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released her elbow and yanked me from the floor. “Now get in the shower because you smell like a cheap alleyway slut!” She forcefully turned me around and all but drop-kicked me into the bathroom.
    I did all I could not to cry in the shower.
    I am sick of her! She’s going to kick me out? Really? Is that the game she wants to play? Ghetto wench!
    I quickly dressed, got my face right and tight, covering the small bruise left behind by my mother’s assault on me. I pulled my hair into a sexy fly ponytail and instead of stopping in the kitchen to eat breakfast with my parents and play my mother’s game of the perfect Huxtable family—who always ate every meal together—I left her and my father sitting at the kitchen table. Looking stupid. I purposely nearly knocked over the butler, sending his silver tray of hot tea and cream to the floor. I shoved open the servants’ door. Slammed it behind me. And took off, leaving er’body’s face cracked!
    I didn’t have to be mistreated and called a whore in my own house. I was going to school, where they knew how to treat a lady of my caliber. Besides, I had a red carpet ceremony waiting for me.
    I could hear my cell phone ringing, but I didn’t dare answer it. Judging from the ring tone, it was Mother.
    Trick, please!
    I gunned the accelerator and twenty minutes later, as I made a left to go into the school’s parking lot, a Honda Accord whipped from behind me and blocked my path.
    â€œWhat the—!” I screamed, honking the horn and sticking my head out of the window. The driver tossed open his door and I could’ve died. This stalker had struck again!
    It was official: This was the day from divafied hell.

4
Spencer
    M y Father who art in high fashion and luxury spas, I hope that gutter tramp learned her lesson . . .
    With one hand on the trigger of a fresh can of Mace, and the other tightly clutching my Cesare Paciotti under my arm, I quickly slid behind the wheel of my dark sapphire Bentley Continental GT. Then I immediately locked the doors, slinging my handbag over onto the passenger seat. I reached up under my seat for my stun gun and laid it in my lap before revving the engine and screeching my wheels out of the parking lot and swerving west onto Century Boulevard. Away from the crack den my poor, ratchet friend Heather now called home.
    Ugh! If she wanted to live among trash and squalor, she could have just crawled into the Dumpster on the side of the building. Or better yet, she could have simply moved in with the trash queen, London. At least she wouldn’t have been living in some musty funk-box, but she would still be living in squalor. She didn’t have to squander money she didn’t really have on that ole nasty rattrap. It hurt my heart to see her living like some . . . some ole wild otter. Had she no dang shame?
    And the chipped paint and graffiti on the walls were enough to make me want to toss my guts out. Lord God! The window curtain looked like an old raggedy bedspread someone just tossed up and tacked over a curtain rod with safety pins.
    I’ll have to toss these Louboutin heels into the Goodwill bin when I get home after standing on that filthy carpet , I thought, rolling my eyes and sucking my teeth.
    â€œOooh, I could spit fire! Hotjiggaboogaboo. I’m so god-dangit pissed!” I banged a gloved hand on the steering wheel. “That sidewalk hostess knows I don’t like wasting a good pair of heels in filth!”
    It’s a blessing I wore this disposable hazmat suit over my clothes before driving down to the slums . I wiped a lone tear that rolled down my cheek. Heather had better wake up and smell the Pacific Ocean before the breeze blows her by. This is her last chance to get it right before they lock her away in some padded dungeon.
    â€œThank YOU, mysweetLordandSaviorofallthingsrichandwholesome!” I shouted, raising a hand in the air as I maneuvered through