Famous (12 page)

Dionne
November 3@7:45 p.m. | Mood: Guilty

Dionne
climbed out of her mom's Honda and jogged up the steps to her great-grandmother's house in Irvington. As always, she looked forward to their visits to her great-grandmother's house at least once a week—but most times more.

There was usually some decent home cooking (Mama Belle admitted that she didn't catch her men because of her skills at the stove), some laughter (she could out-curse Lil Duval while talking mad ish), and a little Jesus (she'd outpreach T.D. Jakes). Grandkids either got a hug or a slap, depending on their behavior—go to the left and she'd knock you back right.

The only problem with Mama Belle's house when it got cold was the temperature. She'd keep the thermostat on eighty degrees all day, every day. Dionne felt like she'd walked into an oven as soon as she opened the door. She quickly took off her coat as soon as she crossed the room to hug Ma Belle, who was sitting in her favorite recliner.

Dionne kissed her cheek, enjoying the smell of Noxzema
face cream and Avon's Timeless. “What did you cook?” Dionne asked.

Mama Belle cut her eyes at her great-granddaughter. “A big ole pot of truth,” she said, her eyes locked on Dionne. “Pull up to my table.”

Dionne looked over her shoulder. Her mom was nowhere to be seen. It became clear it was a setup. She slumped down onto the sofa, which was particularly scratchy because of the heat.

“When my brother and sister and I were growing up, we were so poor we had to share clothes and shoes, sleep in the same bed and pray for seconds at dinner,” Mama Bell said, shifting forward in her seat to point her finger at Dionne.

“And I was never ashamed of who I am and where I came from. Never!”

Dionne shifted her eyes to hide her guilt.

“We all raised you better than that foolishness, Dionne!”

She looked up, surprised by her great-grandmother's anger. “But, Mama Belle—”

Her great-grandmother's hands slashed the air, so Dionne decided to swallow the rest of her words. “You should be able to look them friends of yours in the face and say ‘look where I came from and watch where I'm going.'”

“My friends know I came from Newark,” she said.

Mama Belle sat up straight. “
Came from Newark?
Baby, don't you
still
live on 16th Avenue in Newark?” she asked.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“If your friends can't accept you for you, and respect your mama for her, then they ain't friends worth having.”

She was right, of course, and Dionne knew that as she nodded her head in agreement. But knowing what was right and doing what was right was two different things.

“Now go fix me a glass of ice water,” she said.

End of conversation.

Dionne stood up and made her way across the small living room.

“And this foolishness about you sleeping in the master bedroom at your new house, cancel that,” she called out.

“Your mama is a good woman tryna do right by you, don't take advantage, Miss Thang.”

Dang it.
Dionne kissed all her plans for the master suite goodbye. When Mama Belle spoke, she listened. Period.

 

“When I was growing up in Newark, it was more wild and grittier than this,” Risha said suddenly as she drove the streets of Newark toward home. “I remember getting off the bus in the morning and seeing blood on the corner from somebody getting shot the night before or waking up in the morning to see the street filled with police cars 'cause a woman got stabbed to death. It was crazy, you know?”

Dionne said nothing and just listened. Her parents taught her a long time ago that if you kept your mouth shut and your ears open, you'd learn a lot more.

“But I love this city. It made me into a hardworking woman,” she said.

“And a good mom,” Dionne added softly.

Risha nodded her head. “Yes, because I am a good mother
and I'm proud of that, because I wasn't just another teenage mother looking to get on welfare. And I raised you without public assistance.”

Dionne looked out the passenger window at all the rows of new town houses and apartment buildings around their neighborhood. There was a lot of new construction and change coming to the city—her city, her hometown.

“And one day—even after we move—you will realize that this city is helping to shape who you are,” she said, reaching over to lightly tap her finger against Dionne's chest.

She turned her head to lock eyes with her mother.

“I never wanted to move out of Newark, maybe into better areas of Newark. But I never thought about leaving this city. See, I gotta lot of love for this city and a lot of faith in this city…”

We're not moving. We're not moving.

“But I have a lot more faith in you,” she finished.

Dionne began to smile but tried to keep it from spreading like a rainbow.

