Get Ready for War (3 page)

“Yes, I love him! And that's not going to change. I don't care how many times you want to fight me, your own daughter.”

“Oh, now you're my daughter—was that before or after I told you I'd put a bullet in a chick's head and you realized that I wouldn't be afraid to put one in yours? You're right, you're my daughter, and before I let you beat me I'd walk away from all the diamonds and the dollars and I would kill you. I don't have a fear of prison. I already know what it's like. Four years. You better Google me.”

“Hell yeah, I went to prison.”

“For manslaughter,” she continued as she paced the room, pounding her fist into her palm. “Because when I was sixteen I thought I had all the answers. I didn't have money, my mother was getting high, and I had no idea who my father was. And my brother wasn't in college like yours. He was doing life in prison for droppin' bodies, and I was following in his footsteps. There was no Hollywood High, private school. I was gettin' schooled in the streets. My family was the hood and my GED was courtesy of California State Prison. And the day I was released, I dropped Shakeesha, became Logan, reinvented myself, and yeah, I stalked basketball players, and I stalked rappers. Because I had beauty and I had a body and I wasn't going back to prison.

“I knew there was something bigger than tossing up gang signs, drive-bys, and bustin' caps. And all of that I had erased from my mind. I snagged my husband, gave birth to the perfect son who never gave me a problem. Never back-talked. Did exactly as he was told and what was asked of him. Now, RJ could get whatever he wanted because he knew how to listen and play by the rules.”

“Oh yeah, perfect Prince RJ.”

“He is perfect. But you. You wanna raise up. You wanna bring it.” She stopped pacing and leaned into my face. “Go ahead and take your best shot. Just know that whatever decision you make you better be able to lie down by it, because that's what women do. Lie in the beds they made. Now let's go. But just know that if you hit me, I'ma murder you. And I will do my time in peace. Now buck.”

My mother threw the first hit and my face was on fire and sirens blared in my ears. My mother slapped me so hard that tears sprang from my eyes and my shoulders shook. All I could see were stars.

“You're moving too slow!” She gripped me by my neck and pinned me against the headboard. I couldn't breathe.

My mother hit me again and I felt dizzy. “You're grown!” She slapped me again. “You want Knox. You'll disrespect me for him.” Her elbow pressed into my throat and she clenched her teeth. “I will crush your windpipe and you will be in here for a collapsed lung.”

“Ma—”

“This ain't no ma. This is a woman's battle. Aren't you a woman? Fighting for what you believe in?” My mother didn't even blink. “You wanna come for me, then you better be ready, 'cause I got bustin' heads on lock.”

My mother's elbow sank deeper into my throat and I knew then she would kill me. I'd pushed her many times, but I'd never seen this side of her. The only other time I'd seen Shakeesha come to life was when one of my father's mistresses showed up at the door demanding money.

“Ma, please.” Tears flowed down my face and over her forearm. “Please let me go,” I gasped. “I . . . can't . . . breathe . . .”

“That's the point. I will take your breath.” Her eyes were black and cold as she looked at me. “You want Knox, then you can have him, because I'm done with you.” She let me go, quickly turned, and I jumped, grabbing my neck.

“No, don't jump.” My mother slid her jewelry back on. “Little too late for that. Next time just come correct and work on your reflex.” She dusted invisible wrinkles off the front of her peach-colored slacks and white sleeveless Chanel blouse. “For now, I'm packing away Shakeesha.” She tucked her Chloé clutch under her left arm. “Because the next time she comes out you'll be added to the body count. The plane leaves in two hours and it will take off with or without you.”

“Ma—”

She didn't answer; instead she walked out of the room and the door closed behind her.

And all I could think was my mother had lost her mind.

I
was desperate to slice my wrist. Or take a blade and run it across my throat.

End it all.

Suicide-bomb my way out of hell.

And pray to God to sever my veins and let me bleed to death.

This way I could stop the sharp jabs that tortured my stomach and forced me to grip the cold edges of this repulsive steel toilet and dry heave.

I needed something.

Anything.

That could murder this monkey who crept up my back and ghostly whispered in my ear that I needed a hit.

When I didn't
need it
.

I just
wanted it
bad as hell.

There was a difference.

Uncontrollable sweat dripped from the crown of my head, over my forehead, and rained down my temples as I rose from the toilet and dried my face with the sleeve of my oversized forest-green jumpsuit.

I wiped my face again and stood up straight, only to stumble against the wall. I did what I could to play off my legs feeling like willow branches, especially since all eyes were on me.

Snickering.

Whispering.

Pointing.

There was no effen privacy. None. Everyone who passed by or sat in open view of the toilet was
all in my business
. And with all of the noise and the constant buzzing, I couldn't even hear myself think.

