Diva Rules (13 page)

Early Monday morning, just as I'm swinging open the front door to walk up the block to Miss Moosey's to grab me a honey bun 'n' some Life Savers gummies before Miesha gets here to pick me up, I run smack dead into Cruella. Of all the dang people I wanna see first thing in the morning,
she
is
not
one of them. Trust. Her evil spirit is suffocating.

I take a deep breath.
Uh, excuuuuse you . . .

I haven't really seen her since our verbal throw-down last week when we tore the kitchen up. And, trust, I'm still lookin' at her extra sideways for throwing her coffee cup at me. But whatever! She did that. However, since then she's stayed outta my way. And I've happily stayed outta hers. Hey, it works for me. And obviously it works for her, too.

She scowls. “I hope there are no dishes in my sink.”

I blink.
Well, maybe if you had the dang dishwasher fixed, there wouldn't need to be any in
your
sink.
“Um, and good mornin' to you, too,” I say snidely. “Have a nice day.”

She grunts. “I asked you if you did the dishes.”

I sigh. “Oh, that was a question? My bad.” I bat my lashes 'n' toss my hair.

Her raggedy tote bag hits the floor with a
thud
as she steps outta her bright white Nikes. I stare at her. She looks exhausted. She has bags under her eyes 'n' her edges have seen better days. Chickie needs a treatment bad.

“Girl, what in the world you just standin' here looking at me for? Is that kitchen cleaned?”

“Ohmigod! What is with you 'n' the dang dishes all the time? Is this some kinda fetish? 'Cause if it is, it's so not cute.”

“I want you in this house right after school.”

Screech! What the what? Hold the heck up . . . chickie's already tryna get it turnt up. It's too early for this.

“Excuse you? Since when you start givin'
me
a time when I come home?”

She throws a hand up on her wide hip. “Since I told you that you were on punishment 'n' you left up outta this house over the weekend anyway.”

Of course I did.

“Hahaha. Try again, hun.” I strut toward the door, reaching for the screen door handle. I stop in my tracks, turn to her.
Apologize to Mommy. It's the right thing to do.
“Look. I'm sorry if you still feel some kinda way about how I served you.”

“How you
served
me? You had better go on 'n' get outta my face before
you
get served up in here again.”

I suck my teeth. “Anyway, I apologize for comin' at you all crazy like that. But, trust, I will never apologize to you or
anyone
else for saying how I feel.”

She narrows her eyes. “Fiona, your sisters have never spoken to me the way you do, 'n' if they even tried it I woulda knocked every last tooth outta their heads. But you . . .”

“News feed update, boo. I'm not Leona 'n' them. And last I heard, you
wanted
them.
Not
me. You didn't call them names, or treat them like crap. And if you did give it to 'em, they kept their mouths shut 'n' took it. Well, sorry. I'm not that chick.”

She shakes her head. “I'm tired. I'm tired of looking at you. I'm tired of dealing with you. I'm tired of having to be responsible for you. You're disrespectful. You're hateful. And I have no use for you 'n' that filthy mouth of yours.”

“And so are you!” I snap, giving her a disgusted look. We stare each other down. I narrow my glare. “You just don't get it, do you? I am the way I am 'cause of
you
. You made me this way. And if you haven't noticed, the
only
person I'm hateful 'n' disrespectful to is
you
.”

“I'm still your goddamn mother!” she argues. “And the least you could do is respect me!”

Oh, cry me a dirty river. Here she goes again with that word.
Respect.
I grunt, glancing at my watch, annoyed that she's tryna disrupt my morning flow with her foolery. “
Respect
you? Ha! That's an oxymoron if I've ever heard one. How do you expect me to respect
you
when all you've ever done is remind me of how much you wish you'd never had me, huh?”

“Lil girl, you got the game all screwed up! You respect
me
not 'cause you want to. But 'cause
I
gave birth to
you.
Because
I
keep a roof over ya damn ungrateful-azz head! Because
I
continue to allow you to eat 'n' sleep in comfort! Because
I
haven't snatched you by the neck 'n' choked out your last damn breath. That's why
you
respect
me
!” She jams a finger into her chest. “Your mother! Now get outta my damn face! I want you in this house by three o'clock! Not a minute after. And I will be up in here to see that you are!”

Mmph. This chick sounds like she needs another stay at the cuckoo farm if she even thinks I'm subscribing to the nuttiness she's talking.

I raise a brow. “Good luck with that.”

“Try me, lil girl.” She threatens to shut down my phone 'n' Internet service if I'm not walking through this door at said time.

My nose flares. I will not be blackmailed, bribed, or threatened by her or anyone else. “Oh no, oh no,” I say, shifting my bag from one arm to the other. “We are not about to do this. Not today, boo. I have too much on my mental for what you sayin'. Check for me later with the threats. Not when I'm on my way out the door to start my school day. Who in the heck needs that kinda stress on them? Where they do that at?”

