#clermonttwinsff

“Are those my boots?”

“You remember buying them from Neiman’s right? Of course they are.” The identical smile she flashed my way, wasn’t an invitation to greet her with sisterly love as my eyes fell upon the Saint Laurent red patent leather booties; the ones I haven’t even wore yet.

“Stay out of my closet, and my business. Class was cancelled.” Walking behind her as she brushed her wavy, and dark tresses, I stared back into our identical eyes, pursing our identical lips.

“I’m your twin, your one life line that’ll always be assured. Don’t play with me bitch, who’s better than me?” And with that declaration of assurance London Pierre, my loving twin younger by four minutes, faced me with a beat so flawless on her chocolate skin tone, I wondered whether she ever considered making that her future profession.

“That’s why I’ll promise you an opulent, warm, and welcoming funeral for your death after I kill you, if you ever thieve from my closet again. I haven’t even worn them yet Lo!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m surprised the crazy bitch cancelled class though, Ew B that shit stinks! It better not get on my clothes..” She brushed passed me dumping her Céline Mini Luggage on top of the bed in search for God knows what.

“Yeah, ok. But the ballet recital is only two months away, so we’re just brushing up on technique, and not doing anything too crazy besides rehearsing. London, she’s really not that bad..” Aliza Duponte trained her soldiers draped in leotards, and pointe shoes for battle on crisp Monday mornings with the expectations of greatness, every leap, every spin, and every count. Before you can even rub the crust out of your eyes approaching the door at a sharp 8:30, you’re already marked late and asked to leave.

I didn’t get the memo my first day, when I marched in the bottom level of Julliard’s studios with my freshly broken in pointes ready for war. The night prior, London and I, after hassling the saleslady at Capezios for the perfect leotard that we had to both agree didn’t grant accidental wedgies, or ride up my rib cage, left me sadly mistaken the next morning. Me being adamant to orchestrate a sleek bun that sat on the top of my head perfectly for a true ballerina, caused me to be five minutes tardy. I was directed to leave out before even entering.

“You were giving her black swan tease, ballerina realness okay? You were giving looks! And she just turned you away..like?” In the midst of her complaints, she placed card after card from out of her Chanel wallet, dumping every compartment of her bag.

“London! What the fuck are you looking for?!”

“My black card!” She stomped her feet, pouting as the search ceased with her now moping, taking a seat on the bed.

“Retrace your damn steps, and move your shit from off my fresh sheets.”

“I can’t find it Brooke! I remember going to Saks and Bergdorf right after, but I had the card in my hands cause how else was I gonna pay for daddy’s cufflinks? He’s gonna kill me..”

I rolled my eyes up out of boredom now going into my walk-in closet. She wasn’t far from stating straight facts though. Our father, Benjamin Monty Pierre, was a powerful New York based litigator who was known for being the most intimidating and notorious lawyers in the business. From celebrity clients, practicing in the entertainment business for some years, to representing fortune 500 companies, my father was the shit. Point. Blank.

But although we were his princesses, like he declared every chance he got, he didn’t play when it came to his finances; especially how we managed ours. He was stern with how he needed things to be, and although I half entertained his threats, cause let’s be clear Brooklyne Beverly Pierre does whatever the fuck she wants, London actually took being obedient seriously. She was his angel. People considered her the “good” twin, cause I honestly never give a fuck. Cause like I said, I do what I want, when I want.

“Relax! Just call Franklin, and tell him the matter; your card will be monitored for any strange activity, shut off and you’ll get a new one by like tomorrow. What the hell is the big deal Lo? Damn..” Hmm, should I go street chic today? Or pretty, and poised? My eyes played tennis between my Vintage Chanel Chain Bomber, and the soft pink Chanel tweed jacket.

“But you don’t understandddd, he’s gonna be so upset. I already went over board at Harry Winston’s with that necklace that was honestly perfect. He went ballistic over the price, but it was so worth it. Now this?..” She looked like a lost puppy trailing herself inside behind me at the door frame.

“Oooh that’s cute!” She’s so pathetic. I chuckled at how distracted she can get in the name of anything materialistic just that quick.

“Don’t even think about it bitch. But like I said, it’s not that deep. Your ass better check your room. And no you may not borrow my shit…” Her hands were already feeling over the silk material of the bomber as I turned towards my shoes grabbing my pumps.

“Pleasseeee. Isn’t this the one Rih was wearing at Coachella 2012? Where’d you find this, and why didn’t you get me one!?”