Sweat poured down my temples again and lightning roared in my belly. I had to get the hell out of here!

My nerves were shot.

My head hurt.

My chest felt like it was giving way to an asthma attack. Even though I wasn't asthmatic.

I wanted to scream
Let me out! Do you know who I am!
But I'd been here for three days and had already screamed
I'm Wu-Wu Tanner
for twenty-seven hours straight, and the only thing it did was give me a headache and a sore throat.

I was America's sweetheart. A role model. The star of
The Wu-Wu Tanner Show
. Nickelodeon Choice Awards pick for favorite actress. Sold more Wu-Wu dolls than Barbie. More kids were addicted to me than Miley Cyrus. And none of that meant anything in here. What mattered were my charges and whatever the judge decided my fate would be.

I had to get it together so when I appeared before the judge sometime this morning, he wouldn't think I was a junkie mess. Because I wasn't a junkie. I just needed one hit and I would be straight. But thanks to the Los Angeles County juvenile detention center, holding me against my will, and Spencer, who made it her business to be all up in mine by calling the police on me after she crashed my party and disrupted my get right, I hadn't had a hit in three days, was sick, and going crazy.

I needed to sit down or I would pass out. The rubber soles of my tan plastic slip-ons squeaked as I walked into the dayroom and was greeted with, “Wu-Wu's in the house!”

I didn't respond. Instead I walked over to the chair closest to the corner of the room and sat down. A few girls snickered as I walked by. This place was the worst. I was surrounded by death—a bunch of hardened, nasty, low-budget girl-beasts who talked about me to my face, accused me of thinking I was hot, and had absolutely no regard for my celebrity status.

I'd been in this stinking hellhole for three days and only managed to eat half of a taco shell. After that, a posse of manly looking hood rats snatched away my tray of slop, tossed it in the garbage, and demanded to know where my clique, the Pampered Princesses, were now.

And what did the corrections officers do? They smiled.

Although I'd bitten my fingernails down to raw bits I nervously tapped my sore fingertips on the sides of the chair, doing my best not to rock back and forth. When that didn't work I wrapped my arms around my knees but soon found myself swaying from side to side.

I couldn't sit still.

Couldn't stop sweating.

I was a mess.

I closed my eyes and leaned my head back.

“Wu-Wu, getyoass outta my seat!” I opened my eyes and there stood a king-size chick who, judging by the short haircut and mustache, must've thought she was a boy.

“Wu-Wu, I said getyoass up!”

I shook my head and rolled my eyes. God only knew how much I didn't want to fight, but I had to, so I said, “I don't know what show you think I star in, but it ain't the Punk Wu-Wu show, okay.”

“What you say?”

“You heard me. And the only name I see on this seat is the property of Los Angeles County—”

Oh, hell no!
This beast reared her hand back and blazed her palm against my cheek. “Now getyoass up!”

I jumped from my seat ready to rumble when the CO, who I knew had watched this whole scene unfold but didn't get off her lazy behind, yelled, “Cummings, Johnson, what's going on over there?”

I held the side of my face and it took everything in me not to toss it all to the wind and wrestle this big-fat-nasty whore down to the floor. I wanted to take my fist and pound her. But I couldn't. I couldn't risk having a fight right before my court hearing and being tossed into isolation. There was no way in hell I could spend another night on the devil's playground. But... I couldn't let this sleaze punk me either. Because if I did that and I didn't get out of here today, I'd pretty much have given the okay for these beasts to do whatever they wanted to do to me . . .

And that wasn't an option.

“Johnson!” the lazy CO yelled, at the exact moment I decided to be a murderess. “You're up. Court's in conference room two.”

Johnson eyed me coldly and I returned the stare.

“Johnson!” the CO called again. “Let's go!”

“Trick,” Johnson spat as she turned on her heels and headed over to the only way out of here, the locked electric door, where the CO cuffed, shackled, and escorted her to the conference room.

I sat back down, somewhat relieved but mostly on edge.

I hopped up from the chair and walked over to another lazy CO who sat behind the counter. “How much longer?”

She never answered my question; instead she said, “Gosityoass down. And don't get yo' azz up again unless I tell you, or I will write you up.”

I returned to the same chair I'd just hopped out of and did everything I could not to bang my head into the concrete wall.

I looked around the room, and on the other side of the Plexiglas partition were boys making lewd gestures with their faces pressed against the glass, flipping their tongues and grabbing their crotches.

Twenty minutes later the CO called out, “Cummings!” from behind the desk. “Conference room two.”

I anxiously stood up, walked over to the locked electric door, and one of the female correction officers handcuffed, shackled, and escorted me to the conference room where I would appear before the judge via teleconference.

