Put Your Diamonds Up! (12 page)

“You need to stop being so goshdangit selfish, Rich. Stop being a greedy man-eater! I'm not trying to tell you what to do, but you need to seal it up. If you
can't
be faithful to Knox, then break up with him. Let that boy go! All of this leading him on while you stop, drop, and roll from stroll to stroll is
c-c-craaazy!
He doesn't deserve that!

“And Justice?” I tsked. “He's a nothing. A mess. A menace! And all he can do for you is bring you a bunch of problems. You are too good for that leech! What, are you bored, Rich? You need something to do? Well how about you learn to keep your legs shut and either do your so-called man, or break up with him. But that Justice . . .” I shook my head. “Uh-uh. He's bad news and you need to leave him alone! Now!”

Rich rolled her eyes, then put a hand up in my face. “Scrrrrreech! Let me read you for blood real quick. You don't come at me all crazy like that. Trying to tell me what to do. Not this grown woman over here. I got this! So stay in your little crooked lane, and let me handle mine. Obviously you're still a little girl trying to be in a grown woman's world. Relationships are not that cut-and-dried. And they're not that black-and-white . . .”

I huffed. “Rich, this has nothing to do with race.”

“You know what, Spencer? You are such an anti-genius.”

Blank stare.

She continued, pulling out a Chanel hanky and dabbing her eyes. “I'm trying to get my life right. I'm trying to settle down with one man. And the only advice you can think to give me is for me to leave my man? So what if I had a few moments of not being perfect. Why would you want to see me a struggling single? You are such a damn hater!”

I stared at her. Blinked. Stared some more. Not. A. Word.

Rich sucked her teeth. “Ugh! So now you wanna stand there looking lost? Selfish!” She slung her handkerchief at me. “I'm in full-fledged crisis mode and all you care about is being your mean, catty self. How dare you! God, Spencer!” She dabbed under her eyes with the back of her two pointer fingers. “You're so despicable sometimes. I don't need your judgment! I need a friend!”

I raised a brow, tapping my fingernails on the counter. “Ohhhhhhhh,
now
I'm your friend, huh? The otter is over in Milan waddling through the Alps. Stay away from that Justice creep!”

She slid back onto the counter. “No shade. But, girl,
bye
. I can't do you right now. I'm not looking for a lecture. And I'm damn sure not looking for a sermon. I can sit in class for that. Why are you all in my life, trying to be someone's counselor? This isn't church. I'm sixteen. I'm tryna live.”

I stared at her. “You forget. I know the
real
you. Okay, sugar dumpling? Do I need to pull out those pictures of you before—”

She gasped. “Clutching pearls! Clutching pearls! Don't you dare! I will peel your face off if you do! Why you always digging in graves for the dead? Are you lonely?”

I sighed, dismissing her lonely dig. Yeah, I was lonely. But that wasn't her business. “Rich, shut. Up. I'm trying to stay loving and kind. Now”—I scooted onto the counter beside her—“I know you suffer from slutarexia. But your weekly relapses are going to destroy a good thing. I mean, really, Rich. Why do you keep doing what you do when Knox is already yours?”

Rich waved a hand in the air. “Girl, you went there. You just had to go there, didn't you? You didn't have to go in that deep, Spencer. That's way too much to think about right now. You wanna go have a drink somewhere so I can get my mind right?”

I blinked. I gave that one-stop slop the best advice I could. I. Did. That. Goshdangit! And the only thing she could think about was going out for drinks to wet her guzzler. Was this big basket of dumbness
serious
? “What?
Drinks?
You are out of control, Rich, which is why you're in the mess you're in. Now, before we get out of here, I'm going to ask you one more time. Did you do the teacher?”

Rich hopped off the counter. Turned toward the mirror to fix her face. “You know what, Spencer. You're crossing the line. That is a private question, and a personal matter that I'm not going to discuss today, tomorrow, or ever. You know there are four things I don't do: Drama. Personal talk. Old men. And I don't ever kiss and tell. Now, what I did or didn't do is between
me
and the Hispanic Stallion, and that cute little mole on his gigantic love pole.”