“I have narrowed it down to the house in South Orange and the one in Montclair,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “Go on ahead and do the happy dance.”

Dionne giggled as she snapped her fingers.

“We'll go back and look at both some time this week.”

Dionne felt like she could skyrocket over the moon. “I thought about it, Mom, and I really don't want the big bedroom in either house,” she said, reaching over to touch her mother's arm.

“Dionne—”

“No, listen, you have done so much for me and made so many sacrifices for me. I remember you went without so that I could have what I needed and sometimes stuff that I just wanted. I remember in the old days you giving me my food first to make sure I was full before you even ate.”

Risha pulled up to a red light by Westside Park. “That's my job as a mother,” she insisted, reaching up to adjust her earrings.

Dionne shook her head, swinging her ponytail back and forth. “No, some of that was overtime,” she said. “So let me do something nice for you. Let me give you the big bedroom. Can I do that for you?”

Risha reached over and playfully pinched Dionne's chin. “You are a pretty good kid.”

“The apple doesn't fall too far from the tree,” she said, using some of Mama Belle's words of wisdom.

“Just until you are eighteen,” Risha said. “If you agree, then I accept your offer.”

Dionne smiled, holding out her hand with her oversize opal cocktail ring flashing. “Deal.”

Risha swatted her hand away before she drove away. “You are so bourgie,” she teased.

“Truly, darling, am I?” Dionne said, with a snooty accent. Risha gave Dionne her five fingers and the palm.

 

“South Orange or Montclair, huh?”

Dionne nodded, playing with the neon Silly Bandz she wore on her wrist. “Yeah,” she answered before looking up at him sitting on the step above where she sat. They faced each other.

Their voices echoed in the hallway of the building so they talked low.

“It won't be the same with you not living in the neighborhood,” Hassan said, his cute-looking face with a sad expression after hearing her news.

Dionne reached up and touched his leg through the denim fabric. “You can come and visit me and I'll come see you.”

Hassan stood up on the step and then extended his hand to her. She grabbed it and let him pull her to her feet. She pursed her lips and pouted as he pulled her close to him. “I'm sorry,” she said, wrapping her arms around his thin waist.

Dionne frowned at the smell of his practice jersey. “Oh God, you stink,” she said, leaning back to pinch her nose.

“I stink?” he balked, pretending to smell his armpits.

Dionne stepped down, laughing and waving her hand in front of her face.

Hassan grabbed the hem of his shirt, lifted it and pulled it down over Dionne's head, shoulders and arms.

Dionne reached up to tickle his sides, desperately wanting to be free of the funky smell after hours of football practice. She stuck her head through the V-neck opening, pretending to gasp for air.

“I'm gonna miss you, Dionne,” Hassan said seriously, their mouths just inches apart.

Awwww.

With a mix of sadness and excitement about the move, Dionne stood on her tiptoes and kissed her boyfriend.

“Co-sign,” she said softly.

Marisol
November 5@4:20 p.m. | Mood: So over it!!!

“Get
it, get it, get it, girrrrrl.”

Marisol brought fierceness to the last eight steps of the routine as she watched herself in the mirror. Eli's coaching made her work even harder.

He came across the hardwood floors and scooped her up over his shoulder. “I think I love you,” he screeched, reaching up to soundly slap her bottom.

WHAP!

Marisol laughed.

“I have a dance crush on you,” he said, setting her on her feet.

Marisol felt exhilarated as she always did when she danced.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, tapping his lips with his clear-coated fingernail, “I'm working on this video for a new teen group and with your look and your dancing ability you might work for the lead.”

Marisol jumped up and did a high kick before she hugged
Eli close around the neck. “Oh, thanks, Eli,” she said, completely gushing.

“Thanks for what?”

Marisol moved back from Eli and looked over her shoulder at Starr and Dionne finally strolling into practice. “Eli said he wanted me as a dancer in a video he's doing,” Marisol said excitedly, her hands clasped together beneath her chin.

“I said
might,
” Eli stressed.

Dionne came over and hugged Marisol close. “I hope you get it, Mari,” she said.

Marisol looked over Dionne's shoulder at Starr. She watched her friend arch her eyebrow. Marisol felt annoyed—big-time.

