After winning the BET award for best new artist, my album sales skyrocketed. If the numbers were good before, they were more than amazing now. I've been cashing checks every other day. Not even checks for the album necessarily, checks from designers whose clothes I've worn on the red carpet events, checks from talk show hosts and performance venues, checks for things I've done that I don't even remember. My money has been growing so fast that Mom has given up on dealing with it all together and has given Mac permission to hire me an accountant. I like the way the checks smell. Kinda like freshly printed paper. Sometimes I can smell it before I even open the envelope. And each one brings a different joy, a different feeling of accomplishment.

Mom works closely with our new accountant, her name is Adia. She is brown skin, with neat dreadlocks about shoulder length. Her face is stern and her cheekbones are high. They give her face a serious and professional look but she manages to still be beautiful. Until she laughs, I forget that she can. Mac brags about how many celebrities she has worked with and I thank him, as always, for getting me the best there is.

The first thing Adia did when she took control of all the bread I was making, was start up a savings account. I found out that I was actually not spending much at all.

"You're the only upcoming artist I've met that has gained this much success and bought basically nothing." Adia's eyes scanned my bank statements as she looked over past activity.

"I'm not much of a spender." I shifted my eyes from hers and then returned it back to the papers before her.

"How long ago did you make your first million?" She questioned.

I really had to think back to the party that made me well aware that I was now making really good money. It took me a few seconds.

"About four months ago." I replied.

"Do you know how much you have now?" Adia questioned.

I shook my head. Ma was dealing with all that, I rarely even bothered to ask her about the actual number. I only had an estimate.

"Guess." Adia had said.

"Uhm.. around two million?" I asked.

Adia chuckled.

"five point four." She corrected.

I remember feeling the slight thump of excitement in my stomach. I remember mouthing the word 'shit', then apologizing to the professional sitting a few feet away from me. I remember that was one of the first times I saw her smile.

"Do you know how much you have spent since you made that million?" She questioned again.

I shook my head, definitely clueless about that.

"Ten thousand dollars. And most of that money...was you giving other people your money. I see a few hundred taken out the account every couple weeks. You send that back to Brooklyn?" Adia asked.

"Yea, I'm helping a family down there." I answered, thinking of Trevon's Mom and sister.

"Okay. As of last week, your savings account contains 3.5 million dollars. I am tracking your album sales, streaming, and outside appearances that you will be getting paid for as well as the upcoming tour. Your five million will at least double in the next 10 months, so you have room to spend. I mean, what do you want to do? Haven't you dreamt about having so much money you can do whatever you want?" Adia looked at me clueless. Like I was some rare type of human, unaffected by wealth.

I thought for a moment, staring into space, I felt her odd glance at me and after a moment she turned away to give me some time. About a minute passed. I asked her nicely.

"Can you help me buy a house?"

_____________________________________

After a few weeks of searching, Ma and I found a really nice mansion in West Hollywood for 2.5 million dollars. Right on a street called Clover's Press. Something up on the hill, secluded but not in the middle of nowhere. The entire house is mauve colored with large black windows that stretch from ceiling to floor. The floors are dark brown wood, the walls hold earth tones. Browns and army greens. Four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen so bright and big it makes you want to cook on entrance and a living room that stretches into the dining area. Ma and I spent 2 weeks decorating it with the help of an interior decorator who was a white man with a lot of make up and an endless array of nice suits.

Mac ordered me a gold plaque as a birthday gift and in it we placed the platinum record for Take My Love. It hangs in the hallway to my room. To the side of the kitchen, there is a door that leads out to the back yard. You can stand at the stove and look out the window to a medium sized pool with patterned rocks lining the sides. A great sized tree shadows some parts of the back yard and spreads its leaves on parts of the grass. The entire place is everything I have ever wanted in a house. The peace, the security, the lightness and fresh air.

Is it a coincidence that my new abode is only a fifteen minute drive away from Flex's house in Hollywood? Ma says it is, but that is her Fiance and I am her daughter so I beg to differ. Ma was good at finding ways to get her own way while making it seem otherwise. She had very little things to say about all the other houses we looked at.

It is my third week living in this new palace and it still feels like a dream at times. I often wake up confused about where I am. Some of it feels like a fairy tale and then other times it's quite overbearing.

Where's Trisha?

Where's Pookie?

Where's Devin?

Ma is in her room.

Where's Trevon?

The last time I spoke to him was before the BET awards. I wanted to visit him badly the last time I went to New York, but it was strictly for business and packing. I had a show in California as soon as I got back.

