weaken slavery?

  Yesss, hunni! I know this one as well. Now feeling more confident, I delve in, my brain clicking in overdrive to answer each question to ensure my grade is anything higher than a C.

  Mmph. Old geezer tryna do me. Ha! I don’t think so.

  With twenty minutes left of class, I’m finished. I skim over all my answers. Well, the eight that I knew. The other two I just put what I thought made sense. Then I look up from my test ’n’ see everyone else still bent over their papers. I roll my eyes at Travis, who’s tryna sneak a peek on the low over at this chick Natalie’s test. I’m not gonna be messy ’cause that’s not how I do mine. But she isn’t the brightest lightbulb in the socket, so I’m not even sure why he’s straining his eyeballs over on her desk. Desperation brings out the worst in us, I suppose.

  I glance at my answers one more time, then stand up ’n’ walk to the front of the room, my hips swishin’ ’n’ swayin’ every which way like nobody’s business. Truth is, I’m shakin’ ’n’ poppin’ these hips tryna get this annoying crack-floss situated. I make a mental note to never, ever wear these things to school again.

  I plop my test paper on Mr. Nandi’s desk.

  He looks up from his magazine. “Ah, Miss Madison. Finished already?”

  “Yup.” I toss my hair.

  He picks up the test ’n’ glances at my answers. He eyes me, then reaches for the hall pass. “I guess you won’t be needing this after all.”

  I blink. “Umm. Come again. Yes, sir, I still do. Please ’n’ thank you.”

  He raises his brow ’n’ eyes me all kinda crazy before he hands me the hall pass. I turn ’n’ hurriedly head back to my desk to gather my things. Of course, Travis says something real slick under his breath as I walk by his desk. I pop him upside his pickle head.

  “Ow.”

  “Miss Madison!” Mr. Nandi scolds. “I will not have violence in my classroom. Do I make myself clear?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Miss Madison, do you hear me speaking to you?”

  “I heard you,” I snap, snatching up my handbag.

  “Good. Now hear this: You’ll have two days’ detention starting tomorrow.”

  “Whaaat? Are you frickin’ kidding me, right now? He’s the one who said he wanted to eat my cookie out!” I smack Travis upside his head again.

&n
bsp; “Now let’s make it three days. And if you keep it up you’ll find yourself spending the rest of the week in in-school suspension.” Travis laughs. “Mister Richardson, I wouldn’t be too quick to laugh if I were you because if I catch your eyes wandering over onto anyone else’s test paper again, I’m going to fail you.”

  I stomp off, swinging open the classroom door. I shut the door, mindful not to slam it. I’m pissed. Not stupid, okay?

  “Yo, what’s good, Fiona?” Benji says as he’s coming out of a classroom across the hall at the same time as me. He licks his lips, then grins. “Damn, this must be my lucky moment. I was just ’bout to hit the bathroom to handle this situation in my pants, but here you are.”

  I roll my eyes. “No. Your lucky moment will be when you graduate from high school.” I keep walking. “But don’t let me stop you from handlin’ that situation in ya drawz.”

  He hurries over ’n’ falls into step beside me. “Yeah, a’ight. Whatever, yo. Where you on ya way to?”

  “Why?”

  “Let’s go sneak in the girls’ bathroom.”

  I shoot him a nasty look. “Boy, bye. Your ten-minute joyrides into heaven are over, boo.”

  He laughs. “You know you still want this beef jerky.”

  “Lies, lies, ’n’ more lies. Think what you like, boo-boo.”

  He moves in closer to me ’n’ lightly nudges my shoulder with his as we round the corner for the stairs. As soon as we get into the stairwell, he’s up on me, pulling me into him. His hand moves all over me. He covers my lips with a kiss.

  “Stop!” I say, tryna push him off me. But he doesn’t let go of me. He keeps pressing himself into me, tryna feel up on my boobs. So now I gotta turn it up a notch. “What the hell?! I said stop, Benji! Get off me!”

  Whap! I slap his face. Then knee him in his groin. He lunges over, grabbing his crotch.

