Diva Rules

Book 2: McPherson High

by Amir Abrams

Genres: YA Romance

Synopsis

1. Always step out camera ready. 2. Never, ever, fight over a boy. 3. Serve ’em grace ‘n’ face. Fiona Madison has being popular on lock. She’s everywhere everyone wants to be—and she knows just how to keep frenemies, haters, and admirers guessing. Fiona keeps it cute and knows how to turn a party out no matter how tough things get at home—or how lonely she really is. The only relationship a guy can have with her is BWB (Boo-With-Benefits). Anything more is a major not-going-to-happen...Until someone Fiona never sees coming is suddenly too close, understands her all too well—and is turning this diva’s life upside down…

Release date: April 28, 2015

Publisher: Dafina

Print pages: 320

Sample

Diva check...

Hey, hey now! It’s diva roll call . . . Are you present?

Rude, check...

Bitchy, check...

Spoiled, check...

Selfish, check...

Overdramatic, check, check...

Scrrrrreeeech! Hold up. That is not what this diva is about. No, hunni! Being a diva is all about attitude, boo. It’s about bein’ fierce. Fabulous. And always fly. It’s about servin’ it up ’n’ keepin’ the haters on their toes. And the rules are simple.

So, let’s try this again.

Fiona’s my name. Turning boys out is my game. Fashion’s my life. Being fabulous is my mission. And staying fly is a must. Oh, and trust. I serve it up lovely. Period, point blank. At five seven, a buck twenty-five with my creamy, smooth complexion, blond rings of shoulder-length curls, and mesmerizing green eyes, I’m that chick all the cutie-boos stay tryna see about. I’m that chick with the small waist and big, bouncy booty that all the boys love to see me shake, bounce, ’n’ clap. I’m that hot chick that the tricks ’n’ hoes at my school—McPherson High—love to hate; yet hate that they can’t ever be me.

Like I always tell ’em, “Don’t be mad, boo. I know I give you life. Thank me for giving you something to live for.”

Conceited?

No, hun. Never that.

Confident?

Yes, sweetie. Always that.

No, boo. I don’t think I’m the hottest thing since Beyoncé’s “Drunk in Love” video. I’m convinced I am. Big difference. Snap, snap! Don’t get it twisted.

Now who’s ready for roll call?

Always fly, check...

Always fabulous, check...

Always workin’ the room, check...

Always snappin’ necks, check, check...

Always poppin’ the hips ’n’ turnin’ it up, check, check...

Wait. Wait. Wait. Let’s rewind this segment alllll the way back for a sec. Yes, I keeps it cute, all day, every day, okay? And, yes, I know how to turn it up when I need to. I’m from the hood, boo. Born ’n’ bred. But that doesn’t mean I have to be hood. No, honey-boo. I’m too classy for that. Trust. But know this. If I have to let the hood out on you ’n’ introduce you to the other side of me, it ain’t gonna be cute. So don’t bring it ’n’ I won’t have to sling it.

If you wanna check my credentials, just ask the last chick I had to beat down. She’ll gladly show you the stamp I left on her forehead, okay?

Soooo. Moving on. As I was saying, I’m from the hood. Lived on the same block, in the same house, all my life. I know these streets like I know the back of my hands ’n’ the curve of my hips. They can be mean ’n’ dangerous ’n’ ohhh, so exciting. And, yeah, the streets might be praising me, but they ain’t raising me. So I’m not about to serve you some effed up tale about a chick being lost in the streets, eaten ’n’ beaten alive. No, no. I’m a hood goddess, boo. That chick the wannabes bow down to, ’n’ the lil thug-daddies worship. But, trust. This ain’t no hood love story. So be clear.

No, hun. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon hanging from my pouty mouth, but that doesn’t mean I can’t dream. That doesn’t mean I can’t want more than what I already have. And, yeah, a chick dreams about getting outta the hood. Traveling the world. Bagging a fine cutie-boo, or two, or three, who I can call my own. And being filthy rich. One day I will be. Trust. But for now, that doesn’t mean I can’t wear the illusion like a second skin. And, trust. I wear it well, boo.

So if you’re hoping for some sob story about some broke-down, busted, lil fast-azz, boy-crazy ho tryna claw her way outta the hood, trickin’ the block huggers up offa their paper for a come-up—sorry, boo-boo. Not gonna happen. If you’re looking to hear about a chick going hungry or sleeping on some pissy-stained mattress, or having her hot pocket stuffed in some dirty panties going to school smelling like a sewer, then go find you another seat, boo, because you’re sitting in the wrong arena. That stage play is being run somewhere else. If you’re looking to hear about some fresh-mouthed chick who got beat with fists ’n’ locked in closets, that’s not gonna be featured here, either. Sorry, hun. I can’t tell you a thing about that. Well, I could. But that’s not my story. So I’ll save that for some other hood chick.

