Fabulous (5 page)

Starr
September 9 @ 6:40 p.m. | Mood: Agitated

“Relax,
Starr, relax.”

Starr rolled her eyes before settling on her pink-and-white acrylic-covered pedicured toes. Feeling her Pilates instructor Kante’s hand press gently on the small of her back, she bent down until her buttocks were in the air. He bent over to check her form and Starr fought the desire to blast a seriously malodorous fart into his almost-pretty-enough-to-be-a-girl face. She bit back a giggle.

Exercise was definitely a “to do” but that didn’t stop it from making her anxious. If it wasn’t for the fact that Kante was sweeter than a thousand bags of jelly beans and had a “partner” named Jackson, Starr would seriously worry about his closeness during their sessions. Dating older boys (ahem, anyone twenty and over) was
one thing her parents didn’t have to worry about. Starr didn’t do old. She didn’t even like vintage designer clothing. Secondhand armpit sweat? Definitely a “don’t.”

“Okay, Starrlet, one last deep breath and rise slowly to reach for the sky, sweetie,” Kante said in his soft voice that was almost a whisper.

Starr did as she was instructed, opening her eyes just as she raised her slender arms high above her head. She winced at the tension all across her shoulders.

“You’d be a lot more comfortable and at ease, sweetie, if you didn’t have a wedgie as deep as the line for free cheese in the hood,” Kante drawled from behind her.

Starr whipped her head around to glare at him. If looks could kill, the tall and slender, baldheaded black man with the really soft-pink-and-icky glossy lips would drop like a roach in a losing battle with Black Flag. “Since it’s bothering you like it’s jammed up
your
butt let me correct that for you,” she said sarcastically as she stared him dead in the eye and pulled out the wedgie with her index finger and thumb.

Her thong went
POP
as it slapped against her hip when she released it.

“Whaddup, Starr.”

She made an ugly face filled with dismay at the sound of the voice coming from the door of the solarium. Not even closing her eyes and doing a quick count to five could get her together enough to recover from being seen digging out a wedgie…by Jordan.

Kante just flung his headband back, licked his lips that
were way more glossy than even Starr’s and laughed like a hyena as he began to gather his equipment. Kante and Starr definitely had a love-hate relationship that was way more love than anything. Most times they loved sparring with each other and right now Kante was enjoying the joke on her.
Bet I can erase that Kool-Aid smile with one word. FIRED,
she thought.

Starr plastered on her best fake smile and turned to find Jordan leaning ever so slightly in the doorway with his eyes—those eyes—on her. He looked delicious in the camel-colored leather racing jacket he wore over a white tee and dark jeans. He looked good and he knew it. Starr absolutely
loved
his confidence. “Hi, Jordan,” she said calmly, like her heart wasn’t beating a mile a minute and her stomach didn’t feel as busy as a mall on a Saturday afternoon.

“
S-V-F,
baby.
S-V-F,
” Kante said over his shoulder with a smug expression on his face as he headed toward the door. “See you Monday, Starrlet.”

Starr smiled at the way Jordan stepped away from the door as Kante passed him switching like he was using his butt to sweep the floor.

“What’s
SVF?
” Jordan asked, as he walked over to help her pick up and roll her exercise mat.

“Nothing,” Starr lied as she picked up one end of the mat and Jordan grabbed the other. She didn’t have the heart to tell him it stood for So Very Fine.

“Your party is the talk around Pace,” he said, stepping closer to her with each roll of the cushy mat.

She flipped her bangs out of her face as she looked up at him. “Really,” she answered, feeling her usual tongue-tied self around the cutie.

It was hard to think when each of his steps surrounded her deeper and deeper into the deliciously divine scent of Gucci Rush.

Jordan was the only boy who made her feel like their chemistry was just as powerful and crazy explosive as fireworks blasting off. Right now, she could care less about his flirting with Heather on the first day of school. Besides, he wasn’t her boyfriend…yet.

Their fingers brushed as he handed her the mat and took one last step forward to stand just inches from her.

Needing space and feeling way too nervous in his presence, Starr stepped back. His hands covered hers quickly. They felt warm.

Starr felt like she could literally throw up. Why couldn’t boys be as simple as hooking up a banging outfit with just the right accessories?

“I
know
I’m invited?” he asked as he did an LL-like lick of his lips.

She nodded as words escaped her.

Say something, Starr. Say something…

Smart.

Flirty.

Cool.

Funny.

Witty.

Teasing.

Just…say…anything!