“It’s your fault your bougie ass didn’t wanna come in the store. I got it from that small Vintage boutique in Harlem, and they only had that one.”

“Ohhh, the one that’s ducked between those yellow painted brownstones, right when you get off 24th right?”

“Yup…the place your refuse to come into.”

“It’s not that I refused to. Well okay, I did. But my reason is valid! The lady had a knock off Tory Burch clutch B, and she tried to insist on me buying it anyway. Like what?! I can just order the shit myself. No faux for me unless it’s my nails, fur, well that’s debatable, and lashes. She tried it..” Jesus have mercy…

“You’re so sadity. Zachai was right..” I chuckled facing her now stripping out of my tank top.

“Zachai can kiss my perky and perfect black ass. Mkay?” Zachai was my official weed man, smoking buddy, and bestfriend; one of the only guys I truly trusted with anything. We met when a hot ass, 14 year old me decided to sneak out to a block party in Harlem one night when London, and my father went on one of his business dinners. As fun as it was, my suburban, sheltered mind wasn’t too familiar with the hood to know that being in the streets gave you a 60% chance of getting hit by a stray bullet at any given moment. That night, a fight and shots rang out, But luckily this cool kid shielded me like a knight in shining armor, well in his case a true religion get up and road me all the way home on his motorcycle. We’ve been thick as thieves ever since.

“Admit it London, you’re bougie as fuck. Even I have my moments. But you? Are a bit far off with it.” She waved me off, with her eyes rolling simultaneously. She knew I was speaking truth.

“Yeah, whatever. Is that where you’re headed now? To the pot headed dope fiend himself?”

“Yes rudeness after I meet Jordan at Broadway; did you talk to Ki Ki about her crisis?”

“Yeahhhh.”

“Good. Now get the hell out and go find your shit, before dad kicks your ass. He said he’ll be home in two hours.”

“Shit!” And with that she dashed out of my room, and I was grateful as my chuckles sounded off some more.

“Crazy ass…”

KIERSTEN 

“Mom, think Pink Panther-Cotton Candy-Pepto Bismol pink! Or Mermiad Unda-Deh-Sea green..and blue!” My Jamaican accent was trash as fuck. Even my baby Trixie looked up at me with a frown from her food bowl.

“Honey…not now, I have an appointment at Noon. There’s a model call that needs my assistance, and your trivial talk of hair dye is only wasting mommy’s time.” What time? Oh the time you’ve finally granted yourself after an occasional break from inhaling your precious nose candy? I wasn’t crazy to pronounce that as I watched her adjust her cream white Tom Ford suit slicking down the collar of her silk blouse. It fit her tall and slender frame perfectly; concealing the now protruding neckline that showed itself the more her weight decreased, and craving for the drug skyrocketed.

Fiona Whitaker even in her prime, still passed for the twenty year old beauty queen from Dallas Texas, with the charming smile, to die for cheekbones, and face structure photographers swooned over; my father being one of them. Just one Seventeen Magazine spread of the pageant veteran, turned supermodel made the man fall…and hard right on set. Some deemed it love at first sight, and even that would be an understatement. Head over heels in love the young couple eloped six months later, and in just two years they had me. But now, twenty years later, they couldn’t even look at each other, let alone stay in the same room for more than two minutes without issues creeping out, and emerging through the cracks of the 11,000 square foot mansion that was our home.

“Relax ma, I only asked which color out of blue or pink. But what’s this model call for?” Taking a final lick off of the chocolate covered spoon of pudding, I awaited a response now peering up at her frantic expression staring back at me.

“Chocolate at 11am? Tell me how is that good for your pores, or your waistline baby, fruit! Try fruit…but I’m meeting with Ms. Stoney Daveaux, to help for her new pitch with Seventeen Magazine. It’s a collaborative effort, I’m sure should be interesting..” The sarcasm in her tone couldn’t be concealed, like her baggy eyes beneath her Dior shades she now slid on her face. As elated I was to hear about my mother’s meeting with stylist extraordinaire Ms. Daveaux herself, the need to wash my face, find the nearest fruit, and search for the closest scale only compacted my thoughts.

“I’ll be back in the evening, tell Stella I’m thinking a shrimp dish should do for dinner. Bye sweetie.” With a slight twiddle of her fingers, she was gone out the door in seconds.