So who am I?

I’m that hot chick, boo.

I’m a diva.

I’m a boss bish . . . and whaaaat?!

Now, I’m not saying I’m a gold digger, but I’m not ever messing with a broke ninja, okay? And neither should you. I mean, c’mon. If his sneaker game isn’t up, then what makes him think I’ma let him get up in heaven, huh? Pop, pop! Shots fired! Man down! He’ll get his lil feelings hurt first. Trust. It’s not gonna happen. Now. Hold up, boo. That’s not saying we can’t be friends. There just won’t be any benefits along with said friendship. Well, okay, okay . . . aside from the benefit of being in my company. But the stairway to heaven is—and will forever be—off limits.

Amen.

Hallelujah!

Oh, heaven . . . ? Yeah, that’s what the boys call this wet-wet. It’s where warm bliss and sweet waterfalls meet. Ooh, yes. Trust. And after we tear the sheets up, they all end up looking dazed and saying how they feel like they’ve died ’n’ gone to heaven.

And most times they have.

Trust, honey-boo. If I don’t know anything else, this sexy kitten knows how to make a boy forget his name. Curl his toes. And make his eyes roll up in the back of his head. Trust. And there you have it. But I ain’t tryna read you my diary, so . . .

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Here I am, minding my own business, strolling down the Ave., keeping it sexy ’n’ cute as a diva always should, when I approach two guys a few feet ahead of me posted up in front of Miss Moosie’s candy spot—this lil corner store that sells all of your snack needs up front ’n’ all your get-right (molly, weed, X, coke, you name it, she got it) in the back part of the store. Miss Moosie—oh, everybody calls her that ’cause she kinda gotta face like a moose, but I ain’t one to talk messy about somebody else’s moms so I’ma leave it at that. Anyway, Miss Moosie thinks nobody knows what kinda dirty operation she’s got going on. But I ain’t stupid. I’m young. Not dumb. Trust.

Besides, her three sons hustle ’n’ been in ’n’ outta jail since they were like eleven, twelve, for drugs ’n’ whatnot. And her house ’n’ store have been raided mad times. So who she think she fooling? Surely not moi.

Anyway . . . back to these two nondescript man-tramps up ahead. Of course, I size ’em both up real quick, way before I get up on ’em. The short round one, who looks like he has a water bed for a stomach, is kinda cute in the face ’n’ he has nice eyes. They’re kinda slanted. And he has nice thick lips. Ooh, ’n’ you already know where my mind goes seeing them lips. Yes, hunni. Straight to south of the border, boo. Mmph. I have to snatch my thoughts out of the gutter.

I blink. Reel my senses in real quick. Then frown. Them C-cup boy-boobs are just not it for me. Sorry, I like my cutie-boos in wifebeaters, not in need of training bras. Thick lips or not. Moving on.

Now the tall, lanky one standing beside him . . . well, he looks kinda fine. But it’s hard to tell ’cause he’s wearing a black Brooklyn Nets fitted waaay down over his eyes, like he’s tryna be all sneaky ’n’ whatnot. But I can see he’s in need of a shape-up ’n’ is looking a tad bit too scruffy for my liking. And at first glance his Timbs are dated. But don’t get me wrong. From what I can tell, he does have potential if you’re into fixer-uppers. Me personally, I’m not taking on charity work ’n’ I’m not looking for a project. No, ma’am. I need my cutie-boos fresh, fly, ’n’ already put together.

What I look like, tryna clean you up? Chile, boom! Not over here.

But that doesn’t mean I have to be messy, either.

Soooo, as I pass by, the Pillsbury Doughboy says, “Yo, what’s good, shorty? Where you off to wit’ ya fine self?”

I force a smile ’n’ slow my stroll. “Have we met?” I say, peering at him over the rim of my new Prada shades, compliments of my sister Leona, who—along with my other three older sisters—gives me all of her last season’s hand-me-downs. How else you think I stay so fabulous? Honey-boo, they give me life, okay?! Trust. “Umm, do I know you?”

“Nah, shorty,” he says, licking his thick lips like he’s ready to chomp his teeth into my hot pocket. “We both tryna holla, though, if you wit’ it. You got a name?”

Yeah. I got a name. First name: No Thank You. Last name: Go Away.

Always answer a question with a question. “You driving?”

“Nah, not at da moment, nah’mean?”

Yeah, I do, boo-boo. Translation: I got my L’s snatched for DWD—driving while drunk. Or, I don’t have my L’s ’cause I’m too dumb to pass the test. Or, nah . . . I’m good on foot, baby.

But I’m not! “Where you work?”