I giggled, snatching my things up and shaking my head. This girl was a walking crotch fire. “Come on, trickamosis. Let's talk about his love pole on the way to homeroom.”

G
od, I beg of you. Please let my first day back at Hollywood High be without a lot of gas and a bunch of drama. Amen.

After a month of being away, I was finally back in L.A. for a brief moment before I had to fly back to Milan for Fashion Week. And, yes, I was back without my mother dragging me to New York to be put under a knife. There was not going to be any plastic surgery done on me.

My stomach grumbled as I drove down Wilshire Boulevard. I clutched my abdomen, feeling queasy from my late-night carb binge on Nutella and vanilla crullers from Spudnuts, one of my favorite L.A. doughnut shops—snuck in through the back stairwell by one of our security staff as a special favor to me. Now I was nauseous. I felt bloated. And sooo fat. I'd have to drink gallons of water to flush out my guilt, then spend my whole third and fourth periods getting sweaty on the treadmill, running myself into the ground to ward off any ugly pounds of fat cells that might be lurking around in my body.

My stomach rumbled again.

Oh God no!

A roar of gas passed through me. I started coughing and gagging, turning the car's AC on high and rolling all the windows down. Yes, this bout of gas was the end result and punishment for being up at 2:38 this morning
binging
. My guilty indulgence; my dirty little secret brought on by stress.

Thanks to Justice. He tended to be—no, he
was
—my biggest stress trigger; especially whenever he'd go days or weeks not returning any of my calls. Or when he'd finally decide to bless me with his greatness, then start verbally attacking me, talking to me as if I were last night's trash. And last night was no exception when he finally felt charitable. That's exactly how he made me feel—more often than not—like I was some afflicted charity case. As if he were making enormous contributions to the Pitiful London In Distress Foundation. I suppose he was contributing to my cause every time he'd toss me a bone of kindness. Every time he'd whisper sweet nothings in my ear after having cursed me out like some Lower East Side projects tramp. Every time he'd mush me in the face, or flick me in the head with angry fingers for not attending to his needs to his liking. He'd contribute to my cause—my cause of stress, distress... and being one big mess.

Mmph.

I guess I
was
afflicted.

By him!

He was my plague.

Justice ate away at my heart, like acid.

And still... I hung on. I refused to let go. Didn't know how to let go. He was my past. My present. And the only boy I could see in my future. Everything I was was tied up into him.

And last night he'd finally driven the stake straight into my heart then twisted it when he hung up on me, right after telling me he wished I'd go somewhere and drop dead. He said I was
useless
to him or anyone else . . .
alive.

Okay, okay... so what if I'd called him twenty-seven times before he finally decided to return my call. That still didn't give him the right to tell me I was
useless
. And, yeah, okay, maybe I shouldn't have screamed at him for not returning
any
of my calls the whole time I was away. And maybe I shouldn't have questioned him about the photos I'd received. That still didn't give him the right to tell me he wished I were
dead.

I felt myself tearing up as I sat behind the wheel of my Aston Martin at a traffic light, replaying bits and pieces of our phone conversation.

“Yeah, what up?” he'd answered nonchalantly. “Who's this?”

I had blinked, glancing at the screen to make sure I'd called the right number. “It's me. London.”

“Oh word? What you want wit' me?”

I blinked again. “I'm back.”

“Back where?”

“In L.A.”

“Good for you.”

“I wanna see you. I've missed you. Can you come see me?”

“Mmph. Nah, I'm good. I ain't beat for none a that underground railroad crap. I'm not wit' sneakin into ya crib like I'm some runaway slave. That BS's mad whack. I'm done wit' all that. And I'm done wit' you, yo.”