“You heard what I said, lil girl.”

“My name
is
Fiona,” I say, swinging open the door just as Miesha's car pulls up in front of the house. “
Not
lil girl. And the last I checked, being a mother didn't come with a trophy or a money-back guarantee. I'll see you when I see you.”

I politely shut the door in her face, pullin' out my buzzing Sidekick, my backup phone. The one Cruella doesn't even know about. Lady, boom. Shut me down if you want. As long as I got T-Mobile on the low-low, I stay ready.

 

“Hey, girlie,” Miesha says as I slide into the passenger seat, shutting the door.

“Hey. Just—one—second,” I say, tapping away with my thumbs. It's King wanting to know if I wanna chill tonight. I can't even remember why I gave him this number instead of my other number. But, whatever. I tell him yeah—after eleven though. “Okay, done.” I toss my Sidekick back into my bag, then fasten my seat belt. “Heeeeey, honey-boo. Heeey, sugah-foot.”

She laughs. “Girl, you silly. So, why you have your face all tight comin' outta ya house?”

I suck my teeth, dramatically rolling my eyes. “What else? Cruella.”

She looks over at me, confused. “Who?”

“My dang mother.”

She laughs. “Ohmigod. I can't believe that's what you call her.”

Even though I really haven't given Miesha all the dirt on how messy my mother is/was, she knows enough to know we don't get along. That's all I've ever been comfortable sharing with her, or anyone else. The rest of my miserable life, living with that lady, I keep to myself. The last thing I want is pity. Oh no, hun. Fiona ain't looking for no Hallmark moments. No, thanks.

I give Miesha a dismissive glance. “Trust, it's one of the nicer names I have for her. I swear that lady's crazy.”

“Welcome to the club. You know I know all about crazy.”

I nod knowingly. Even though Miesha decided to stay in Jersey 'n' live with her aunt so she could finish school with her boo, Tone, her mom decided to move back to Brooklyn with her dad. And from what Miesha's told me, her dad likes to feed the needy 'n' greedy his man-pole. But her mom keeps putting up with his cheating. Leaving him one minute, then taking him back the next. If you ask me, that's just too much craziness going on.

“Well, it's really gettin' on my last nerve,” I say, pulling out my cosmetic case, removing a tube of pink cotton candy lip gloss. “That lady stays tryna do me. I swear I think her mission in life is to ruin me.” I flip down the visor, then glide a coat of gloss over my lips. I pop my lips. “She better get her life.” I toss the lip gloss back into my compact then stuff it down into my bag, venting. “I swear, she better be glad it's open-toe season 'n' Fiona ain't tryna have her pretty feet stuffed inside a pair of blue bobos; otherwise I'd turn it up on—”

“Girl, what the hell?”

“Going to jail, boo. If I didn't love my freedom 'n' havin' cutie-boos at my fingertips, I'd be doin' a bid by now. Trust. 'Cause most days my mother really makes me wanna take it there.”

“Stop. Just bring it back,” Miesha says as she drives down the Ave., holding one hand up while gripping the steering wheel with the other. “Enough of the drama with ya mama. Give me the dirt, girl. All of it. Scoop by scoop, boo. Don't hold nothin' back.”

I give her a confused look. “What are
you
talking about?”

She shoots me a look, shaking her head. “Uh-uh, don't do it, boo. Hel-
lo
? You. Cease. Sunday.”

I frown, twisting in my seat. “Whoop, whoop! Blow the whistle. There was no me. Cease. Or Sunday.”

“Girl, I don't know why you frontin'. You know you like him.”

I pucker my lips. “Sorry to disappoint you, boo, but Cease can't do nothin' for me; except maybe massage my feet 'n' nibble on these toes. That's it. Trust.”

She laughs. “What a freak.”

“Uh-huh. But I ain't messy.”

“Yeah, okay. You need to stop playin' 'n' snatch that boy up before somebody else does.”

I shrug. “They can have 'im. Cease is nice 'n' all. And we both know he's fine. But . . .” I pop my lips. “I already know if I gave 'im some of this good-good he'd end up strung.”

“Girl, you a mess.” She chuckles, shaking her head.

“Mm-hmm. But I ain't lyin'. The world already has enough fiends out here; no need for me to add another one to the census count.”

She laughs. “Yeah, okay. Front if you want. You scared to chill with him 'cause you know that six-five hunk'll prolly be the one turnin'
you
inside out.”

I laugh. “
Mitch
, please. Never that. I'm a beast in the sheets. Trust. That boy ain't ready.”

Brows raised, smirking, Miesha looks at me. “So he didn't call? Text? Skype? Or hit you up on Facebook?”

“Nope. He doesn't have my number, anyway. And we're not Facebook friends. And I'm definitely not about to Skype with some boy who ain't one of my boo-daddies. So there you have it.”

