literally jumped back at my reflection in the mirror. I looked like a cross between Don King and a raccoon with my thick shoulder-length hair all tangled and sticking up over my head. There were telling circles under my red-rimmed eyes that didn’t look good at all against my bronzed cinnamon complexion. Drool was dried on my face.
Too much partying. Too much drinking. Too much damn fun. And it showed big-time.
After a long hot shower, a facial, a few eye drops, and getting rid of the tangles in my hair with a ventilated brush, I felt a little better. I could only shake my head at the condition of my hair. Even though I’d just been for my weekly appointment to the hairdresser yesterday, I would be on my cell at nine sharp making an appointment for later today. There’s no way I’m sporting a dang-on ponytail all weekend.
Looking and dressing my best was important to me. See, my girls and I always made sure we stepped out of the house with our shit together from our hairdos to our Jimmy Choo shoes. This was a must.
All through high school and our entrance into early adulthood we were the popular ones. Other girls either hated us or wanted to be one of us. We kept our hair in the latest styles, and our gear was always the trend. We wore nothing but designer fashions: from the stonewashed Guess jeans and Timberlands of the nineties to Prada and Manolos in the new millennium.
Ever since our freshman year at University High there were always just the four of us. We looked out for one another. We had each other’s back. There’s an unbreakable trust between us built on ten years of friendship and sisterhood.
There’s Latoya, Keesha, and Danielle, a.k.a. Moët, “Dom” Perignon, and Cristal. Dom came up with the nicknames one day back in 2000 while we were eating lunch in the caf. She got the idea from the late and great rapper Biggie Smalls’ 1994 classic “Juicy.” Those nicknames made us even more popular, and they’ve stuck ever since.
Six years later, although no one was really popping Dom as much, and Jay-Z had called for a boycott of Cristal because some bigwig had dissed hip-hop, we kept those names.
Oh, me? I’m Monica, but everyone except my parents calls me Alizé. No, I don’t have a fancy champagne name like everyone else, but that’s cool. Just like the drink, I’m the sweetest of the bunch anyway.
I didn’t leave his bathroom until I wrapped a towel around my body because there was no need to tempt fate. I was too happy to open the door and find the bedroom empty. I heard him in the kitchen.
Good. He loved to catch me fresh from the shower or a bath and eat me out.
I grabbed my overnight bag and pulled out some fresh undergarments to hurry into. My cell phone rang. As I sprayed on the only perfume I wear—Happy, by Clinique—I picked my phone up and flipped it open, forgetting the mandatory check of my caller ID.
“Hey,” I said in a little singsong fashion—my usual greeting.
“Whaddup, baby girl.”
I felt my face wrinkle into a nasty frown as I recognized my ex’s voice. I couldn’t stand the sight, smell, or sound of Malik’s sorry ass. This knuckle-head tried to holler at Cristal behind my back.
That was a definite no-no.
Being the home girl Cristal was, she told me all about it…after she slapped the hell out of him.
But that wasn’t the first time Cris and I didn’t let a boy cause drama between us.
It was 1999. Freshman year of high school. New school. New faces. New rules. New cliques.
And since I was the only one from my elementary school to get accepted into University High, that meant new friends, but I had no worries.
I was looking good in the latest Parasuco gear. My bob was laid out, and my gold jewelry was in place. My pocketbook and bookbag were Gucci. My parents were real good to me. Being the only child had its benefits.
All eyes were on me as soon as I walked into my homeroom. The various conversations buzzing around the room lulled. A few of the boys whistled or shot me their “let me holla at you” smile. I went right into spin control and threw on a smile like I had the world in the palm of my hand. A few people smiled in return. A couple of girls immediately bent together, and I felt like they were talking about me.
There was an empty seat next to a tall, slender girl with skin the color of shortbread cookies. She was busy flirting back with a slender dark-skinned kid with long, asymmetrical braids and a big Kool–Aid smile. I made my way past the rows of students in chairs with attached desks, speaking to every last person I made eye contact with.
“Whassup,” I said to Shortbread and Braids as I set my things on the long bookshelf behind us.
Braids looked at me from the tip of my fresh white Nikes to my eyes, not missing anything in between. There was no denying the interested look in his deep-set hazel eyes as he turned in his chair to face me and turned his back to Shortbread. “Better yet, shorty, how you doin’?”
I saw the disappointment on Shortbread’s face, and even though he was as fine as Tyrese, I wasn’t looking for drama this early in the school year. “I’ll be doin’ even better when you go back in her face and out of mine.”
His pretty-boy face fell, and I knew lover boy was shocked that all his deliciousness rolled off my back like water.
Shortbread laughed, holding her hand over her mouth. “No need him turning this way again,” she said with attitude.
“Oh, so both y’all gone play me?” he asked, straight white and even teeth flashing.
We both looked at him like “Negro, please.”
He sucked his teeth, waved his hand, and turned to a dark-skinned cutie sitting in front of him.
Shortbread and I looked at each other, gave each other some dap, and then laughed at how we shut down his wanna-be playa ass.
“I’m Monica.”
“Danielle.”
We’ve been inseparable ever since, and we’ve always been loyal to each other.
Too bad Malik’s dumb ass didn’t know that.
“What you want?” I snapped, my eyes flashing as I focused my attention back on him. “No! As a matter of fact, who gives a shit?”
I slammed the phone closed, immediately dismissing that clown. True, his money had been good and he had been free-giving with it, but bump that, I don’t need a no-good Negro trying to play me with one of my girls. When it comes to shit like that, I’m like Aretha: give me my R-E-S-P-E-C-T, understand?
Besides, I’ve moved on to bigger and better things. Malik didn’t have nothing on Rah.
Once a big-time drug dealer, Rah had pooled his money and bought businesses that let him get out of the game before the game got him.
Okay, Malik can throw down a thousand times better in bed, but R-E-S-P-E-C-T, remember?
It’s not like I ever loved Malik or even Rah for that matter. Shit, I’ve never been in love and that’s fine by me. Love’s nothing but a bunch of bullshit.