Okay, anything but “I love you, Jordan Jackson, future superstar, and I want to get married as soon as we’re legal. We’ll be the next young, black and fabulous power couple. I’ll be the Beyoncé to your Jay-Z.”

Anything
but that! That was way, way, way too much information.

“Oh, no, Jordan. Save all that sex appeal for your future fans…and not my daughter.”

They both jumped apart a bit and looked over toward the door as Starr’s dad, Cole, strolled in with a grin on his handsome face. Jordan’s father, Deshante, lead singer of the platinum-selling group Shyne, stepped into the room behind him.

Both men had on enough diamonds to blind a small town. They were the epitome of black, rich and famous. No suits, unless necessary. Designer jeans, crisp white tees, funky military-style jackets, custom-made shoes.

Starr loved her daddy’s style. There was never an embarrassing “what does my daddy have on?” moment. Of course he had one of the top stylists on his payroll
and
his speed dial. Whether he was chilling around the crib or strolling down the red carpet, Daddy Lester
always
represented well for the forty-and-fine crew.

Deshante pushed his shades atop his smooth bald head. “You know if they get married the tab for the wedding is all you, father of the bride.”

Jordan shook his head before dropping it in his hand.

“As long as pretty boy over there knows to keep his
hands off until after the wedding,” Cole said, pointing toward Jordan playfully.

“Daddy!” Starr whined, completely embarrassed. Parents knew how to make something crucial when it didn’t have to be.

Starr quickly snatched up the rest of her exercise gear into one of her Louis duffel bags. After slinging it over her shoulder, she avoided Jordan’s teasing brown eyes and walked up to her father with her hand out. “Tonight, me and Mama are going to look for my dresses for my party,” she said. “It’s in two weeks, ya know.”

Cole slipped one of his hands from the pockets of his jacket to slap her hand like a high five. “Roll out. See you when you get back.”

Starr arched her brow and pursed her lips before she said, “Daddy, may I please have money to buy my dresses for my parties?”

“Now there you go,” he said, with a huge grin showing off the veneers that her mom made him get.

Starr fought not to roll her eyes. What was the purpose of the whole “ask me nicely” hoopla when she
knew
he was going to give her the money regardless? Just crazy.

My parents can trip when they want to.

He pressed the black Amex into her hand and Starr smiled sweetly and wiggled her fingers.

“Boy, she really looks like her mama now,” Deshante teased.

“Tell me about it,” Cole drawled, reaching in his pocket to pull out a wad of folded hundred-dollar bills.
He peeled off ten and put them on top of the credit card still in Starr’s outstretched hand.

“You’re the one who taught me to never leave the house without cash
and
credit,” she reminded him, before strutting out of the room like
she
paid the hefty mortgage.

Starr fought the urge to sneak one last peek at Jordan. He really was yummy to look at…and probably even more yummy to kiss. No doubt his kiss was nothing at all like the innocent peck on the cheek she got from Hairy Harry when she was six. Or the icky grossness of Cheetos-breath Bubble-Butt Bobby when she was ten. Or the wetness of Gunther the Grabber when she was thirteen.

Kissing Jordan would be soft and sweet and tasty. It would be perfect and that’s why she was determined it would go down on the night of her birthday party. Of course,
that
she would do out of range of MTV’s
My Super Sweet 16
cameras. That was her business and hers alone. Holla.

“Starr.”

She turned in the doorway, her cheeks still warm from the thought of her first kiss with Jordan. “Yes?”

“MTV can’t do the party,” Cole told her as he slipped his cell phone back onto the clip.

No!

Starr felt like the rug was being yanked from underneath her.

“Their production crews are already taping a show that week.”

No! No! No!

She had already
told
people her party was going to be on MTV!

Cole eyed his daughter like he felt the storm brewing inside her. “They will definitely tape your
My Super Sweet 16
next year, baby girl, and trust me we will do it big,” he offered.

“Shoot,” Starr said in lieu of the real bomb she would love to screech. She forced a smile as tight as a Botoxed forehead.

Starr wanted to flip. She wanted to cry, pout, shout and turn this mother out. She wanted to demand that her daddy make it right just like always. But not in front of Jordan and his father. Later. Definitely a “to do.”

Dionne
September 10 @ 8:30 a.m. | Mood: Confused

Dionne
looked up from taking notes in algebra class to find Mrs. Kingsley’s short frame headed her way. She hoped the portly woman was headed for Rocksy Reynolds sitting directly behind her.

“Miss Hunt, report to the headmaster’s office,” Mrs. Kingsley whispered to her in her British accent, almost as strong as the smell of coffee on her breath.