“Here ’n’ there, feel me? It’s hard out here for a brotha, nah’mean?”

Oh, I know what you mean all right.

Translation: I’m unemployed. I ain’t beat for work. And I ain’t looking for work ’cause I have everything I need right out here on this block.

“Y’all in school?”

“Nah. We chillin’, feel me?”

Oh yeah, I feel you. Trust.

Translation: I’m a dropout! An idiot! I don’t need an education! I sit around ’n’ smoke weed ’n’ play video games all day. The streets are all I need to get by!

I shake my head. “Y’all can holla at me when you find a j-o-b or enroll in a school.”

“Awww, damn, baby... it’s like dat?”

“All day, boo,” I say, thrusting my pelvis ’n’ tossing an extra shake in my hips as I hit ’em with the peace sign.

“Damn, I’d crack dat back,” I hear one of ’em say.

“Yeah, I need dat, baby.”

“No, boo-boo,” I say over my shoulder, catching them both staring at my phatty ’n’ holding their crotches. “What you need to do is get yo’ life.”

High school dropouts?

Unemployed?

Hugging the block?

Deuces, bum-azz nuccas!

Please. What I look like?

You wanna get at me, then your wears better be up ’n’ you had better be able to feed ’n’ finance me, boo. Or there is no romance. Not that I need a boy to do anything for me, ’cause a diva is never looking for a handout. Trust. Besides, I have sisters who stay keeping me flossy-glossy. And I get a portion of my social security check to do whatever I want, while the rest gets banked. So I don’t need a boy’s change. I have my own coins. Trust.

Still . . . an unemployed, uneducated, unmotivated clown can’t do nothing but bring me down. And Fiona isn’t having that. So they can . . . poof-poof . . . miss me with all that.

Anyway, most boys don’t know the first thing about bearing gifts. But they sure know a heck of a lot about givin’ out false hopes. No, thank you, boo. Been there, done that. Trust. There’s nothing worse than a boy with a pocketful of lint ’n’ a mouthful of bullshit. Chile, boom!

Let me get home so I can get ready for my date tonight.

Keep it flossy-glossy . . .

I reach over ’n’ hit the remote to my stereo ’n’ turn up the volume. K. Michelle’s “V.S.O.P.” cranks outta my speakers as I pop my hips over to my dresser ’n’ grab a bottle of smell-good from my vast collection of sexy scents. Yesssss, hunni. It’s all about the fragrance. And tonight, since I’m feeling sensual ’n’ enticing, I choose Midnight Heat by my boo, Beyoncé. Smelling good is a must. A musty funk-box is a no-no. And, like with handbags ’n’ heels, smell-goods are another one of those essential accessories a diva never has enough of. Well, that’s what my sister Leona says. So if the diva of all divas says it, then that’s what it is.

And I’m a perfume junkie, okay? Trust.

A squirt here, a squirt there, I spritz some on my wrists, then just a taste in my sweet valley. I cup ’em, then shake ’em in front of the full-length mirror hanging on the inside of my closet door.

Yes! Come get ’em, boo!

I snap my fingers ’n’ sway my hips as K. Michelle sings about lighting some candles ’n’ doing whatever her boo likes. Yasss! Yassss! Warm my bed, boo-daddy! Only heaven knows what’s in my heart! And even though there ain’t gonna be no candles lit tonight, my new cutie-boo still might get a lil taste of goodness. Well . . . maybe.

My brain tells me, “No, boo, don’t do it. Make him wait.” It’s also telling me to keep my behind home. But the firecracker poppin’ off in my panties says drop it like it’s hot ’n’ put the heat up on him. Ooh, I hate it when I get to feeling like this. Frisky. Raunchy. Too hot for my own dang good. But I already know if I give him a taste of heaven, he’s gonna start sweatin’ me all hard, like they all do, ’n’ want more ’n’ then I’m probably gonna stop taking his calls. No. I will.

Chop.

Wait. Let me just put this out there for you now so that there’s no confusion ’cause I don’t do confusion, okay? Not that it’s any of your business, but if you haven’t already peeped it, I’m not a virgin. And I haven’t been one since I was twelve. Sweetie, please. I gets mine. My first experience was outta curiosity ’cause my older girl cousins were all having sex ’n’ bragging about how good it was, so I wanted to see what the hype was all about for myself. So I did it with this boy Dougie. He was sixteen. And probably a lil too grown for my young body, but I let him have my cherry anyway. And I can’t say the first time was all that great. It hurt like heck.