“Uh-huh. For now,” she says, pulling into the lot. She shuts off the engine.

I gasp, opening the door 'n' climbing outta the car. “And what is that s'posed to mean?
For now
?”

She grabs her things, slamming her door shut, then arming the alarm. “You keep tryna convince ya'self not to like him 'n' let me know how you make out.”

“W
. E. B. Du Bois wanted people of color to blend in and become one with whites, but he also rationalized the need for Blacks to maintain a separate institution within black communities. Whereas, Booker T. Washington was considered more practical.” Mr. Nandi pauses. And
hunni
, trust. I find myself struggling to stay awake in class. Well, okay. . . lies. I can't concentrate.

One word:
Cease
.

There, I said it.

And, noooo. I'm not gonna get all stalkerish on him. Chile, boom! It's not that serious. I'm not about that life. Trust. Still. I can't help
not
thinking about last Saturday night at the bowling alley. And, yeah, I know I really wasn't beat to be swinging a ball down an alley. But, mmph. It ended up being a good time. And I ain't even gonna front 'n' act like I wasn't cheesin' all hard inside when Cease stood behind me 'n' pressed himself into me, tryna show me how to handle a bowling ball. Ooh, he was so cute. Mmph.

Mmph. I'm not gonna act like I forgot how I'd gotten all hyped when I got my first, and
only
, strike of the night, 'n' leapt into his arms. And how he kinda spun me around, all hyped with me. Oooh, he's so big 'n' strong 'n' too dang sexy for his own damn good. Mmph.

But I'm not even about to sweat no boy. Oh no, boo. That's not what Fiona does. This diva keeps it moving.

Then why am I sitting here wondering why I didn't see him during fourth period lunch? Well, okay. Not that I was looking for him, really. I mean, I happened to glance around the cafeteria a few times 'n' look over at the jock table for him, like once or twice. But that's it. And, of course, I wasn't even about to ask Miesha if she'd seen him. Psst. Please. I'm not even about to look thirsty.

Oh no, hun.

It's a good thing I'm not one'a them weak-minded, thirsty chicks, like Quanda or some other dumb-dumbs I know; otherwise I'd probably be standing outside of his classroom before the bell rings, waiting for him to walk out. Or I'd be clicking my heels three times tryna find my way to his bed. I mean, to his house.

Ooh, cuckoo-cuckoo. That is sooo nutty.

But
baaaaby,
trust. I know some silly girls who stay doing that crazy ish. Boys, too! But Fiona isn't tryna hop a ride on the cuckoo train with the rest of the half-nutty nut-nuts on campus.

“Miss Madison . . . ?”

I blink, looking up into the face of Mr. Nandi, who is hovering over my desk.

“Huh?”

“Word to the wise, young lady,” he scolds as he glares at me, tapping my desk 'n' eyeing me. “Daydreaming will have you
failing
this class.”

I blink again. Then frown. “Ooh, see, you doin' too much, Mister Nandi,” I say, waving him on. “Fiona Madison doesn't fail. Oh no, hun. Trust.”

“Well, does
she
take notes,
hun
? Because all I've seen since the beginning of the period is her staring into space looking starry-eyed.”

A few kids giggle.

Ooh. He tried it!

I suck my teeth. Then shift in my seat. I fight to keep my eyes from rolling.
Ooh, he's lucky I'm not doin' senior citizens today. I'd drag him by his dentures.
“I'm paying attention. Trust.”

“Then I
trust
,” he says, raising a brow, “you'll ace next week's quiz. Now how about you tell me what year Du Bois was born and during which president's term?”

I give Mr. Nandi the stink eye. He stays tryna be messy! But I'm not even about to let him do me. Not today, boo. I toot my lips up. “He was born in eighteen sixty-eight. The same time President Andrew Johnson was in office.”

Mr. Nandi smirks, swiping his chalk-dusted hands across the back of his jeans. “That is correct.” He eyes me one last time, then shuffles his way back to the chalkboard, where he writes 'n' speaks with his back to us.

“Okay, folks, next week's quiz
will
be on the social and economic philosophies of Booker T. Washington, W. E. B Du Bois, and Marcus Garvey. So my advice”—he glances over his shoulder—“ladies and gentlemen: Take notes. And
pay
attention.”

This nobody chick in back of me with the orange-colored hair 'n' gapped teeth taps me on the shoulder. I crane my neck, giving her a girl-have-you-lost-your-mind-touching-me look.

She frowns back. “Look. Don't shoot the messenger.” She hands me a folded note.

I give her a confused look. She nods her head over to the left, shooting a quick glance over toward David, sitting four seats over from her. He winks at me, licking his lips.

Ugh. I roll my eyes, turning around in my seat. I open the note:
yo. U wanna come thru 2nite?

