they do, I’m guaranteed to walk away with a piece of truth I can confirm or dismiss within ten minutes. I learned of them from a friend of mine who isn’t a celebrity. They posted a series of pictures and documents from an indie-documentary a kid out in Los Angeles produced. It was a piece about how many rap artists’ videos and startup careers are sponsored by the drug dealers they claim to be in their art.
The documentary, which was mostly credible, included a detailed mention of my friend and his relationships with a few artists. It trailed money back to my friend with claims of him being a drug kingpin. That shook up the worlds of many of us who knew him and his affiliates. It took a few months, but his lawyers were able to snatch the documentary from a major network and put a muzzle on its producer. Ultimately, it was repudiated. This friend called upon me to assist with independent media sources who kept the story alive.
In the age of Instagram and Twitter bloggers, the most reputable was and still is Spilling That Hot Tea. I tried requesting, then pleading with one of the admins, Meks from The Bahamas. She told me to fuck off. Then I was able to find out the other’s name is Pawkid, a computer savant out of Ohio. She replied with a paragraph filled with four-syllable words that accumulatively echoed her partner’s sentiment. That’s when I had to call in the big dogs and have their page shut down. They garnered millions of followers on Instagram alone on pure gossip. That was nearly a year ago, and they’re nowhere close to the numbers they once had.
Serves their asses right…
My chest expands on that accomplishment then suddenly deflates as I see their latest post about America’s favorite undefeated middleweight female boxer.
When you’re the best at what you do, a beautiful queen too, and you still get treated like a Felicia. I hate seeing gems with insecure asshats who need the sparkle of a gem to shine. Do better, sis. Do better.
The picture to accompany it is Tori McNabb on the cover of Sugar&Spice magazine. And shit, is she beautiful. Not too much color on her beautifully contoured face, and very little photoshop tricks done to glam up the image. Seeing her chocolate eyes gazing directly at me without contempt, after all these years is…terrifying. She’s a stowed source of my resentment, betrayal, and hurt.
A rectangular text message balloon drops from the top of my screen.
Ms. Wanda: I’m going through your office looking for pictures. I saw this one. This that Tori girl?
The mention of that name makes me swallow involuntarily. My mother’s turning fifty-five years old this fall and the original plan was to throw her a party. That was until I mentioned it to her. Now, she’s working with the event planner and throwing herself a party I’m paying for. Her looking for pictures doesn’t explain why she was in my office. I tap to go to the text app. There, in my mother’s thread, is a picture I forgot I left out on my desk.
It’s of Tori and me in Macen Beach that spring semester of her first year at BSU, and my last. We’d just wandered out of the woods and were met with a camera in our face. I threw my arm around her a little out of nervous energy, but more from being sexually satiated after going so long without seeing her. Until the picture resurfaced recently, I didn’t notice how…free she looked. Her eyes were narrowed, body posture completely relaxed, and cheeks pinched in contentment. Replete.
A warm wave hits my belly. It’s mixed with sorrow. The Spilling That Hot Tea post returns to mind. It highlights the insecurities and fears of the young Tori who, I had thought, briefly put them aside and was able to engage healthily in relationships. But I was proven wrong not too long after this picture was taken and am still wrong. It’s evident in her choice of a fiancé.
I scoff.
This nigga…
“Hey!” Sade sings out near the door of the bedroom. “I’m out. I have a stop to make before the airport.” She drops her head to the side and bats those long lashes. “This was fun, like always. My uncle’s scheduled to have hip replacement surgery. I’m going to be his caregiver. So, I don’t know the next time I’ll be out this way.” I have no idea where this