“I love you too?” Sighing wouldn’t make her come back and say it, and it’s unfortunate I’ve been doing that a lot lately, because of her especially.

“I’m thinking pink…definitely pink.” The distraction of a new do’ and change was needed.

                                             ___________________

“My pumpkin!” Her squeaky voice sounded off loudly startling everyone, causing me much amusement. Imani King’s flawless features, that gave you a clue and clear evidence of her Trinidadian mixed with Asian descent, caused a slight pain in my chest each time I seen her insane beauty. Hairstylist supreme, and the Queen Bee of this place,  she was my therapist, counselor, image consultant and hair dresser all in one. But most importantly the big sister I was never fortunate to have.

“Mi Miiiiii! I missed you, and I almost caught a heart attack when you didn’t answer. Look at my hair!”

“Oh cut the dramatics Ki!” She chuckled revealing her deep crater dimples.

“Your shit looks healthy and decent even when it’s not “done”. You said pink right? Come here. Let me see what I’m working with..”

As she ran a hand through my natural long locks in inspection, the soothing gesture allowed me to finally breathe; making it easier to forget about this morning a little easily.

“You sure you wanna dye it right now? A nice trim, cut, and rinse would look so pretty on you! I looks so beautiful natural Ki... ”

“True...I fucks with it natural, then that extra shit..” The deep and gruff baritone was spoken from none other than Messiah King himself, as he emerged from the back where Imani’s office was located. The fact that I couldn’t shrink in size, behind one of the washing sinks of course caused me to trip on air, like the true clutz I was.

“See even big head thinks so, and you know he slow.”

“Aight Imani, get your pinched nose ass fucked up in here..” As he walked further over towards us, his massive stance towered over the both of us, his eyes now locking with my own.

“Boy bye!”

Close in range of age, three years apart, the two siblings descended from hood royalty in the streets of Brooklyn; their druglord of a father Micah King, leaving them heir and heiress of the money, clout, and notoriety that remained from the aftermath of a fatal shoot out that tragedy ended his life.

Unfortunately in the Upper East Side of New York, as a black girl you won’t find too many Becky’s with the ability to sew in a mean weave, or excuse me “extensions”. And if I wasn’t already adding insult to injury, their lack of being knowledgeable, and having the ability to differentiate which bundles of hair whether hailing from Brazil, or India  from 16’ inches to 42’, fits and works best. Thanks to Lo Lo’s and Brooke’s darling of a brother Miles, with his deep rooted connection to the shop, I was able to meet the warmth and welcoming arms of Imani, and….her dangerously enticing brother I have yet to find myself able to breathe correctly around.

“I…guess I can keep the black in for the time being.” I spoke lowly going over to Miles, who only gave me a knowing look motioning for me to sit; his long bone straight weave that descended to his size two hips swung over his shoulder as he peered down at me.

“Kiersten Stephanie Whitaker..” Why must his tone be so judgmental?

“Yes Miles?”

“Are you still in highschool?” His pretty light brown eyes felt like daggers, shooting through me as my shoulders sunk back towards the wash bowl.

“Not since three years ago, my legal right to drink alcohol confirms that.”

“So cut the childish shit. Your ass definitely do need some liquor courage. Googly eyes? Trippin’ and shit? Now Ki…I’ve seen you in the highest of the Manolos to inches of 6’ and your ass really tripped on ai-”

“Miles!”

“I know you like him. You ain’t foolin’ nobody..” My scalp was now drenched in the coconut milk shampoo, he added as he massaged my scalp now granting me silence.

“I don’t know who him is, but I need you to find me a nice periwinkle pink or a shade darker, this natural thing won’t work.”

“You heard daddy, he likes your hair natural.” He replied with a whisper. And just like that my flesh heated, and I felt the brim of my cheeks reddening. He’s so horrible. Walking over to his station he wagged his tongue out with the wiggle of his perfectly arched eyebrows, glancing at Messiah then back at me.

I, Kiersten Whitaker, would not ever dare myself to even think of the possibly of having any relations to the Messiah King. His supreme status in the streets after taking his father’s place heightened to a third degree even after the credibility of his name period; I wasn’t with that lifestyle and the idiosyncrasies tackled on. Not to mention the conflict of interest, and huge age gap. Besides niggas wasn’t checking for the trust fund princess from the suburbs, with a fiend for a mother, and more money in her family lineage to feed the whole Marcy Projects. Shit didn’t mesh. Now check yourself Kiersten…shit.

