Famous (3 page)

Marisol
October 15@2:23 p.m. | Mood: Excited

Marisol
looked determined as she removed the ruffled black velour tracksuit she wore walking around backstage in the school auditorium. She rotated her neck and head in a clockwise direction, loosening up as she stretched her limbs. Under the tracksuit was the black unitard she was required to wear, along with pointe shoes, for dance class. Marisol owned a couple dozen of the unitards because of the wear and tear from constant washing and because she took classes two or three times a week.

She eyed herself in the wall of mirrors.
This is all about you, Marisol. Stay in the moment. See it. Be it,
she thought.

She stood on the tip of her toes,
en pointe,
and raised her arms gracefully above her head. Her unruly, curly hair had been tamed into a tight topknot. Even though her rounded hips and ample butt were considered heavy compared to more slender ballerinas, Marisol's form was perfect. She looked like a beautiful, brown, Latina ballerina atop a music box.

When she did her ballet poses, it was calming and relaxing
to her like yoga. She could stay that way forever, lost in her love for dance.

Marisol breathed in deeply then lowered herself to a plié, then turned toward the mirrors to be sure there were no signs of sunken treasure in the back (ew!) or a camel toe in the front (double ew!).

“Marisol Ri-ve-ra!”

She took a deep breath to settle her nervous energy and tried not to let the way her dance instructor, Ms. Pulaski, pronounced her name irk her big-time. Her name was Rivera. Not Ri-ve-RAH!

The way Ms. P's breath kicked liked a mule, Marisol thought her name should be pronounced POO-la-ski.

Setting aside the issue of mispronouncing her name, Marisol eased in between her fellow dance students and quickly took her place. She certainly did not want to hear her name called again.

“Good luck, Marisol,” Ms. Poo-la-ski said from somewhere in the total darkness of the auditorium surrounding the stage.

Luck?
Nada.

Skill? Definitely.

Naturally talented? No question.

This solo was one test she knew she was going to ace, big-time.

Marisol took her pose as the first notes of “Famous” by Trey Songz filled the air. (Side note: Marisol was confident that when she turned eighteen,
she
would be Mrs. Tremaine Aldon Neverson!)

“Acting up in Prada. Spend a couple dollars. Head over to Louis. Do you like Gucci?”

The slow melody with an up-tempo bass line was ideal music for Marisol, combining her formal training in ballet, the heat and rhythm of hip-hop and the sass of salsa. She took total control of the stage with the intricate steps she choreographed herself.

“I can make you famous…famous…”

She smiled softly and bit her lips.
Yes, Trey, make me famous,
she thought.
Yeessss!

The two-minute routine flew by and when she ended the dance with a series of turns before she slid into a split as the music faded out, she still wasn't ready for it to end.

Marisol loved, loved, loved to dance.

There was a sudden applause, loud whispers and whistles from the back of the auditorium. Marisol quickly climbed to her feet as the stage filled with curious onlookers.

“Who is that? Who is that!” Ms. Poo-la-ski roared like she was ready to charge! “Turn on the lights
immediately.
”

Suddenly the lights from the hallway flooded the auditorium as one of the back doors was pushed open and the culprits rushed out, their stampeding feet echoing as they ran down the hall.

Okay? Seriously. Ew. Boys can be so dang-on creepy,
she thought, frowning in aggravation.

“Settle down, ladies!”

Marisol eyed Mrs. Poo-la-ski waving her arms in a crazy flurry of long silky scarves and a paisley-patterned dress that had Marisol wondering about her dance instructor's taste and if she was color-blind.

“Okay, good job, Marisol,” she said, reclaiming her seat and motioning for the house lights to be lowered again.

Marisol curtsied as Ms. Poo-la-ski required before she exited the stage.

“Erica Manning.”

Marisol shook her head and grabbed one of the hand towels and a small box of trendy Vita Coco coconut water from a cart just offstage. She took a drink of the beverage, which was made from the juice of green coconuts, as she watched blond-haired Erica—with her tall, slender-as-a-pencil and graceful-as-a-swan figure—glide past her.

“Marisol,” Erica said, in a way-too-strong Southern accent for having left the South almost ten years ago. In the words of NFL wide receiver OchoCinco: “Chile please.”

“Erica,” she said with a nod.

The air between them was cool. No hate. No drama. But no love lost either. Marisol just didn't care that Erica looked down on her more rhythmic dancing. As she walked away from the stage, the strains of Beethoven's gazillionth symphony began to play.
Bor-ring. Whateva.