  “Ow, ow, ow!”

  “See, I told you to get off me.” I slap him again. “No means no. Asshole!”

  I storm off down the stairs. I don’t know if I’m more pissed at the fact that he really tried to do me in the stairwell, or that I almost broke a fingernail.

  All I know is, I need a Pepsi ’n’ a cigarette!

  10

  Always keep ’em guessing . . .

  “Yo, for real for real, that was some real foul ish I pulled on you earlier,” Benji says over the phone. His voice is low ’n’ he sounds apologetic. But I’m not letting him off the hook. One thing I don’t ever do is let some boy disrespect me ’n’ think it’s all good. Oh, nooo, honey-boo. Not cute! I’ll take it straight to his head, face, throat, and/or them lil man-nuggets hanging between his legs.

  Don’t do me!

  “I was dead wrong, yo.”

  “So why’d you do it then?” I unbuckle my jeans, then slide them down over my hips ’n’ step outta them. “After I told you to get off ’a me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Lies ’n’ fabrications,” I say, stepping outta this annoying thong, then tossing it in the trash. Ugh. I slip into a pair of boxer shorts one of my BWBs left here one night after a hot night of bed bouncing. Chile, mmph! But I don’t ever kiss ’n’ tell, so movin’ along. He accidentally overslept ’n’ had to be hurried outta here through the window when I heard my mother downstairs. But he left his drawz hanging on the doorknob in all the haste. But whatever.

  He had to get up outta here, free-ballin’ ’n’ all. Ruthie-Ann was not about to catch me in bed with some boy. Oh no-no-no, honey-boo. I’m too classy for that. Okay, okay... all right already. I’m too slick for that. At least I like to think I am.

  I pull my AP English reading assignment—The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison—from out of my bag, then sit cross-legged in the center of my bed, holding my cell up to my ear. We’re having a discussion on this book in class on Thursday ’n’ I am nowhere near finished. But I will be. So far, from what I’ve read, it’s such a depressing story. And, hunni, trust. Depression ’n’ Fiona do not fit in the same sentence. Ain’t nobody got time to be feeling sorry for themselves or some character in a book. Chile, boom!

  “Well,” I say, tossing the novel over onto the side of my bed ’n’ glancing over at the time on my laptop: 8:34 P.M. “I’m still waiting for you to tell me why you did what you did.” I decide I’m giving this boy five more minutes of my time, then it’s a wrap. I’ve already given him enough of my precious time. He’s lucky I don’t have him stomped out for tryna do me today.

  I yawn.

  “On some real, yo. Thinkin’ ’bout you, then seein’ you. You got me goin’ through it, yo. I mean. I had you on the brain all day, rememberin’ all the lil freaky ish we used to do when we used to chill ’n’ . . .” He sighs. “I was buggin’, yo. I was on rock all day. Then when I saw you comin’ outta class at the same time as me, I don’t know. I wanted you, nah’mean. But I was dead wrong, a’ight?”

  I twist my lips up. “Uh-huh. What, was you on that molly trip?”

  “Yo, you wildin’. Hell no. I don’t eff wit’ that ish, yo. Straight bud ’n’ that Fireball when I wanna get my drink on. You already know.”

  Yeah. I know. Your horny behind is a pothead ’n’ a future drunk.

  “Mmph. So thinkin’ about this goody-goody got you actin’ all nutty, is that what you saying? Got you tryna snatch a chick’s drawz off, huh?”

  He laughs.

  “Boy, I am not laughing.”

  “Nah, nah. I know you dead-azz, Fee. It’s just how you said it, that’s all.”

  I grunt. “Well, it doesn’t make a difference how I say it. No means no. Next time you’re gonna get more than a knee to your man jewels, boo. Next time I’ma claw ’em out with my nails, then sling ’em out into traffic. Don’t get it twisted. So the next time a girl says stop or get off her, get the hell off.”

  “You right, yo. My bad. I just miss chillin’ wit’ you.”