I glance over my shoulder at him, giving him my answer. Middle finger up, hell no. I wish I would get back on his leash 'n' let him drag me around in some dog collar after he beat his ex-boo's face in. No, ma'am. I ain't signing up for no bedspring bouncing with some happy-handed boy.

Fiona's not that chick. Trust. I sling the note back at him across the room.

He laughs. “You know you want it.”

“Boy, lies! I
had
it,” I correct, snapping a finger. “And
you
didn't know what to do with it.”

Mr. Nandi snaps his neck over his shoulder 'n' lands his glare directly at me like I'm the one causing problems up in here. “Miss Madison . . .”

I roll my eyes.

“Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, A. J. Cooper, M. C. Terrell, Ida B. Wells, and M. W. Stewart all have what in common?”

See. He stays trying me. And I am so over him. But no worries, trust. A diva is always prepared.
Never let 'em see you sweat
. “Well, aside from being strong women who spoke their minds 'n' didn't take no mess,” I say, twisting my lips up at him, “they were human rights activists.”

“That is—”

The bell rings, cutting him off as everyone hops up from their seats 'n' bolts for the door.

“Oh, Miss Madison?”

I stop dead in my tracks.

“Yesss?” I turn around slowly, barely breathing as I study Mr. Nandi, tryna figure out what the heck he could possibly want with
me
. Does he not know that I left my compact home this morning 'n' I need to pop a lil gloss up on these lips 'n' fluff my hair a bit before next period? That I'm tryna get to the bathroom to do a spot check to makes sure my hair 'n' face are still in place?

I swear. Some of these teachers are just so dang inconsiderate. They have no regard for my time.

“Is everything all right?”

I blink. “Of course it is. Everything's fabulous. Why wouldn't it be?”

“You seemed a bit distracted today, that's all.”

“Oh, trust. Fiona has it together. Always.”

He eyes me. “Well, I hope she does. It's too close to the end of the school year for her to start slipping. As much as I enjoy having you and your magnetic personality in my class, Miss Madison, I will not hesitate to fail you.” He tilts his head. “Do you understand me?”

Fail me?

Ooh, he's tryin' me.

I meet his gaze. “No worries, Mister Nandi. Trust. Fiona is not doing red Fs slashed across the top of any of her tests. I got this.”

Mr. Nandi takes me in, shaking his head. I know I'm too much for him. Mmph. “Make sure you do. You have two minutes before the next bell. I suggest you get going.”

He can't be serious. I need to make a pit stop in front of a mirror.

“Umm, what about a pass so I can go to my locker?”

“You still have time to make it.”

I blink. “Ooh, see you tryna be messy,” I say, placing a hand up on my hip. “You know there's no way in—”

He cuts me off. “Miss Madison, standing here won't get you there any faster. I suggest you make a mad dash for it. That's unless you wish to spend the afternoon in detention. I'm hosting.”

I don't give him a chance to say anything else. I hurry up outta his classroom as if my life depends on it. Well, it does. Detention is hell on a diva's social life.

I zigzag my way through the maze of students still cluttering the halls, trying to avoid bumping into anyone, so intent on getting to my next class while digging in my bag to make sure that I at least have my notes with me for my next class.

I can't believe him! Hatin' on me 'cause I'm beautiful. Ole stank
—

“What the
fu
—”

“Damn, sexy, where's the fire?”

“Oh, hey,” I say coolly, tryna keep the surprise outta my voice.

“What's good?”

“Nothing much. Tryna get to class before I'm late.”

“Oh, a'ight. I feel you,” he says, walking alongside of me.

“Where you headed?”

“Weight room.”

I swallow 'n' try not to breathe him in. Or cut my eye at him on the sly. Or think about him in his workout gear, pumping weights 'n' getting all hot 'n' sweaty.

“Oh, okay.”

The bell rings.

Damn.

“Yo, you think about what I asked?”

“Boy, bye! Ain't nobody been thinkin' 'bout
you
.”

He laughs. “See. There you go. That's not even what I asked you.”

Oops
.

He rounds the corner with me. “I meant no, I haven't given it any thought. I'm not interested.”

“Yeah, a'ight. Look. On some real ish, Fee. I need to holla at you 'bout somethin'.” He pulls out his cell. “Let me get ya digits so I can hit you up later.”

I suck my teeth. “Boy, please. What you need my number for? Tell me now. I'm already late.”

“Nah, yo. I gotta get to the gym. I'ma hit you up tonight, a'ight?”

I twist my lips, reluctantly taking his phone as he hands it to me. “Mm-hmm.” I punch in my number, then hand him back his cell. “And don't be tryna breathe all in my ear talkin' no nasty ish, either.”

He starts laughing, sliding his phone back down in his front pocket. “Yeah, right. You know you want it.”

I give him the middle finger, walking into class almost four minutes late.