Get Ready for War (15 page)

I snapped my fingers and did another dance. I hadn't felt this good in weeks. I could almost feel the beauty juice rushing through me. Just the thought of it was orgasmic. “Whew!” I shook my shoulders as I glanced up at the clock.

Group started ten minutes ago.

Talk about a high-blower.

I turned toward the door and immediately my heart dropped. Leaning against the door frame as if he'd been there too long, and wearing a stupid smirk on his face, was my personal pain in the . . . my druggie jail correction officer. Shakeer Mills. Better known as my case manager.

Ugh!

I couldn't stand him.

And it didn't help me one bit that Mr. Nerve-Wrecker was fine. He stood about five-ten, five-eleven at most. His flawless skin was the color of smooth chocolate and his sexy eyes were the color of sweet ice tea. He rocked a wavy caesar with enough spin to make you dizzy. And his light mustache was neatly shaped around his luscious lips and melted into his faded beard. Now I knew what Co-Co meant when he said that a cutie was so fine you had to call him Mr. Goddamn.

I didn't know if my vision of him was because I'd been locked away for days, my hormones, or a combination of the two. All I knew was that there was fine and
fi-one.
And Mr. Panty-Rockin' Sweetness put the O in it.

For a moment I felt nervous and wondered if I had anything out of place. And then I remembered that everything about me was out of place.

I swallowed. Looked over Mr. Wreckin' My Flow And My Nerves and wondered how long he had been standing there. I shot him a look that clearly said
Why. The. Heck. Are. You. Bothering. Me?!

“Don't you have somewhere to be?” He stood up straight, and I could've sworn that he was checking me out on the sly.

I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling and slowly brought them back down. “As a matter of fact I have several places to be. Like on the set of my sitcom. In the backseat of my limo. Rodeo Drive. Home.”

“You have group.”

I twisted my lips.
Whatever.
“I was on my way there.”

“Before or after you dropped down and brought it back up on that last finger pop? Or before or after you said you wanted to be beautified?”

OMG, apparently he'd been standing there long enough to be all up in my conversation. Nosy.
I took a deep breath and ignored his last statement.

He took a step closer to me and continued. “From what I just witnessed seems like you're right back at the place that got you here. Right back up on your stage in your backyard.”

I batted my eyes and lowered my lashes. “Okay, Mr. Mind Reader, I'm guilty as charged. And since you can read my thoughts, maybe you should have a nine-hundred number, sir.”

His jaw tightened and a pulsating vein ran down the right side of his thick neck and beneath his lavender button-up. He slid a hand in his right dress pants pocket and
do Jesus
, his swag was making me sweat. I wiped my forehead and he said, his voice dropping to an annoyed octave, “Maybe you need to come to my office so we can finish this conversation.”

“Oh wow, I'd really love to. But umm, I'm on my way to group.”

“Not anymore you're not. You're on your way to an individual session. You'll catch the next group. Now let's go!”

Psst, please. I know he had me messed up. I don't take orders. This wasn't a drive-through. He had me twisted. “Seems you missed the star of
The Wu-Wu Tanner Show
announcement. And I know they handed out flyers before I came here.” I snapped my fingers. “So I know you see that I'm a star and I need to be treated like one.”

He frowned. “Oh really? A star? Well, here's what I see. A pill popper. A junkie. A little girl who throws Skittles parties and instead of facing her demons she snorts pills to chase them away. What I see standing before me is a mess.”

“I know you didn't—”

“Look, one thing I'm not going to do is argue with you. You're not running any show here. Because the last show you ran had you terminated. So how about this, Your Majesty. You have two choices: you can either stand here with all that lip if you want to, or you can program.” He turned toward the door. “And keep in mind,” he said over his shoulder, “I'm the one who writes the reports on your progress and sends them to the judge. And right now there is no progress. So like
I said
, you need to come to my office.” And he walked out and left me standing there, watching his fine behind get smaller in the distance.

I hesitated. It had crossed my mind to walk out the front door and blow this place. Until I remembered I had to be buzzed out.

I gathered myself, tucked my attitude like it was a clutch beneath my arm, and made my way to Mr. Fine Distraction's office—where he sat behind his mahogany desk and looked through a chart.

I tapped on the door frame.

“Have a seat,” he said, never looking up.

Ugh, I wanted to gut him!

I sucked my teeth and plopped down in the chair, my coils bouncing over my shoulders.

He picked up his pen and proceeded to write a note on the chart he'd been reviewing. A few minutes later he closed the chart and looked up at me slowly. “You know what? You need an attitude adjustment.”

