Page 12 of Her Savior
Yet, it was love at fat pockets and fat asses between he and my mother. It was only a matter of time before they landed on reality TV and there are talks about them having a spinoff series. Yay.
Tasha is feverishly shaking her head yes but I slowly nod my headno. “I don’t know if I can.”
“Oh, come on! It’ll be fun! There are lots of cute, single guys who will attend.”
I feel the sharp wind of an object flying near my face. Turns out, Tasha threw a shoe towards my direction to get me to change my mind. I’m about to throw a fucking knife at that bitch if she tries it one mo’ gin. “Maybe.”
“Well, in case your maybe turns into a yes, I’ll keep you and Tasha on the VIP list. Is your hair done?”
What hair? Oh, that’s right. Andrea doesn’t know I’m damn-near bald. She gon’ find out soon. “I’ll do something with it. Talk to you later.” I hung up and glare at Tasha’s giddy-ass.
“We gots to go! We gots to go!” She gets up and rushes over to her bedroom where she hastily picks out several outfits. “Which one should I wear? Is your mom going to film? I need to get just right to be on TV! Oh my God, what if some big-name Hollywood producer sees me?”
I shake my head and cuss to myself. I want absolutely no parts of my mother, and here is my black ass dragged to her clearly televised birthday celebration with a bunch of other Black-famous Z-list celebrities that no one but Pookie and them care about.
Might as well make sure my smile is as pearly-white it can be because it’s about to be a long-ass celebration.
~~~~~
When Andrea goes all out for her birthday, she goes all the way in.
I’m sitting in the VIP section of the Sable nightclub off Cahuenga and I’m impressed at the luxury VH1 afforded my mother. Not only was there a red carpet and every internet gossip blogger invited (including the ones that were started literally the night before) but every Z-list black celebrity in town.
All because of Andrea.
My mother has just as many friends as she does enemies. It’s not a question as to why. Before there was Supahead, there was Andrea the Vacuum Cleaner. I don’t think I have to explain what that means.
What I should explain, however, is how some niggas thought because my mama got down like that, I should as well. I guess my Daddy and his 9 mm he keeps strapped taught them niggas I’m not the motherfucking one, two, or three.
I’m sipping Ace of Spades champagne, feeling like Beyoncé in that Nicki Minaj video, and just having a good time. Andrea is happy and taking selfies with everyone, and the DJ’s are slammin’.
Tasha went off to dance with some dude who ain’t SoundCloud and I’m just enjoying my marinara sticks alone. Okay, this is not bad. Maybe some good might come out of this night. Andrea isn’t being an asshole and I’m chillin’.
And you know what that means? I just hexed myself and this entire night.
“I’m so glad you made it, baby!” Andrea smells like she had a bottle of Ace of Spades by herself. I think I smelled her before she walked over. She’s giggly and happy, and shit. I can’t be mad. It’s my mom’s 39thbirthday so I think it’s awesome she’s celebrating.
“I do wish you wore a wig tonight,” she gives a long side-eye to my bald head, before her eyes perused over my slim thickness, “and maybe tried some of that slimming tea. Oh, I can give you a great discount on a waist trainer!”
Did you hear that? Yeah, the record fucking scratched.
My mother is a light-bright. Not Tisha Campbell-light, but maybe a shade darker than Mrs. Jay-Z-light. She stays laid up with a weave and fake fitness, if you really want to count the girdles and diarrhea teas as it.
While my father is a dark chocolate, I came out the same complexion of a Hershey bar. I do believe some of my mom’s issues have to be having a daughter darker than her and people constantly ask if we’re really related.
So, it wasn’t a surprise that every man Andrea got with after Daddy was around the same complexion of a paper bag. I guess you can Andrea was the real paper bag test.
I calmly put down my drink and smile at my mother. “Fuck you.”
Andrea’s eyes widened and she threw her glass of champagne at me. The whole VIP section stood up and we’re being separated. “You ungrateful bitch!” She yells at me. “I should’ve kept your nappy-ass home! Oh, that’s right. Yous a baldheaded bitch! You don’t have any hair!”
I shake my head. I knew this was too good to be true. I knew Andrea was full of shit. “I’m gone.” I walk out of VIP and a VH1 producer quickly follows me.
“Keisha!” She calls me. “I need your signature for the release!”
I turn to her and wonder how many charges do I really want for fucking up Affirmative Action Becky. “No. I’m not signing shit. Bye.”
I hurry out of the club and walk past the long line of thirsty-ass IG hopefuls standing in line. I hear people snicker about what happened to me as I’m soaking wet but I don’t feel like entertaining anyone’s ass right now. I just want to go home.
I walk away from the club and down the street. My outfit is soaked, my makeup is smeared, and I’m beyond heated. This night cannot get any worse.
As I walk to the nearest corner, I feel a car slow down beside me. I speed up my steps in case they think I’m charging by the hour. I know my catsuit might be giving off the wrong impression but I chose this outfit because I wanted to look good, not advertise.
“Keisha.”
I stop walking. I recognize that voice. It’s unmistakable. It’s like a tattoo on my heart. I have it memorized, recorded, and forever on the DVR on my brain.
It’s him. Mr. Man.