But that didn’t stop me from givin’ him second ’n’ third helpings of this cherry pie. And it got better. I liked it. And wanted more, but not with just him. If I was bored ’n’ a cute boy with swag caught my eye ’n’ said all the right things, he could get it. So what started out as curiosity soon bloomed into sort of a sporting event for me to see how many boys I could get with, whenever I was home alone ’n’ bored outta my mind. So sex became my entertainment. And, yes, I’m seventeen now ’n’ there’s been lots of cutie-boos I’ve entertained over the last five years. But not all of ’em got the cookie. Oh no, honey-boo. Most of ’em got the hand.

Oh, don’t judge me. I know I’m a ho. What can I say? Sometimes I like to sample the goodies, then toss ’em back on the shelf. Shoot. Boys are like toys. They’re lots of fun when you first get ’em, then after playing with ’em a few times, they lose their excitement. And I get bored with ’em. Fast. Oh well. I like variety. That ain’t no crime. And neither is givin’ in to temptation. Well, not as long as it delivers me from evil.

Girrrl, don’t even go there.

I sit at my vanity ’n’ fuss with my shoulder-length hair. This hair really needs to be washed, I muse, picking up my flatiron. Mmm. I run my fingers through my hair. What look will I give it tonight? Slicked back into a ponytail? Or should I wear it slick-straight down past my shoulder blades? Maybe plumped up with a few curls? After a few seconds of mulling over the possibilities, I decide on an updo since my hair is slightly dirty ’n’ updos tend to hold better when it is.

I flatiron my hair, then slick it up into a ponytail. Once I’m done, I spritz some hairspray on my fingers then comb my fingertips through my bangs, finishing it off with a feathery side-swept bang.

Next, I artfully spackle my lips with a layer of gloss.

Then I slip into my wears—a red silk cami ’n’ pair of skintight True Religion jeans ’n’ very high heels. My eyes flick to the vision staring in the mirror in front of me.

Voilà!

Camera ready! Picture-perfect.

I blow myself a kiss, then reach over ’n’ grab my cell. Click. Click. I snap several selfies, then post ’em up on IG and Twitter.

Ha! Hate on, hate on! How you like me now?

You mad, yet?

I throw my cell into my Gucci bag, flip off the lights, shut my bedroom door, then hit the stairs.

It’s time to turn up, boo!

“I’m out,” I say to my mother, more outta courtesy than necessity. Truth is, where I go or what I do is really none of her business. But to keep her from workin’ my last nerve I extend her my good manners ’n’ let her know—on those rare occasions when she’s home, instead of being posted up at the hospital where she works crazy long hours—that I’m bouncin’. Like now.

“I know one damn thing,” she starts in as I’m walking into the kitchen to get my jacket hanging on the back of one of the chairs, “those dishes had better be washed before you leave up outta here trollin’.”

Trollin’?

Oh, she tried it. All I can do is shake my head. I swear. Misery sure does love company. Fortunately for her ’n’ it, Fiona Madison is not the one to entertain it. Trust.

On cue, I roll my eyes up in my head.

“You hear me talking to you, girl?”

This chick better fall back! The only troll around here is her!

I stalk out of the kitchen ’n’ head straight into the dining room, where she has her big, fluffy butt-cheeks pressed down into one of the chairs, a slice of lemon pound cake and a Diet Pepsi set before her.

Um. Know this about me. I’m never disrespectful. But I do believe in putting a chick in her place. Even if said chick happens to be my very own mother. For all intents and purposes, she might have given birth to me. But she hasn’t mothered me. No ma’am, no sir! My four older sisters—Leona, Kara, Sonji, and Karina—have. They were the ones who practically raised me, especially Leona ’n’ Kara since they’re the two oldest. Let me see. Leona’s thirty-four, Kara’s thirty-two, Sonji’s twenty-nine, and my sister Karina is twenty-six.

So don’t get it twisted. I mighta got pushed outta my mother’s womb, but it’s no secret around these parts that Fiona ’n’ Ruthie-Ann Madison don’t like each other. Trust. Let her tell it. I was a mistake. Girl, boom! She’s the mistake. As far as I’m concerned, she shoulda used a condom or popped a pill—better yet, kept her dang legs shut—if she didn’t want any more babies.

But that’s neither here nor there. So, moving on.

In spite of her ugly ways, this lady could be real fly if she fixed herself up. I mean. Jeezus. Can you say fashion catastrophe? Somewhere underneath her smocks ’n’ all that evilness, she’s hiding a very pretty reddish-brown-skinned woman with big, round, piercing brown eyes. And once upon a time—before slices of pound cake ’n’ chocolates wrapped around her hips ’n’ gut—there was a woman with a sassy shape. But now? Mmph. It won’t be long before she’ll be rolling herself outta here in a wheelbarrow at the rate she’s eating.

And let me not even get in on her hair. She has thick, light brown hair that sweeps just above her shoulders. But she does nothing with it. Nothing! Does she even realize how many napp. . .