IMANI

“Why you still here? Get out my office…”

“So that's how you speak to your favorite brother?” He took a seat in the pink plush chair that sat before my desk, checking his Rolex following his phone. I found myself, sometimes, not being able to stare at him for too long cause he looked just like our dad; a little too much.

“You're my only brother! Now what?” He was cryptic and not speaking much which only meant he was in his head about something he's trying to figure out a way to deal with.

“I'm thinkin’ about further expanding Mi Mi...lookin’ into more business endeavors.” With him not blinking or changing the position on his stoic face, it gave me the indication he was serious.

“And that includes leaving the bullshit behind? Right Scarface?”

“You know what time it is Imani, let's not start. We’ve got the label, which is more than profitable, so that's a given, the car shops, one club in TriBeCa… This salo-”

“Woah, woah...let me stop you there. This is my baby, that was passed on to me don't be trying to regulate my territory nigga..” He chuckled, which brought me some relief; however I couldn't ignore the stress lines apparent on his face that was adjacent to the teardrop tattoo, that confirmed the nature of the kind of guy my brother was; our father’s troublesome offspring. He was morphing into him day by day and I doubt he even realized.

“You know who you sound like right now, right?...She's proud of you, you know. Handling this place the way you do…” Despite the sincerity, I could do without the mention of her. Why would my mother, on the other side of the city, at the best rehab facilities in NYC, be concerned with my well being was beyond me. She hasn't for the past 24 years so why now? But of course the women in Messiah’s life were his soft spot. Crack fiend, child abandoner, and reckless behavior as a teen mother and all, she was still the Queen of Brooklyn that held down the throne beside my father back then, in my brother’s eyes.

“Get that look off your face Mi, she wants to talk to you..”

“Not happening. But anywayyyy...my salon is off limits, you know that. It's the one thing I could say I really established on my own without your help! So back off Messiah!” He grinned obnoxiously, which only caused my eyes to reach the ceiling.

“Aight, aight. Damn, but I'll speak to Ezra about this new club idea, I think it'll be dope. And maybe another building of something, I still gotta think.”

“And then leave this shit alone! SCARFACE!?”

“Your voice is so...Mimi, it's not easy to just walk away from this shit; you know that!”

“You're not dad, and you know he wouldn't want you-”

“Alright Mi…” The silence filled the area, with worry creeping beneath the shadows; losing two parents was more than enough I could stand to live with daily, especially to the glamorized confinement of these streets; it seemed as though even after my dad’s passing his presence was still strong...controlling everything of our vicinity.  

“Where's my niece?” Clearly we needed a subject change. The grimace on his face reemerged and I didn't even have to really guess why.

“If I'm goin’ to jail, I guarantee it'll be because of murdering Monique’s ass than anything; she's with her..”

“I told you the solution..”

“No, despite everything she's still Tori’s mother, and I need her around, that is until my baby is atleast 18. That first ass whoppin’ was enough, damn Mi…”

“Apparently it wasn't. She better not step foot in my shop or I'm diggin’ a 7 inch stiletto right in that ass. Ughhh, you and these hoes man!”

“Can you please relax? Dramatic ass.”

“I don't care if I'm being dramatic when are you going to settle down? You need to let me hook you up.”

“Nah, I’m straight. All your friends are hoes, I already fucked about half of ‘em.” He laughed as if that shit was cute. Of course he ran up in majority of the girls from BK to Queens; like the true birds they were, they flocked to him every chance they got. Ugh.

“They aren't my friends, but clients, and acquaintances, if that! Don't play! You know who my bitches are, and you definitely didn't fuck ‘em.”

“The yellin’ Mi please sound like a damn alarm clock. You right, damn straight; too fuckin’ bougie.The other ones, thing one and thing two? I couldn't even see it..”

“And don’t flatter yourself.”

“But shorty? The real pretty and thick one..” He nodded his head refocusing on his phone. Oh hell no.

“No Messiah..”

“What you mean no? She's fine as fuck. She came a long way from being that cute chubby girl in highschool with the braces.” Oh so now he wanted to leave after declaring his bullshit? He rose up from the chair, giving me a kiss on the forehead, now walking out.

“Now hook that up and then maybe you'll get the courage to fuck with my boy E, like you really want to.” He chuckled deeply.

“Boy bye! Get. Out!”

“Yeah, aight. You know I'm speakin’ facts Mi.”