Diva Rules (3 page)

“D
amn, baby . . .”

“Boy, you ain't ready for this heat,” I say all sexy-like. Of course, I'm all tease with very-little-to-no pleasing going on. Please. I'm not feeling as inspired to remove all my clothes as I had thought I would be before I slid into this boy's car.

“Yeah, a'ight,” he groans low in my ear. “You stay playin', yo. You got me on rock, ma. When you gonna stop frontin' 'n' let me crack that?”

Okay, let me just put it on here now so we're clear: I have a weakness for tall, tatted, rugged thug-boos with swag. And if he has dreads and he's dark chocolate... whew! Yes, lawd . . . then it's about to be a situation. Every diva needs her a nice hunky chunk of dark chocolate to bite into from time to time.

But every now and again, like right at this very moment, my lil chocolate stud daddy winds up being a real lame. A dud. A terrible disappointment. And, sadly, a waste of my time.

And the only reason I have to try to bow out of this tragic predicament gracefully is because King's really, really a nice guy. Yes, King. King Matthews. He's eighteen and a freshman at Saint Peter's University. Six-three. Chiseled. Dark. Fine. And ohh so sexy!

I met him at a college party the Kappas were having two weekends ago at NJCU—New Jersey City University. I was lovin' his swag. And he was lovin' all there is to love about the fine, fly, fabulous me. Yes, boo. I'm a hottie. He knew it 'n' so did everyone else, which is why he stepped up to me in the first place, the minute he peeped me in my wears—skintight 7 For All Mankind jeans poured over my hips 'n' a cute lil low-cut T-shirt with the words
HOT POCKET
scrawled across my chest in red script. Oh, 'n' the six-inch Gucci heels—straight out of my sister Sonji's walk-in closet.

King ain't no fool. He knows quality when he peeps it. A five-star
bish
, boo. Thought you knew. I strutted up in that
beeeyotch
like I owned it. I served it!

Dropped it. Popped it. Twerked it. Swept the floor with it. Gave all the hot boys something to drool over. And the hatin'-azz chicks something else to add to their bucket lists: how to be me.

All I could do is give 'em that look that said
Go have several seats 'n' take notes!

Anyway, King and I danced almost the whole night. Then chopped it up real lovely outside for almost an hour in the parking lot after the party was over. Before we finally exchanged numbers 'n' bounced our separate ways.

Now here we are.

And guess what? King can't kiss. He's all teeth, tongue, 'n' a buncha dang spit! No. Seriously. His lip game is capital h-o-r-r-i-d. Scraping his teeth against mine 'n' licking my mouth like it's a dog bowl is so not sexy! And usually for me, a whack-azz kisser is grounds for immediate, on-the-spot dismissal.

See ya'self to the door!

But he's so dang fine. And somehow I've managed, along with the two blunts we've smoked, to let him melt away every ounce of my good dang sense, thinking—okay,
hoping—
that after a few practice runs he'd get it right.

Not. Epic fail!

And now I'm turned off 'n' royally disgusted.

He tries to kiss me again 'n' I jerk my head back just as his overly wet lips graze the side of my neck. I feel like I'm in the backseat with an overexcited Rottweiler the way this boy's tryna slobber me down.

Ewww.

Here's the thing with me. I flirt. I tease. And I might even do a lil lickin' 'n' kissin' if I get real hot 'n' frisky 'n' my ho-meter kicks up a notch. But be clear. I ain't givin' up the cookie to every boy with a hard-on.

No. You gotta earn this.

My name is not Trixie. And I am not giving out treats. No. But tonight, what I am givin' out is a bad case of blue balls to this fool right here; especially after laying my hand down in his lap and feeling what he's carrying in his blue American Eagle boxers. Ugh! This boy has two big potato sacs and no dang meat.

Blank stare.

See. I already know I'm dead wrong for even being in the backseat of this boy's 2008 Durango stretched out on black leather seats, letting him think I'ma let him tear it up. And the minute I slid in the front seat of his whip when he picked me up tonight, I knew I was making a mistake. I knew it was a bad idea. But
noooo.
I just needed to get out of the house and away from the likes of my mother.

So here I am.

The sexy sounds of R. Kelly flooding the space around us.

Weed smoke thick in the air.

Windows all steamy.

One perky boob out of my red lace bra, and this boy's rough hands squeezing 'n' kneading me like I'm a ball of pizza dough. Yeah, after talking to him on the phone I thought I wanted to give it to him in every position. But, womp, womp, womp . . . he is sooo not what I'm in the mood for.

He's breathing hard.

And I'm suffering; bored outta my mind.

“Damn, you got me turnt up, ma.”

“Ohh, okay, boo . . .” is all I say, rolling my eyes up in my head.

So what's a diva to do?

Give in 'n' go at it, watching him make crazy faces until I fake an orgasm? Close my eyes 'n' imagine it's Trey Songz's hands 'n' lips all over me?

No, no. No can do. Trey Songz is grown-man status, although it doesn't hurt to fantasize. Still, he's waaaay too old for me to even be thinking such dirty things.

So when in doubt, blame it on your cycle 'n' cramp it out. Trust. Tell him it's a crime scene in ya panties 'n' that'll stop him in his tracks. Or simply tell him no, thank you. If he's respectful, he'll pull up off 'a you, fix the situation in his pants, then shift gears.

I decide to go for the latter. After all, honesty is usually the best policy, right?

King starts grinding on me, deep 'n' hard.

“Listen, boo,” I say, tryna push him up off me. But he's already gone. Lost in a zone as he grabs my hips 'n' starts grunting 'n' pumping a mile a minute, like a dog in heat. And I have no one to blame but myself for allowing this mess to get this far. “King, stop! Get off me!”

It's too late.

He growls.

Then shudders.

Sweat drips from his face.

I blink.

King blinks.

Did this boy just make a baby in his own pants?

Yes. He. Did!

Ohhhhmigod! Yuck.

Ohhhkay. I am officially done! Dead to the bed! Flat-lined! Sticky Drawz can now take me home. I blink several times, tryna wrap my mind around what just happened here as he finally lifts up off of me.

I eye him as he reaches for his shirt and slips it back over his head, then adjusts himself in his jeans. I try not to frown at this horn dog. But trust. I'm looking at him sideways 'n' all kinds of crazy.

For some reason, I feel dirty.

Violated.

I slip my boob back into my bra, slide my shirt back on over my head, then climb up into the front seat. Speechless.

He doesn't even try to sop up the mess he's made in his underwear with napkins, a towel, nothing. He simply climbs out of the truck, opens the driver-side door, then slides behind the wheel and drives off like everything's everything.

Alllllrighty then.

“Yo, why you all quiet over there?” he finally says, glancing over at me while we're stopped at a light. “You good?” He reaches over and places his hand on my thigh. His hand slides up farther than what he's earned.

I look over at him.
Are you effen kidding me?!
I grab his hand, gently remove it from out of my crotch. “Uh-huh,” I say dryly. “Just dandy, boo. You good?”

“Yeah, yeah. No doubt.”

His hand goes back up on the steering wheel, where it belongs.

I fake a tight smile, then turn my head toward the window and stare out into the night.
Yeah, I bet you are, with ya drawz all sticky 'n' stained with a bunch of man gravy!

Ugh! How gross!

“F
iona! 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.”

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.

I open it. It's a poem.

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

“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.”