I sit in the middle of my King sized bed with a large tapestry hanging to the left side of it. It reads kind words.

Intimidate life itself.

The tapestry was custom made by me. I chose the words from one of my poems and found an amazing picture of a strong black woman, her breasts are exposed, she looks straight at me with nothing but eagerness in her eyes. A look that would kill any man who ever thought he was more powerful than her. Her dark skin contrasts perfectly with the creamy white of my walls. Painted on the walls of my rooms are my favorite quotes in cursive. There is a large screen TV in front of my bed, but I rarely even watch TV. There is a large mirror on the ceiling, the ceiling lights are very bright. But I mostly keep the lamp lit, with my candle burning next to it. I prefer that mood more.

My room, which is up the crimson stairs, holds a small balcony that overlooks everything around me. It's mostly trees, but that is exactly what I love about it.

I miss New York but never for too long. I try to remember that there is little for me there. Trisha is in school, dorming at the fashion institute, Pookie is doing God knows what, but at least he's safe. Devin and Abra have been together for at least five months. I take a pillow from the twelve I have decorating my bed and sigh.

Homesick.

But no one is home right now.

My phone begins ringing and I rush to my dressor, where I left it to charge. The home screen reads "Blaco." I sigh in disappointment before answering.

"Hey Blac." I speak.

"Well don't sound so excited." He says as if he is offended. It makes me chuckle.

"Thought it might be someone else." My voice is honest.

"Well it ain't." Blaco laughs hearty. "Turn to TMZ news, you're gonna want to see this."

I sigh big and loud. Being told to turn to TMZ is rarely a gift.

I switch my TV on and do as told. The square screen comes to life and is already on the correct network. These days it really felt like the only time I watched TV was when I was on.

The first face I see on the screen is Mila. There is a meme of both of us pinned to the right side of the monitor as one of the white guys talk about the situation. In the meme, Mila's face looks resentful and I stand in the background with a big smile, holding the BET trophy above my head. It is clear that the image is photo shopped to make Mila look more upset than she showed that night.

The top of the meme reads "When someone reposts a picture and gets more likes than you."

I bellow in laughter and Blaco joins me on the line.

"Oh my God. They're gonna make her hate me more." I say into the phone.

"Wait there's more." Blaco interupts.

TMZ flashes multiple more memes with that same picture.

"When you realize you not as lit as you thought you were."

"When he says 'I only fuck with dark skin girls.'"

Blaco is still laughing as the memes pass through the TV with the TMZ hosts adding insult to injury.

"These are funny but holy shit." I mumble, still keeping all my attention on the screen.

"Well, yesterday night, as she was leaving a dinner party in East Hollywood, we had an opportunity to speak with Mila about these memes that have been circulating on social media. Let's see how she responded." A man with short blonde hair speaks into the camera.

They switch to the footage caught. Paparazzi are on Mila's back, you can see the lights flashing against her skin and clothes as she tries to walk faster to her car.

"Mila!" The TMZ reporter calls. "Are you mad about Chanel winning the BET awards?" They ask.

She doesn't respond but she chuckles annoyed and almost smug.

"Have you seen the memes? How do you feel." The TMZ reporter questions annoying her again.

She looks as if she is trying to hold her tongue, but it's clear that the reporter is annoying her because she begins walking a little faster, her head remaining down.

"Are you mad, Mila?" He asks again.

She laughs and responds, her lips puling back from her teeth. For a moment she looks evil.

"What's there to be mad about, I made her." She shrugs and gets into her car.

"WHAT?" I yell into the phone.

Blaco, doesn't respond.

Mila winds down her window and starts up her car.

"What do you mean, Mila? That's a big thing to say!" The reporter probes.

" I made her. She wouldn't have even went Gold on that song without me." Mila shrugs then puts her car in reverse.

"I'm done talking. Excuse me." She says as she winds her windows back up. She pulls out of the parking spot and takes off.

Just like that.

"Blaco!" I call as the TMZ video ends and the hosts gives his two scents.

"I know, she's a jealous little asshole. But that shit happens, it is what it is." Blaco says.

"How the fuck did she make me? How does you being on one song make a person?" I ask completely confused. I can feel my hands shaking. The need to punch Mila in the face the next time I see her.

I get up from my bed and go closer to the TV.

"I think it's safe to say that there is beef between the former good friends. And the beef is over the awards." The host concludes.

