Friends of Enemies

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I am receiving fan mail now.

The only reason I’m even famous is because of T. And that’s exactly why I rip up every single letter—every one of them speaks about me and T’s relationship, and that’s the last thing on my mind right now. As a matter of fact, that relationship doesn’t even exist anymore.

One of the letters catches my eye, though. It’s strange, and it’s hard to read. The handwriting is rushed and looks like the writing of a small child.

I read it anyway.

Dear Ms. Jaydi Campbell,

I don’t know if you remember me. My sister and I got backstage passes to Tyga’s concert in LA two months ago. That was where you and Tyga met. Anyway, I saw you. I saw you look at him and not speak—I knew you were surprised. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I have been persistently trying to contact you to warn you about my sister. My sister, China, has known Tyga for a while. That’s the only reason we got those backstage passes. They had a relationship before, but Tyga didn’t like how she was acting. I’m not exactly sure why they broke up (China’s kind of mean to me since I’m her younger sister and doesn’t tell me much about her life) but they did. I hope nothing’s happened yet, and I hope nothing will happen. But I’m just warning you—China hasn’t let Tyga off the hook so easily yet.

In other words, China wants him back. And what China wants, China gets.


Dana Black

I read the letter over and over. The letter was sent a week ago—that’s enough time for this girl’s sister to have re-contacted T, persuaded him to be with her again, and…

For what happened to have happened.

Dana, the girl who sent the letter, didn’t leave her number. There’s a return address, but I’m not up to go through the trouble to respond. Instead, I go on Travie’s hotel room’s computer, and search up Dana’s sister’s name—China Black.

All the links talk about some girl named Blac Chyna. It must be a stage name of hers, but I don’t know exactly what she does. It’s only when I look up pictures of her that I realize what she does—she does the most degrading thing a woman could ever do to herself. She strips.

I instantly lose all respect I might’ve had for Blac Chyna. I instantly hate her.

“I think you should answer the phone.” Travie says, sipping on a thick white milkshake. He shares his cousin’s obsession with milkshakes. He persuaded me to leave the hotel after a while. I didn’t want to come outside though. I was in no mood to be outside, to face the world of liars and cheaters, just like T.

But Travie comforts me, so I feel okay with him now.

I have 13 missed texts, 41 missed calls, and 19 voicemail messages—they’re all from T.

“I think,” I say, slurping up the last bit of my smoothie, “he shouldn’t have done what he did.” Travie smiles; he knows I’m right, but he has sympathy for his cousin. I have no sympathy for T. I shouldn’t have any, as a matter of fact, because if he’d wanted sympathy he should’ve thought about that before he went and messed around with that girl—while he told me he loved me.

“Just answer one phone call—just one.” Travie says. Then when he sees I’m not up for it, he adds (with a pout): “Please, for me?”

I can’t resist Travie’s soft featured face. He is so persuasive. I try to look away, but he holds my chin and makes me look straight into his puppy dog eyes.

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