Erica could do ballet until she bored a hole in her pointe shoes. Marisol wanted to do it
all.
She was fine and fabulous about being more Alvin Ailey than Bolshoi Ballet.

“Good job.”

“Girl, you worked it.”

“Erica can't touch you.”

Marisol smiled at all her well-wishes before she picked up her tracksuit from the floor where she'd tossed it on top of her book bag. She had just zipped up her jacket when her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out, not
recognizing the number that sent her a text. She scrolled with her crimson-painted nails to open it.

 

Cooley's. After school. The butterscotch table.

 

Cooley's was
the
hangout spot for Pace Academy students and any teens in the area. The exterior was in the shape of a huge ice-cream cone and that, plus its all-white decor, latest music and servers on roller skates, made it a popular spot for teens, regardless of cliques.

Marisol walked away from the chatter and dancing of the rest of the dancers backstage to dial the number back. It just rang for a while and went straight to voice mail. She tried it again.

The cell phone automatically went to voice mail, offering no clues as to who the text came from.
Meet at Cooley's? For what? With whom?

She texted a reply.

 

Who is this? Do I know you? Hellooo?

 

Marisol paced a little in an imaginary two-foot square as she waited for a response. And waited. And waited some more. Erica had sashayed off the stage, and the bell signaling the end of the period let out a shrill alarm.

Bzzz.

The vibration surprised her and she almost dropped her phone, juggling it between her hands. She caught it just inches before it fell to the ground.

 

Better question—how did I get ur # since u wouldn't give it 2 me?

 

Marisol checked her Rolex as she hurried from the auditorium. “How did I get your number since you wouldn't give it to me?” she repeated.

It was definitely a boy. Definitely.

But which one?

As she made her way to her locker, she tried to figure out who it could be. She wasn't vain, but plenty of boys had tried to get her number and that wasn't counting the ones crushing from afar.

Dionne was at her locker, stacking her Gucci book bag with books. “Hey, Marisol,” she said, tossing her ponytail behind her shoulder as she bent down to zip her bag.

“Whaddup,” Marisol said, her mind on the text as she opened her locker. She didn't even notice the shirtless poster of Trey hanging on the inside of the locker door.

“What's up with you?” Dionne asked, standing up straight and smoothing the silk sweater she wore under the charcoal-gray blazer.

Marisol showed Dionne the text on her cell.

Dionne's slender cinnamon-brown face went from curious to teasing. “Another crush, Marisol?” she asked, handing her back the cell phone with a tilt of her head.

Sometimes having so much swag and being so popular scared a lot of boys off, and stopped them from even trying to approach anyone in their clique. Being a Pacesetter could be pretty lonely, even if you wanted a boyfriend.

“Do you remember me telling y'all about some dude asking for my number recently?” Marisol asked.

“Just Percy,” Dionne reminded her, with a wiggle of her eyebrows as she held up three fingers that she wiggled as well.

Ah. Yes. Number three on their personal, private and so exclusive list of the hottest boys at Pace Academy. Percy “Good to the Last Drop” Gambling. He most definitely deserved to be ranked in the Top 5. Ow!

“Hmm.” Marisol considered the possibilities as she visualized all six feet two inches of total cuteness that was Percy Gambling.

She remembered the day he tried to get her number, but she was still big-time pissed to find out her crush, Corey, had a girlfriend and was playing the field. Percy took the hit for Corey's doggish ways…then.

Now?

Marisol shrugged. Now, she ready for a little fun in her life. She was ready to have a “There Goes My Baby” ringtone.

 

Can't meet 2day. 2morrow?

 

She hit Send.

That gave her all night to pick out the cutest outfit to get some serious flirting on…once she had showered and was looking fabulous—not dance funky.

“Can I just call you tonight?”

Marisol's eyes widened at the sound of the deep voice behind her.

“Hiiii, Per-cy,” Dionne said sweetly in a little sing-song way as she closed her locker, hitched her satchel on her shoulder and walked away with a wink at Marisol. “Byyyee, Ma-ri-sol.”

Life is so unfair,
she thought, wishing she was on point.

“Marisol?” he said, coming around to stand in front of her.

She turned, giving him her back. “Yeah, call me. That's cool.”