I rolled my eyes so hard it's a wonder they didn't fall out and slap his face. “My attitude is adjusted; I'm not giving you the heat that I usually bless people with.”

“Oh really?” He paused. “You know what, Heather? You want out of here?”

Hell yes! Duh.
“Like yesterday.”

“Okay. You got it.”

“Thank you for being so understanding,” I said, but not meaning one word of it.

“Not a problem. Because one thing I can do for the resident star is make it happen.”

“See, I knew you recognized me.” I smiled. “Thank you soooo much! And just to show you how thankful I am, let me know if you have a daughter and I will be sure to send her a signed Wu-Wu doll.”

He smiled, reached a muscular arm across his desk, and picked up the phone. He dialed a number and said into the receiver, “Hello, can I have Judge Raymond's chambers, please.”

Immediately my chest tightened and a sharp pain shot up my left arm. I thought I was having a heart attack. “Why-why-why are you calling the judge?” I stammered, panicked.

He covered the receiver. “To have him send someone dressed in blue for you.”

I was about to piss on myself. Flashbacks of a king-size chick who thought she was a boy popped into my head. “Judge Raymond will send me back to jail. I can't do jail! I can't go back there! Please! I'd have to fight for my life!”

He eyed me.

“Please. I can't go back!” Tears dripped down my cheeks. I reached over and placed my hand on the hand he held the phone with and pleaded with my eyes. “I can't go back there! I'll work the program! I'll do whatever you want!”
I was desperate.

He paused. Looked me over and asked, “You'll do what?”

“I'll work the program. I swear.” Sweat dripped down my temples and over my forehead. I felt like I was going through withdrawals all over again.

He hung up the phone and I leaned back in my chair, breathing a sigh of relief.

“Sit up,” he commanded.

I did as I was told.

He leaned in toward me and said sternly, “I promise you, the next time you
will
be leaving here in handcuffs. Are we clear?”

I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Now the first step in working the program is owning who you are. Now who are you?”

“My name is Heather . . .”

“And why are you here?”

“I'm a junkie.”

Oh God, I felt sick. How could he talk to me like that? I lifted up my diamond-jeweled Dolce & Gabbana shades, then dabbed at the corners of my eyes. I dared not spill a tear.

I shifted in my seat, pulling my shades back over my eyes. I felt like kids in class were staring and snickering at me as I sat in the back of my AP Latin class. This was too much! I wanted to bolt out the door and run out the front doors, but knew I couldn't afford any more write-ups for cutting class, or school.

Right now I didn't care about Cicero or neologisms, or dactylic hexameters, or whether a subject or predicate was at the beginning or end of a sentence. Latin class was the last place I wanted to be. I wanted to be home in bed, wrapped beneath my exquisite sheets with my nails raking along the seam of Justice's back as he made magic stir deep inside me while whispering sweet nothings into my ear. But that wasn't about to happen, since I had no clue where the hell he was. So, yes, my mind was any-and-every-where except Hollywood High.

Miss Stein, my teacher, was talking, but her words slurred and she sounded like one of the Chipmunks. Her high-pitched voice faded in and out. All I could think about was Justice. Justice, Justice, Justice!

I hadn't seen or heard from him since he slipped out of my bedroom and snuck out of my house. Thursday night, to be exact! One of the worst nights of my entire teen life. He dodged out of my house—with no goodbye, no kiss on the lips, no “I'll see you later,” no “I love you”—taking every piece of me with him.

London, you're pathetic
.

Justice and Anderson had both called me that. Maybe they were right. Maybe I was pathetic. Or maybe I was simply a girl who wanted to love and be loved back. Maybe I believed in knights in shining armor and princesses and a happily-ever-after. Maybe I hoped and prayed and wanted like hell to be happy forever and ever . . . amen—with Justice. Or maybe I was just a fool for love. No, no, I wasn't any of those things. I was simply a fool!

A fool for thinking Justice would ever stop hurting me. A fool for thinking he and I could run off into the sunset, like they do in the movies, and live, laugh, and love each other until our dying days. I was a fool for thinking my parents would ever approve of him and welcome him with open arms. And I was a fool for still believing it could all come true.

Justice had stolen from me. He stole my laughter. He stole my joy. He raided my thoughts. He robbed me of my life. And I had nothing; nothing but a truckload of insults, and a trash can of snotty tissues from crying for the last four nights and four days.

Oh, and I had—once again—a broken heart. No, scratch that. Not even a broken heart; I had
no
heart. No heart to stand up to him. No heart to walk away from him. No heart to stop loving him and being consumed by him. My heart had been broken so many times that I could no longer feel. I was paralyzed. And numb.

