Free Diva Rules by Amir Abrams

I slide into her Benz ’n’ buckle my seat belt. When I get old like her, I wanna be just like her. Fierce. Young heads stay checkin’ for her, but she ain’t havin’ it. I don’t blame her, though. She has a master’s degree in marketing from NYU, owns a fabulous crib with tons ’n’ tons of closet space packed with designer clothes ’n’ heels ’n’ handbags for days. And she has a fab job working in the city for American Express, making loads of money. She gets to travel all over the world, so I can understand why she wouldn’t be interested in havin’ a young boo-daddy on her arm.
    But if you ask me, girlie needs to drop down ’n’ get her freak on. I mean, she needs some serious sheet action. All work ’n’ no play is soooo not it. For the life of me, I can’t understand why she doesn’t have her a lil boo-daddy. It’s not like she’s disturbingly ugly or something, so I don’t understand what the problem is. She claims she doesn’t have a man because she doesn’t have time for one ’n’ that she refuses to settle.
    Is that what they callin’ it? Settle? Chile, boom! Her manless drought is soo not cute. But, uh, um, so you settle for cobwebs all up in ya honeypot instead? Girl, bye! Go out ’n’ get you some!
    I flip down the mirror ’n’ recheck my lip gloss, sighing. “My day was borrrring . New day, same old mess. But I did almost have to beat this hood rat down for steppin’ to me over some boy a few days ago.”
    She looks over at me. “Please tell me you didn’t.”
    â€œI said almost . You know fighting is not my thing unless I’m provoked to take it there. Besides, who got time to be breaking up fingernails? Not me.”
    â€œGood,” she says, pulling off. “It’s your senior year and the last thing you need is to get yourself suspended for foolishness. You know what happened the last time you got into a fight.”
    Yeah. Don’t I .
    She’s talking about the fight I had three years ago when I stabbed this girl in her forehead with a fork because she kept yappin’ her jaws. I told the chick to fall back. To take it down several notches. But she kept tryna bring the rah-rah. She wanted to show out in front of her lil crew, so I slammed a fork into her forehead, then beat her down. Yeah, I had to get locked up for it. And, yeah, she had to get rushed to the hospital. Oh well. But I tell you what. I bet you she keeps it moving anytime she sees me now. Every time she looks at herself in the mirror she sees my four-prong stamp. Bottom line, don’t eff with me ’n’ I won’t have to take it to your head!
    I grunt. “Mmph. I’m not thinking about that trick. But if she steps to me like that again, I might have to do them ten days, ’cause I’ma beat the skin off her. Senior year or not, she stays tryna get it turnt up. I can’t stand her.”
    â€œWhat do I always tell you, Fiona?”
    I sigh. “I know, I know. Pick ’n’ choose my battles.”
    â€œExactly.”
    She goes into mom mode. Tells me how it’s not ladylike to be cussing ’n’ fighting, especially over a boy. I quickly enlighten her on my diva rule: Read ’em for filth. Snap, snap! Never, ever, look for trouble. But if trouble comes strutting your way, give ’em a tongue-lashing before a beat-down. Please. I ain’t got no time to be breaking a nail or twisting an ankle in my heels. Going with the hands should always be a diva’s last resort. Well, um, that’s unless a trick puts her hands on you first , then it’s showtime.
    She chuckles. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, girl. You’re so much like Sonji. That chile was always suspended for fighting some girl when she was in school. It’s a wonder she even had enough credits to