Percy laughed and came around her again, this time reaching out to lightly grab her shoulders. “My breath stink or sum'n? I'm chewing gum. What's up, lovely?” he joked, his East Coast accent just doing big things for her. “Oh,
madre dios,
” she sighed, pressing the side of her hand against her forehead to hide her face. “I just came from dance class and I'm not feeling very cute right now. You know what I'm saying?”

“There's not a girl in this school who can touch you, and lip gloss and all that makeup crap won't change that,” he said, chewing away at his gum.

Her eyes took in his one dimple appearing and disappearing as he chewed.

“Cooley's, huh?” she asked, thinking the movement of his dimple mirrored her heartbeat.

Percy nodded. “Most def.”

“Why not?”

Starr
October 16@7:23 p.m.| Mood: Excited

Starr
kept checking the time on her iPhone 4 as they lounged on her balcony. There was just the slightest bite of chill in the air and Starr had one of the house staff come in to light the outdoor fireplace and bring blankets to cover their legs as they sat on cushioned chairs. Their snacks and oversize cups of hot chocolate came next. She was nearly bursting with excitement about the announcement she was going to make to the girls. But first she was waiting on a package from her part-time personal assistant, Olivia.

Starr never did anything in a simple way. Never.

“There goes my baby…”

Her eyes shot over to Marisol as she rushed to pick up her cell phone and silence the Usher ringtone that was the official signal for calls between a Pacesetter and her boo. Starr reached for her cup of hot chocolate filled with mini-marshmallows and topped with whipped cream. “Something you want to tell us, Marisol?”

Marisol shifted her eyes away from her phone, her cheeks
visibly blushing despite her light brown complexion. She smiled as her thumbs flew over the keyboard.

“Tell Percy the Pacesetters said hello,” Dionne said sweetly.

“'Kay,” Marisol said, barely looking up.

Starr froze in surprise but recovered quickly.

Percy? Percy Gambling? What am I missing? And why does Dionne know before me? Say what? Say who?

“I thought you didn't give Percy your number?” Starr said, trying her best to sound blasé, like whateva.

Marisol set her cell phone down on the teak side table next to her chair. “He got it from somewhere.”

“How was Cooley's?” Dionne asked, reaching for an oversize marshmallow to stick on the end of one of the skewers on the tray.

Cooley's? Percy and Marisol? A date? Even a pseudo-date? What the hello and goodbye is going on?
Starr thought.

“It was okay. We shared a banana split, got our flirt on. Nothing major,” Marisol said nonchalantly.

“Aww,” Dionne sighed as she stuck her skewer into the fire.

“When was this?” Starr asked before taking a sip of her hot chocolate as the flames of the fire reflected in her eyes.

“There goes my baby…”

“Yesterday.” Marisol snatched up her phone.

Humph.
“After school?” Starr asked, shifting her eyes to watch Dionne drop the gooey marshmallow into her open mouth.

“Yup. Right after.”

Hmmm.
Starr had left right after school to get her plans together, so she missed the love connection. “Don't you have dance last period on Thursdays?” she asked. “Please tell me you did not wear that coodie-mama-hugging, butt-molesting unitard to Cooley's?”

Dionne choked on her marshmallow as she laughed.

“There goes my baby…”

“No! I had my tracksuit over it,” Marisol said, obviously distracted as she read her incoming text and fired away a reply. “Plus Percy said even without makeup I'm the ish.”

Starr rolled her eyes.

“Plus, guess who was at Cooley's eating a huge Jay-Z burger with a Madonna milkshake?”

“Not our resident mama-to-be?” Starr asked, ignoring the emotional gut punch she felt at losing Jordan before she even had him.
Boys. Ugh.

“I'm just saying old girl definitely looked like she could be eating for two.” Marisol threw up her hands like
so there.

“Oh. My. God. What if Heather is really pregnant?” Dionne asked, this time pressing her melted marshmallow between two chocolate-coated cinnamon sugar cookies.

“Can you imagine some girl walking around Pace with a big belly!”

Starr held up her hands and then pointed her ebony-painted nails to the left several times like she was directing traffic. “She got to go. Seriously. It's Pace Academy, not
Baby High,
” she drawled in withering tones, referring to the MTV show about a school just for teen mothers.

“You don't really believe there's never been a student at
Pace that has gotten pregnant?” Dionne asked, looking at them as if they couldn't be that naive.

Starr shrugged. “There've been rumors, but a full-blown my-water-is-about-to-break-in-the hall-at-any-moment pregnancy, no.”