“So you want to be a video dancer?” Starr said sarcastically.

The whole happy vibe changed in an instant.

Marisol made a face. “And the problem is?” she said, her voice low but the level of her annoyance steadily rising.

“So if you're busy being a rump shaker and dropping it low, then what about the Go Gettas?” she asked.

“Starr—” Dionne said.

Marisol eyed Starr, pushing aside the urge to count to ten. “So I can't have my own dreams, Starr?” she asked.

“Oh Lawd,” Eli sighed dramatically.

“Come on, y'all,” Dionne said. “Let's just practice.”

Starr walked up to Marisol. “Your dedication to be in our group…”

“Our group? This is all about you,” Marisol snapped.

“And being a video ho ain't all about you?”

Dionne groaned and covered her face with her hands.

Eli's perfectly drawn-on eyebrows shot up.

“Better a video ho than a tone-deaf wannabe Keyshia Cole who is really a Keyshia Can't!”

Dionne and Eli gasped in shock.

“Tone-deaf?” Starr said, with attitude.

“Do-re-mi can't take your singing anymore,” Marisol snapped.

Dionne stepped in between them, having to use her hands to push them both back.

“Get out, Buffy the Body!” Starr snapped, pointing her finger to the door.

“You ain't said nothin'.” Marisol snatched her bag, along with Eli's business card sitting on top of it. She was leaving early for Percy's game so she had all of her things with her. She flung her scarf dramatically around her neck and strutted away. She paused when she reached the door and looked back. “And in case you're as dumb as you are tone-deaf, as far as I'm concerned the Go Gettas can go get lost.”

SLAM.

 

Marisol actually stopped in one of the Lesters' bathrooms, showered and changed into a bedazzled jersey, leggings and Louis Vuitton sneakers. By the time she slid into the back of the Jaguar, she was so ready to see her boo Percy play.

She didn't worry about Starr or the Go Gettas. Dancing was her thing and it had nothing to do with being famous. If she was able to make it big as a dancer, then that was just icing on the cupcake. What Starr and everyone else failed to realize was that she loved to dance—even if it meant being a
backup, out of the spotlight. She was fine with that—more than fine with that.

Marisol played with her diamond hoops as the Jag sped along the short distance to Pace Academy. She flipped open the armrest cover in the door, revealing a media controller and docking station. She ignored the TV set and slid her iPod into the charger. Soon the sounds of Demi Lovato filled the car.

She texted Percy:

 

Where u @?

 

“There goes my baby.”

 

@ the football field.

 

She sang softly along with the music as she texted him back:

 

Okay. C u @ the game.

 

Sighing, she settled back against the leather. She looked down at her phone as her ringtone sounded. Dionne.

“Hello.”

“Marisol. Oh my God, where are you?” she asked, whispering.

“On my way to the football game.” Marisol slid her shades down on her nose to block some of the fall sunlight beaming through the window.

“I cannot be-lieeeeve you told Starr she can't sing,” Dionne said.

Marisol had to press the phone close to her ear. “Why are you whispering?”

“We're in the studio and Starr's recording the lead vocals.”

“What?!” Marisol threw her hands up.

“Yup.”

“And so she still doesn't get it that she can't sing?” she asked, aware that her driver's broad shoulders were shaking with laughter.

“
O-M-G,
no. She thinks you said it to be mean.”

Marisol dropped her head. “Listen, you have to tell her. You have to. This foolishness has gone on long enough—seriously.”

“I can't.”

“Well, sorry, but it's your problem now. I'm outta the group, thank God. As a matter of fact, I'm going to enter and do a dance routine.”

Dionne sighed. “Marisol, please don't. We're friends. We can't let this group mess that up.”

Marisol shook her head as if Dionne could see her. “She owes me an apology. I didn't say ish when she fired me as the choreographer. I didn't say ish when she wrote all the words like she was a solo act. I didn't even say anything when she picked out everything without even asking us, but to call me a video ho. Bump, Starr.”

“Marisol—”

“I gotta go, Di. I'll holla.” She ended the call.

Marisol had been friends with Starr for years and they
had had fights before. But Starr was really pushing the limit, and Marisol refused to just lie down and let Starr run all over her.