The conference room looked nothing like the nightmare I'd just left a hallway behind. It was clean, had white painted walls, clear windows, and the glowing California sun shone brightly. The guard stood at the door. There was a television on the wall, a table with two chairs, and another chair that was already occupied by my mother, Camille, forcing me to do a double take. Surely someone was playing a game.

Camille sat wiping tears, as her flawless porcelain skin, compliments of her Swedish background, radiated as if she'd had a polished facial. Her golden blond hair was pulled back into a sleek French roll. Her makeup was MAC perfect and her thin frame was draped in a black, tailored Armani skirt suit, and on her feet were a pair of six-inch Jimmy Choos.

When did this transformation take place? Last I remembered, Camille was in her standard nightgown, slumped over and being pushed into a paddy wagon.

Looking at her, no one would ever know her way of saying good morning was with a brown Virginia Slims in one hand and a cocktail in the other.

“Heather, baby. Mommy's here,” she said, sobbing as she rose from her chair and rushed over toward me. “I love you so much. I've been so worried. Mommy's going to get you out of here. Look at you—this garbage green is terrible.” She flicked my collar. “So not your color. And these handcuffs, my God. And your hair, have you even washed it? Are they feeding you? My God, you look horrid.” She stroked my cheek. “But that's all right, because Mommy is here and I'm going to get you together. Get you right where we need you to be. On top.”

Camille pulled me tightly into her chest, hugging me close for a few moments before she slyly dug her nails into my back and said in a tight whisper, “As soon as we get out of here I'm going to kick your azz for drugging me. You, my dear, have crossed the line.”
Yeah, I drugged you 'cause I didn't want you to disrupt my get right. And the quickest way to get rid of you was to put you into a nice sleep.
The vision of Camille slumped over with her mouth open and drool seeping out of her mouth made me want to giggle. She released me from her embrace and said, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, “Everything will be okay, baby.”

I stared at her and for a moment I wondered what was worse—this place, or at home with this witch.

I sat down in the chair and suddenly the handcuffs felt as if they were squeezing me.

But one thing was for sure and two things were for certain. If Camille thought she would easily take me down, then obviously she needed more than a drugging. She needed to be handled for good. Mother or not.

“All rise. Court is now in session.” The sheriff officer and the judge appeared on the television screen. The judge walked over to the bench and took his seat.

“You may be seated.” The judge nodded.

We sat down and the judge said, “We're here on the matter of Heather Cummings. The charges are: underage drinking and possession of narcotics. Is there counsel present?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” A tall brunette woman rushed into the room and said, “Michelle MacAndrew here for the defendant, and I apologize to the court for being late.”

I blinked not once, but three times. And then I almost fell out of my chair. How in the heck did Camille secure one of the top criminal attorneys in California to represent me? I thought for sure Camille would do me dirty and make me target practice for the Public Pretenders.

But she didn't.

She came through with a six-foot-tall powerhouse, dressed sharply in a navy-blue pantsuit, white blouse, pumps, and a leather briefcase. Diva Esquire was well put together. She smiled at me, touched my shoulder, and suddenly I felt relieved.

“Counselor,” the judge said, “this case was set for ten
A.M.
”

“I'm aware of that, Your Honor, and I sincerely apologize.”

“Apology accepted. Please state your position.”

My attorney pointed toward Camille. “Your Honor, we ask the court to release Heather Cummings into the custody of her mother, Camille Cummings.”

My attorney continued, “We have secured a bed at Hope Always, a twenty-eight-day treatment center for adolescents.”

I turned toward Camille and before I could protest and demand to know what kind of dumbness was she pulling, my attorney said, “Also, Your Honor, Ms. Camille Cummings would like to address the court.”

“And me, too,” I said to my attorney, and I could've been mistaken, but I could've sworn that she ignored me.

Camille sniffed and dabbed a Kleenex from the corner of one eye to the other and rose from her chair. “Judge”—she sniffed again—“Heather is my only child and I love her so much . . .”

Psst, please. She loved her cocktails more than she ever loved me.
Drunk beyotch.
If I didn't want to get out of here so bad I would have slapped her face for that lie alone.

Camille continued, “My daughter has opportunities that most can only dream about and I don't want to see her messing that up.”

I struggled not to roll my eyes. Outside of using me for a comeback, what did she care about my opportunities? I couldn't believe Camille. If I didn't know better I would think she meant every word she said. But Queen Faux Pas was a washed-up Oscar-winning actress, and if no one else knew, I knew that she'd said more lines in this courtroom than she had in years. Nobody in Hollywood would touch her. She couldn't even breathe on a script and she had the audacity to talk about messing up opportunities. It was all I could do not to laugh. Camille was out of control.

She carried on, “So please, Your Honor, I'm asking the court to please release her to me. I truly believe that if Heather were to enter Always Hope, it would truly make a difference.”