“Justice, please. I need to see you.” I felt myself sinking into a dark hole. Since my parents moved us out to California, I still hadn't seen the inside of wherever Justice lived. And anytime I'd ask him about it, he'd always give me some kind of excuse as to why I couldn't. It was being renovated. It was being redecorated. It was being exterminated. And his last excuse to me was, no, I couldn't come to his place because I kept sweating him too much about going. So it was all my fault that I wasn't allowed over. “I can leave now.”

“Nah, I'm good, yo.”

A car in back of me blew its horn. I glanced up into my rearview mirror at the silver Jag, snatching me from my thoughts.

I groaned as my stomach knotted. More gas seeped out.
Ohgodohgod!

I quickly swerved over to the side of the road, swung open my car door, then leaned my head out and tossed up my guts.

God, please get me through these cramps and gas. I promise I won't stuff myself with so many doughnuts the next time. I'll only eat ten instead of the twelve I scarfed down. And no more Nutella.

I coughed. Then spit out the rest of the sugary guilt rising up in the back of my throat. I reached for my bottle of Tasmanian Rain water and took a swig, swishing it around in my mouth, then spitting it out.

“You so effen worthless, yo . . .”
Justice's voice stomped its way back into my thoughts as I wiped my mouth with a handful of tissues.
“Just look at you. Pig. Hog. No wonder you're so fat . . .”

My cell phone buzzed, bringing me back into the moment as I shut the car door. I quickly pulled my cell from the console, hoping it was Justice. But it wasn't. It was my father.

“Hey, baby girl. Welcome home. Your old man missed you.”

In spite of my current dark mood, Daddy still managed to pull a smile out of me. “Hi, Daddy. I missed you too.”

And Justice more...

“I'm sorry I wasn't home to greet you and your mother last night. I'm flying in from London today. My flight should arrive at LAX around four.”

“Oh, that's great, Daddy. I can't wait to see you.”

And Rich too...

“I was thinking you and me could go somewhere special for a bite to eat. Would you like that?”

“I'd love that,” I told him, pulling back out onto Wilshire, heading toward school. “What about Mother? Is she going to be joining us?”

There was a brief silence before Daddy finally spoke. “No. Not this time. This is our night, just you and me. Your mom and I will do something later on in the week.” He wanted to know how it felt being back in front of all the flashing lights and all of the pomp and circumstance that went along with being a model. I was careful to not push the envelope too far and tell him how much I hated being around all those snotty models. Or how I hated being unable to keep tabs on Justice—who I was convinced, after receiving those photos with his tattooed hand on that girl's butt, was cheating on me.

“What?” Justice had snapped when I confronted him last night. “Are you serious right now, yo? I'm
waaaay
over here 'cross the water. In Cali, yo. Where
you
should be. Wit' ya man, yo. But you ain't. You somewhere tryna get ya shine on. Yet, you comin' at me 'bout some flicks of some naked chick, like I'm s'posed to know what you talkin' 'bout. You dumber than dumb, yo. Real spit, London. You mad silly. Why you think I'm no longer beat to rock wit' you, huh? You still a lil girl. You ain't ready for no real man, lil girl. How you gonna blast me 'bout some flicks, yo, when you ain't even on ya J-O-B handlin' ya man right? What, London? You want me sittin' 'round on rock, mad horny, twiddlin' my thumbs while you overseeeeeeas somewhere, huh, L-Boogie . . .”

My lips quivered. “Justice, why are you being so mean to me? I only asked you a simple question. And you're taking it way to the left. I do nothing but love you, Justice, and all you want to do is treat me like I'm nothing . . .”

“
Juuuuuustiiiice
,” he mocked. “W-w-whyyyyy you bein' so mean to poor lil London? All she's tryna do is love you,
Juuuuuustiiiiice.
Boo-hoo, boo-hoo. Poor lil baby's feelings are hurt.” He grunted. “Yo, get over ya'self, lil girl. You don't love me. You don't even love ya'self. If you loved me, you'd be here when I needed you to be. I was laid up in the hospital for two days wit' a concussion . . .”