And maybe I did make him mad, but I did nothing to deserve what he'd dished out to me. The punishment did not fit the crime. I pissed him off for a moment and he sentenced me to a lifetime of misery. Where was the
justice
in that? Oh no, justice was unfair. It was cruel and unkind. Justice was poison. And it, and he, were killing me slowly.

. . . don't talk to me about
love
'cause you don't know the first thing about
love.

Justice was so wrong. I knew—well, I thought I knew—what love was with him. But I was tired of
love
putting me on punishment. I'm the one who'd been blindsided. It had taken my heart, my love, my body. It stripped me of everything. In one breath, I wanted to love him and leave him alone, then in another I felt like I would die to have him back. So here I was in the back of Latin class, texting him again, hoping love would find its way back to me.

Justice where r u?

I felt like I was I going insane. I felt schizophrenic. Voices were telling me to hate him one minute, then to love him the next. Then they'd turn around and tell me to hunt him down and kill him, then tell me to love him all over again. These voices were controlling me. Telling me he had to pay for taking my love and spitting on it. Telling me I had to keep on loving him and not give up on him. I felt stupid for wanting to cry. But I couldn't help but cry.

Then there were times when I felt like I had multiple personalities. That I had a starring role in a nutty sitcom called
The Forty Faces of Dumb London
. One minute I was the fly, fabulous, stiletto-wearing diva draped in diamonds and designer wears who loved her body and embraced her beauty and held the world in the palm of her soft, pampered hands. The It Chick who didn't care about boys or drama or bull crap. Then the next minute, I was the sniveling, needy, obsessively jealous chick who thought she was fat and ugly. And cried and begged and stalked her boyfriend. I was a spoiled brat who lied and defied her parents and kept dirty secrets all in the name of love.

It was all too much to keep up with.

Justice why r'nt u callin me back? Stop hurtin' me! This

silence is killin' me! why r u doin' this 2 me?

A thousand whys raced through my mind: Why couldn't I just leave him alone? Why did I keep letting him hurt me like this? Why wasn't I good enough? Why couldn't I make him happy? Why did it hurt so bad, but feel so good? Why did I love so hard? Why, why, why? I was getting tired of holding my breath waiting on the answers.

I had everything: money, beauty, a banging body, good sex. Justice and I were supposed to be a family. It was supposed to be me and him against the world. But lately it had become me, myself, and I—alone. Once again, Justice had abandoned me. I tried and I tried and I tried. Kept crying and crying and crying. And it just kept getting worse. Loving him was a battle that slowly was turning into a war. Justice was the man I'd die for. But he turned out not to be concerned about me. Now I knew the sky could really fall. If I were a butterfly I'd fly away. Oh, wait . . . I couldn't even do that. Justice had my wings!

The fourth-period bell rang, temporarily pulling me out of my misery. I listlessly grabbed my handbag and notes, then slid out the door, pulling out my phone for the tenth time, checking it. I felt like I was walking in a thick fog as I glanced at the screen.
Ugh!
There was a text from Anderson. I rolled my eyes up in my head. He was not who I expected, or was hoping, to hear from.

U okay?

I ignored him. Granted, he had dropped me off at school this morning—because my father felt it was his duty to make my life even more miserable by taking my car away for the next two weeks—but still, that didn't give Anderson the right to think he could check up on me, like he was really my man. Please. I was tired of him and my parents being all up in my business. I knew my parents thought they had a right to be. But Anderson kept forgetting his place, dodging his lane, and crossing all up into mine. I didn't need him to be asking me how I was doing. Mmmph. He needed to worry about how
he
was
doooooooin'.

Absentmindedly, I walked the hallway, texting Justice for the fiftieth time this morning. He still hadn't responded to the other text messages I had left. And I couldn't leave any more voice messages because his inbox was full.

I sent another text.

U kno what Justice, F U! I'm not gonna keep sweatin' U

I tossed the phone back into my bag and stabbed my heels into the marbled floor as I made way to Rich's locker and waited for her. Before I knew it, five minutes had passed and Rich was nowhere in sight. I was in a crisis, on the verge of an emotional meltdown, and that shallow, self-righteous strumpet was nowhere to be found. I was always there for her. But when I needed her, was she ever there for me? Nooooooo, of course not! She was the Princess of Selfish, the epitome of not giving a damn about anyone but herself. So you know what? Eff her, too!

I pulled out my phone one more time to check for messages, even though I hadn't heard my phone beep or felt it vibrate since the last time I had checked it. There were none. This was ridiculous! Who does that?
Oh God, I hope he's all right. I know we had that big fight. Oh God, nooooo! I hope he's not somewhere floating facedown in the Pacific. It'd be my fault. I'd never be able to live with myself.