Dionne felt the eyes of the other seven students on her as she slid back her chair and grabbed her book bag to sling over her shoulder. Dionne notched her head high and made her way toward the solid wooden door.

“See you at lunch, Dionne.”

She looked down over her shoulder to see Reggie Monton smiling up at her with all of his chocolate cuteness—dimples and all. Even the ugliness of the
uniform’s red blazer couldn’t knock him down on the Hot Boyz rank.

“You know my boy Reg likes you, right?”

In that moment as her eyes locked with Reggie’s she remembered Jordan’s words clearly.

He was big-time fine and his father played for the Nets.

Still in Dionne’s eyes—and heart—he was no Hassan. But Hassan was OUT and she needed a boy who was IN.

She gave him a glossy smile before she kept it moving out the classroom and down the hall. With Reggie flashing his dimples at her she didn’t have time to think about why Headmaster Payne wanted to see her.

Dionne’s black Gucci loafers barely made a sound on the polished tile floor or the steps as she made her way to the main hall on the first floor. She looked through the glass as she opened the door, offering a hesitant smile to Miss Lyon who lived up to her name with her massive, tightly curled red hair surrounding her chubby face.

“Have a seat, Miss Hunt.”

Dionne did, pulling her book bag into her lap as she looked around at the office that looked more like a nicely furnished living room. She would play with her side ponytail some and then switched to playing with her bracelets as she fought off her nerves.

“You can go in now, Miss Hunt,” Miss Lyon said from behind her wooden desk as she set the phone down.

A dozen questions ran through Dionne’s mind as she made her way back to the headmaster’s office.

Am I in trouble?

What did I do?

Will I get expelled?

Does that mean I have to go to Westside High?

Goodbye, Pacesetters. Hello…WHAT?

This is big-time crucial.

Dionne knocked once on the solid oak double doors leading into Headmaster Payne’s office.

“Come in.”

Dionne opened one of the doors and walked in.
Wow, he really has a lot of books,
she thought as she took her seat and primly crossed her ankles.

“Miss Hunt, we have been unable to contact your father regarding a serious matter—”

Dionne’s heart pounded. “Did I do something wrong?” she asked, feeling like her heart was about to take a one-way cruise up her throat.

Headmaster Payne shook his head and Dionne tried not to notice that his stiff toupee shifted just a bit. Not much. But some. “Not at all,” he assured her.

That made Dionne feel a
little
better.

“It’s concerning your tuition. I’m sure it’s just an oversight on your father’s part. And…if not, unfortunately the deadline for applying for tuition assistance has passed.”

Okay, that made Dionne feel big-time bad and she wished that she could shrivel into a little ball and roll out of his office from shame.

“We know your parents aren’t together.” Headmaster
Payne shook his head with a look of pity. “We didn’t have any contact information for your mother on file.”

Dionne frowned a bit as he pushed two huge manila envelopes toward her with one finger that felt like it was pointing at her accusingly.

You owe us.

You better pay us.

You don’t belong.

“Please give one to your mother and the other to your father.”

Dionne avoided his eyes as she grabbed the envelopes and quickly shoved them into her book bag.

“That’s all, Miss Hunt.”

With that her tuition-owing behind was dismissed.

Em-bar-a-sssssing.

She avoided eye contact with Miss Lyon as she scurried past her desk like a rat.

The bell rang, signaling the end of the period, but Dionne didn’t head to her next class or her locker or even to find Starr and Marisol.

Dionne zoomed through the hallway filling up with students headed to the first-floor bathroom. It was funny that even with the sound of students’ voices that mingled together like background noise, she could clearly hear the light ding of her bracelets hitting against each other.

LOVE, FAITH, PEACE
and
STRENGTH.

She needed all that and much, much more.

Dionne barely released her breath as she slammed inside one of the stalls and locked it. She dropped down
onto the toilet seat and used shaking hands to yank her father’s manila envelope out of her book bag. She tore into it—knowing she could get away with opening it. Her eyes and mouth widened bit by bit as she read the letter, silently mouthing the words that sealed her fate.

Her mother’s words of advice had
never
seemed so clear:

I don’t want you to base your life on what your father has. If the money goes—and Lord knows that’s possible with the way he spending it—then the clothes and the thirty-grand-a-year private school and all the other bling-things you didn’t have a year ago will go, too.

Her father had until the end of next week to pay her tuition or it was definitely deuces to Pace Academy and that meant deuces to Starr, Marisol and her semi-fabulous life.