I gasped. “Ohmygod, nooo! What happened? How'd you get a concussion?”

He snorted. “What, now you care 'bout what happened to me? Just a few minutes ago all you cared 'bout is some chick's naked flicks and some cat's hand down her shirt.”

“But it's your hand, Justice.”

He started yelling. “ARE you hearin' how dumb you sound, yo, huh? STOP bein' so retarded, yo! I tol' ya that somebody prolly photoshopped them flicks. Think, London, think! I just tol' you I was hit in the head 'n' you still tryna beat me in the skull 'bout some flicks that I already tol' you I don't know jack about.

“See, that's ya mutha-effen problem, yo. You don't listen. You never listen. Because you too effen busy bein' selfish, only thinkin' 'bout London. You don't care 'bout me, yo. I was practically bandaged from feet to head; just one second from bein' dead 'n' I ain't get no flowers, no visit, no phone calls, no cards, no nothin' from you. But I'm s'posed to believe you love me. Yeah, right. You can go suck a—”

I cut him off. “I do love you, Justice.”

He laughed. “Yeah, whatever. I ain't beat. What's up wit' ya peoples?”

I frowned. “My
peoples
? my peoples
who
?”

He sucked his teeth. “Ya girl, Rich, who else? Why you so stupid, yo? Ain't nobody else effen wit' you. You was s'posed to be hookin' that up for me 'n' you couldn't even handle that right.”

“I tried. But then I had to—”

“Save it, yo. I'm not tryna hear none a ya BS. I don't need no lil silly girl tryna make moves for me. I got this. I already put work in. So go do you.”

“What are you saying, Justice? You already hooked up with her? Is that why you haven't had time for me? Is that why you broke up with me? Because you're giving all of your time to Rich?”

“See. That's what I'm talkin' 'bout, lil girl. That dumbness you be on. That silly lil girl jealousy crap you stuck on. I already said it. I'm baggin' that.” He clucked his tongue. “Move on, yo. It's over. For real, yo. You straight up worthless. I don't know why I ever wasted my time effen wit' you.”

The tears fell unchecked down my face as Justice stabbed me over and over and over with his harsh words.

I sniffled.

“You all right, baby girl?” Daddy asked, pulling me out of my casket before the lid slammed shut.

I swiped my tears. “Y-yes. I'm fine. I think my allergies are flaring up, and I'm sort of jet-lagged from the flight. I didn't sleep well last night.”

I guess you didn't, piglet.

“I understand. It can definitely take some getting used to. If you want, we can have dinner tomorrow night.”

I shook my head, swiping more tears. Told him no. That it was okay. That I wanted to have dinner with him. Truth was, I needed a distraction, anything to keep me out of the house, anything to keep Justice's cruel words from lurking in the shadows of my already cluttered mind. And I needed to be away from my hidden arsenal of snacks. We talked a few minutes more, then ended the call as I slowly pulled up to the entrance of Hollywood High with less than ten minutes to spare before the homeroom bell rang. I was anxious to confront Rich and get to the bottom of her attitude toward me. I needed to know why she had been acting funny and ignoring me. And, on top of that, I needed to know whether or not she was messing with my man.

I took a few deep breaths, flipping down the visor and fixing my face. Hollywood High was all about pretense. I might have been half a breath short of death, but I'd be damned if I was going to hand the grim reaper my eulogy.

“Well, well, if it isn't America's Next Top Flop,” the headmaster, Mr. Westwick, said in his nasal, annoying singsong voice as I walked through the glass doors. “Welcome back. I see you're still on the runway thinking you can flounce up in here”—he glanced down at the time, tapping the face of his watch—“with less than six minutes before homeroom. Be late if you want, and it'll cost you . . .”

My stomach rumbled again. I clenched my booty cheeks to keep gas from easing out. “I know, I know... it'll be five grand, or two days detention.”