I sent him another text, asking him to please call me, telling him that I didn't mean what I had texted before. That I only wanted to hear his voice to know that he was okay. If he would just call me I could get through my day. I could express how I felt. Let bygones be bygones, then move on and keep on loving him. But he was making it difficult.

But you know what? I didn't need him. It was good while it lasted, but obviously it was over. So I was going to get myself together and keep it moving. And this time I meant it. I was done. I pulled out my cell, determined to make this the last time I texted him.

U kno what justice? screw u! I'm finished wit U. Thnx 4

showin me the man U r, or better yet, r not! Ur pathetic!

A few seconds later my cell rang and I immediately answered without looking at the screen. “Hello?” I said, hoping to hear my man's silky voice.

“I guess that means you still haven't heard from him,” the deep voice said. I cringed.

“What do you want, Anderson? I've had enough of you for one day.”

“Is that any way to talk to the guy who made sure you got to school safe and sound today? Don't get yourself all up in a huff. I only called to see how you were holding up your first day back, knowing how distressed you've been.”

“Anderson, spare me. You only dropped me off to school out of obligation so you could look good. You don't care about me. I'm pathetic, remember? So let's stick with the program and stop frontin'.”

He laughed. “Liking you is not even up for discussion. The fact is, I saved you from your father's wrath when you ran up out your house like some lovesick maniac, chasing behind a boy who won't even love you back. So you owe me a little respect and some kindness as gratitude.”

“I don't owe you shi—”

“Ah-ah-ah, be nice.”

“Anderson, let's get something clear. I. Don't. Like. You. Okay? So the sooner you get it through your head, the better.”

“See. I should have let you drown. But, no, once again—I tossed you a lifeline and saved the day.”

I sucked my teeth. “Please,
drown?
I don't think so. I don't need saving, especially not by you. So you can take your lifelines and shove 'em where I know you'd love them to be. I didn't ask you to lie for me, so stop acting like you did me some favor. I got this. I was ready to handle my own. I got me. Now you go get your life and stay the hell out of mine! And stop worrying about who's loving me or not.”

He laughed. And that only pissed me off more. “What the hell is so funny?”

“Oh, London, London, London... actually,
you
are. You're a beautiful mess. But your attitude makes you butt-ugly. And it stinks . . .”

I blinked.
Beautiful? Wait, Anderson's giving
me
a compliment? Since when?

Well, you
are
a mess!

“Whatever. And you're a pompous prick, but guess who cares?”

“I know, I know. You don't. Yet you spend all of your time caring about people who don't care about you. I'm not your enemy, London. I know you're hurt. But I'm not the one who keeps hurting you. You're always talking mess, always coming at me sideways, but anytime your back's up against the wall or that idiot disses you, who's the first person you call? I am. So, yeah, I might be a pompous prick, as you say, but I've never given you my butt to kiss. And right now, all I'm doing is calling to check on you. But since I'm such a nuisance, I'ma let you go. You can wallow in ya misery all by ya'self.”

“You know what, Anderson? I don't effen need you to call me. And you don't ever have to worry about
me
calling you a—”

“Yeah, right. Who you gonna call? Justice?” He laughed. “Picture that. Oh wait, let me guess. Rich. That's who you'll call. Hahahaha. That's even funnier than you thinking Justice is ever gonna change. Do you really think Rich is going to listen to you pour your broken heart out to her? Ha! All Rich cares about is Rich. And whose bed she's going to jump in next. And what designer she's going to wear from one day to the next. That self-absorbed girl has the attention span of a spider. So, yeah . . . go call Rich. And let me know how you make out with that. I'm done with you.”

Did he hang up on me?
I glanced at the screen. The word
Disconnected
confirmed what I already knew. Whatever! I shoved my phone down into my bag, as the glass doors of the café opened. I couldn't wait to get caught up with Rich. I hadn't spoken to her since that day she tried to breast-feed Justice. Ugh, I still couldn't get over that! But I wasn't going to hold that against her. Whores do what whores do—whore. So, it was to be expected.

As I walked into the café, I was immediately greeted by the music of the chatter. It was everything I was not. It was lively. It was like a finger-popping hip-hop song. Made you bounce to the rhythm. Made you want to shake and drop and pop right back up. It was definitely a totally different vibe from last Monday when I got jumped up in here by a bunch of
now
bald-headed hoes. I still wanted to thrash them, though. But oh well ... karma snatched them and took their hair right along with her. Served them right!