"I think that's stupid. You win the award you win the award, what's the beef for if you know you're a good artist?" The camera switches to a lady with brown hair.

"Yea but Mila's right, a lot of the new fans Chanel got were specifically because of Take My Love. Mila barely advertised that song and it still went Gold." Another TMZ guy said.

"I think Mila is a mediocre pop star who is jealous of the sudden come up. No pun intended." The TMZ room laughs.

I switch the TV off.

"I'm going to text her. That bitch." I mumble putting Blaco on speaker and opening the messages in my phone.

"DO. NOT. TEXT. HER." Blaco yells into my line. I stop in my tracks.

"What do you do when she screenshots you and posts it on social media? Then you look insane. Don't text her. I already notified Casey. She's on a proper way to respond if you respond AT ALL." Blaco says firmly.

I can feel the anger bubbling inside my stomach, I'm nauseous and infuriated.

Made me how?

How the fuck did this little prissy ass bitch, MAKE ME?

The hood made me.

My poetry made me.

My rapping made me.

Even Mac and Flex can say they made me.

I hang up on Blaco and call Trisha.

She picks up on the first ring.

"I'm in night class. Ima call you back." She says softly.

"No! Cause this bitch is buggin!" I scream into the phone.

Trish tries to whisper again. "Who? What bitch is buggin?" She repeats ready to fight.

"Fuckin Mila on TMZ talkin mad shit." I try to lower my voice but fail.

I hear a chair screeching on the floor, as if it is suddenly pushed away from a desk.

"Excuse me." I hear Trisha's voice away from the phone softly.

A door opens then closes.

"BITCH I TOLD YOU!" She screams seconds after.

"I TOLD YOU BOUT THE SHIT FACE LIL HOE FROM DAY ONE." Trisha retorts.

"I know that! N what I told you? That ima make the money and then deal with disrespect! And I made the money so now!" I scream back.

"Wait, what that hoe said?"

"So I knew this bitch was mad about me winning New Artist for a fact. I told you that bitch was mad." I start off.

"Yea-"

"So they was makin wild memes on social media and TMZ ran up on her askin bout this shit. She gon turn around and say SHE MADE ME!"

"She MADE YOU? She can't even MAKE herself! This bitch been out for 2 years already and still tryna win a fucking NEW ARTIST AWARD? BITCH, YOU MIGHT WANNA BE A NEW FUCKING ARTIST." Trisha snaps.

I laugh but my laugh is mixed frustration and annoyance.

"Trish, she really fucking tried it. She said how Take My Love wouldn't have went Gold, much less platinum without her."

Trisha laughs.

"Okay!? So, thank you for the WHITE fans. They the ones buyin the fuckin music. You was already platinum with the hood and every black person that fuck with you. We don't buy music. And I could have told you that from the streaming. Your album streams are higher than your sales because it's OUR PEOPLE listening to the music. Mila ain't do shit but got you some white supporters who down with rap."

It's times like these where I want to find Trisha and kiss the shit out of her.

"I wanna punch this bitch in the face." I mumble.

"Yooo! You want to!? Cauuseeeee- Tuh-"

I laugh, serious laughter now.

"I'm deadass, I have the money you gave me for a last minute flight. That shit still in my account so you let me know when to head over to Cali to beat a bitch ass-oooooo-I been waitin to beat a bitch ass!"

"Yo, fly down this weekend. Fuck that. I miss you anyway."

"Say less. Ima fly down Friday and we can find fuckin Mila cause I already know she pussy."

"She def pussy. I wanted to text her but Blaco is literally blackin on me, sayin he bout to call Casey or whatever." I roll my eyes.

"They lookin out for the label. You can't make it sloppy." Trisha says knowingly.

"So she bout to just get away with this shit."

"Most definitely not, we gon handle it. Belie-dat."

My phone vibrates in my hand. The Incoming call reads - 'Casey."

"Girl, hold up. Casey on my line." I say already annoyed.

I clear my throat and answer as polite as I can.

"Yea?"

"Chanel, I've been briefed on the situation and I understand you're infuriated but it would just be wise to not respond." Her small voice says to me cautious but firm.

"Aight."

"Seriously. Mila already looks bitter, you have the upper hand by not saying anything at all."

I suck my teeth and turn my head to the side away from my phone.

"Aight man. Won't respond." I say again.

"Have a goodnight." Casey says. I hang up on her and switch back to Trish.

"They goin mad hard." I say.

"We handle it when I get there." Trisha ends. "We just gotta play petty with petty then. She fucked with the wrong one."