Diva Rules (2 page)

I reach over 'n' hit the remote to my stereo 'n' turn up the volume. K. Michelle's “V.S.O.P.” cranks outta my speakers as I pop my hips over to my dresser 'n' grab a bottle of smell-good from my vast collection of sexy scents. Yesssss,
hunni
. It's all about the fragrance. And tonight, since I'm feeling sensual 'n' enticing, I choose Midnight Heat by my boo, Beyoncé. Smelling good is a must. A musty funk-box is a no-no. And, like with handbags 'n' heels, smell-goods are another one of those essential accessories a diva never has enough of. Well, that's what my sister Leona says. So if the diva of all divas says it, then that's what it is.

And I'm a perfume junkie,
okay
? Trust.

A squirt here, a squirt there, I spritz some on my wrists, then just a taste in my sweet valley. I cup 'em, then shake 'em in front of the full-length mirror hanging on the inside of my closet door.

I snap my fingers 'n' sway my hips as K. Michelle sings about lighting some candles 'n' doing whatever her boo likes.
Yasss! Yassss! Warm my bed, boo-daddy!
Only heaven knows what's in my heart! And even though there ain't gonna be no candles lit tonight, my new cutie-boo still might get a lil taste of goodness. Well . . . maybe.

My brain tells me, “No, boo, don't do it. Make him wait.” It's also telling me to keep my behind home. But the firecracker poppin' off in my panties says drop it like it's hot 'n' put the heat up on him. Ooh, I hate it when I get to feeling like this. Frisky. Raunchy. Too hot for my own dang good. But I already know if I give him a taste of heaven, he's gonna start sweatin' me all hard, like they all do, 'n' want more 'n' then I'm probably gonna stop taking his calls. No. I will.

Chop
.

Wait. Let me just put this out there for you now so that there's no confusion 'cause I don't do confusion, okay? Not that it's any of your business, but if you haven't already peeped it, I'm not a virgin. And I haven't been one since I was twelve. Sweetie, please. I gets mine. My first experience was outta curiosity 'cause my older girl cousins were all having sex 'n' bragging about how good it was, so I wanted to see what the hype was all about for myself. So I did it with this boy Dougie. He was sixteen. And probably a lil too grown for my young body, but I let him have my cherry anyway. And I can't say the first time was all that great. It hurt like heck.

But that didn't stop me from givin' him second 'n' third helpings of this cherry pie. And it got better. I liked it. And wanted more, but not with just him. If I was bored 'n' a cute boy with swag caught my eye 'n' said all the right things, he could get it. So what started out as curiosity soon bloomed into sort of a sporting event for me to see how many boys I could get with, whenever I was home alone 'n' bored outta my mind. So sex became my entertainment. And, yes, I'm seventeen now 'n' there's been lots of cutie-boos I've
entertained
over the last five years. But not all of 'em got the cookie. Oh no, honey-boo. Most of 'em got the hand.

Oh, don't judge me. I know I'm a ho. What can I say? Sometimes I like to sample the goodies, then toss 'em back on the shelf. Shoot. Boys are like toys. They're lots of fun when you first get 'em, then after playing with 'em a few times, they lose their excitement. And I get bored with 'em. Fast. Oh well. I like variety. That ain't no crime. And neither is givin' in to temptation. Well, not as long as it delivers me from evil.

I sit at my vanity 'n' fuss with my shoulder-length hair.
This hair really needs to be washed
, I muse, picking up my flatiron. Mmm. I run my fingers through my hair. What look will I give it tonight? Slicked back into a ponytail? Or should I wear it slick-straight down past my shoulder blades? Maybe plumped up with a few curls? After a few seconds of mulling over the possibilities, I decide on an updo since my hair is slightly dirty 'n' updos tend to hold better when it is.

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.

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!

“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'.”

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?”

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 glares 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.”

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
?”

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