  “Well, you sure have a crazy way of showin’ it. We coulda still been chillin’ if you didn’t mess it up tryna make me wifey. You know I told you I wasn’t wifey material, so why you even tried to take me there is beyond craziness.”

  He blows a breath out into the phone. “True, true.”

  “Are you smoking?”

  “Yeah. A mild.”

  I shake my head. Between you ’n’ me, Benji coulda been upgraded to “main boo-daddy” status had he played it cool ’cause, hunni, he knew/knows how to ride these curves. And his engine stays revved up. Trust. Every time we were together it was a turn-out-the-lights-’n’-light-a-candle-then-tear-the-sheets-up kinda night.

  “Keep it a hunnid, yo. You miss chillin’?”

  Ooh, I miss the sex.

  “Nope.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, a’ight. Front if you want.”

  “Then why you ask?”

  “Maybe I wanna hear it.” He lowers his voice. “Yo, let’s Skype. I wanna show you somethin’.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Bwahahahaha. Boy, bye! I ain’t Skypin’ with you. You can’t show me anything I haven’t already seen. You better go light a blunt ’n’ have several seats.”

  “Yo, I’m about to spark up in a minute. What you gettin’ into tonight?”

  “My sheets.”

  “Alone?”

  “Not with you,” I say, picking up my comb from off my vanity. I start running it through my hair.

  He laughs. “Ouch. That hurt.”

  “Whatever. Are you coming to school tomorrow? Or do you plan on spending your day drinking ’n’ smoking the day away?”

  I ask him this, unsure as to why I even care. It’s his life, not mine. I guess a part of me still kinda likes him. Okay, okay. I do. But not enough. Anyway, he needs a whole lot more than a nice body ’n’ a good sex game to keep a diva like me interested. And, even more, he needs to be focused in school. Please. What I look like, spending my time or my life with some boy who can’t even graduate from high school? Oh no, hun. I don’t do dropouts or chronic truants.

&n
bsp; “Nah, nah,” he says, exhaling into the phone. “I’ma prolly chill. I got some moves to make later tonight, so it depends.”

  I frown. “Benji, are you hustlin’ now?”

  Silence.

  “Listen,” I say quickly. Somehow feeling the need to let him off the hook. “Forget I even asked. Okay?”

  Finally he takes a deep breath. “Nah. It’s all good. I’m doin’ me, a’ight?”

  “But why? The streets are hot ’n’ you know the po-po stay running up on ninjas. They baggin’ everybody. This is your last year in school. Why would you wanna risk messing everything up like that, huh?”

  “Yeah. I hear you. But school ain’t really doin’ it for me right now, babe. A muhfuggah tryna stack them ends, nah’mean? I gotta do what I gotta do. The struggle is real, yo. I’m tryna eat, feel me?”

  This conversation is over. Okay? Heck, what more can I say? He ain’t my boo-daddy. And he’ll never be someone I’d spend the rest of my life with. So if missing school to be in the streets to be some low-level dealer is what he aspires to be, who am I to knock him? No judgment, honey-boo. Trust.

  “Then go eat, boo-boo.”

  11

  Say hi to the haters . . .

  “Yo, what’s good, sexy?” Brent Selder says, walking over toward my locker. It’s like four minutes ’til the third period bell rings. And here he stands.

  Sexy? Boo, I know I’m sexy. Still...

  Brent has never, ever, called me that. Not that I need him to, ’cause trust. Fiona doesn’t need a boy to confirm what she already knows. I was born sexy. Okay? Anyway, Brent’s one of the star players on the lacrosse team ’n’ one of the finest, sexiest boys alive. Okay? Yesss, hunni. He can get it. All day. Every day! With his Indian-looking self.

  Now hold up. I know some of you are rolling your eyes up in ya heads sayin’, Please. Who can’t get it? Don’t do me, honey-boo. I’ma tell you like I tell everyone else: Sex is good for the soul, hun. Trust. Besides, I keep tellin’ you I don’t have sex with everyone. Only boys I really like. Or if I’m extra bored ’n’ don’t have anything better to do. Anyway...