“There goes my baby…”

Marisol nodded in agreement before giving in to a sudden text addiction that Starr thought a solid pimp-slap to the cheek would solve.

“You still haven't talked to Jordan?” Dionne asked, chewing on a mouthful of s'mores.

“For what? Obviously he is moving in a faster lane than I want to be in. Jordan needs to continue dealing with the Heathers of the world, because this Starr is too far up there for him to reach.”

“Alright now,” Dionne said like she was in church saying amen to the preacher in the pulpit.

Heather's fifteen-dollar-an-hour-earning father marrying a famous actress pulling in nearly fifteen million per movie had brought the girl into a whole new world. Unfortunately, she overdid it trying to fit in.

Style? Too sexy.

Clothes? Too tight.

Friends? Too slutty.

Boys? Too needy.

Enthusiasm? Too much.

Legs? Too open.

Ew!

Bzzz.
Starr picked up her iPhone. She had a Twitter update. She had over five thousand followers—some of them
celeb bloggers and entertainment e-zines. Not bad for a freshman in high school without her own claim to fame.
At least not yet,
she thought.

Her idol and unknowing mentor, Kimora Lee “Oh So Fabulous” Simmons (or Hounsou?) had sent an update. Besides, her friend Kimora was the
only
celebrity she followed other than her parents. Starr simply loved her and knew if she ever got the chance to get within a foot of Kimora, she would drink from her overflowing cup of how-to-be-so-daggone
fabulous.

 

@OfficialKimora: Happy Fabulosity Friday!!! To all my fabs! Sending you my love!

 

Starr looked over her shoulder and through the open French doors as the doorbell to her suite rang. She decided not to use the oversize remote control pad to switch on her plasma television to the channel linked to the security camera outside her door.
My package!
she thought, hopping up from the chaise longue in her Bedhead cotton sateen pajamas that she adored so much that she made sure to keep new ones on hand for her overnight guest.
(What's fab for the host is fab for the guest!)

Starr rushed to the door and opened it. Sure enough, Mimi, the Lesters' live-in maid, stood there holding a box in her hands. Starr snatched it and stepped back to slam the door closed before Mimi could even say, “You have a package.”

Starr was halfway across the room before she turned and rushed back to open the door. She stuck her head into the
ornately decorated hall. “Sorry, Mimi. Thank you,” she said, breathless with excitement.

Mimi looked over her thin shoulder in her all-black uniform. She just smiled.

All was forgiven.

With her parents being such a power couple in the entertainment industry they were often away at parties, premieres and other events. On those nights, it was Mimi who kept Starr and her twin brothers company during meals.

Rushing to her bed, Starr set the FedEx box down and tore it open, not caring if she chipped the glossy polish on her freshly manicured nails.

“What's that, Starr?” Marisol called from the balcony through the open door.

“Our destiny,” she called back, picking up the portfolio folders. “Meet me in the theater room in five minutes.”

“Yours or the one downstairs?” Dionne asked.

“Mine,” Starr said over her shoulder as she picked up the box and made her way across the bedroom to the double doors leading to her own mini movie theater.

Starr flipped on one of the switches and the room was completely illuminated. She dropped down to the plush fuchsia carpet, sitting down on the huge gold star—like the Hollywood Walk of Fame—with her name in the center.

By the time Marisol and Dionne sat down in one of the soft leather recliners arranged in a semi-circle around the screening room, Starr was standing in front of the curtain-covered wall with a remote in her hand.

“The Pacesetters are going to be famous.”

Dionne and Marisol exchanged a brief look. “Huh?” they both said.

“We're forming a group and going to put out a banging CD on my dad's label,” she said with the utmost confidence, before walking across the carpet to the concession stand at the back of the room.

“What?” Dionne and Marisol exclaimed, turning in their chairs to study her.

Starr stood in front of the glass counter with all her favorite treats from a traditional movie theater—everything from Goobers to hot dogs. That morning she'd told Mimi that she was having overnight guests and Starr knew everything would be ready for yet another fun and fabulous sleepover at Starr Lester's. Plenty of girls at school would give their Pradas for an invite. But this was just for the Pacesetters. It was their time to talk about the essentials: boys, fashion, gossip…and their soon-to-be claim to fame.

Starr smiled as she pushed a button on the remote. The lights dimmed and the pale gold curtains slid open.

Dionne and Marisol leaned back as the one-hundred-and-twenty-inch HD projection screen clicked on.

“When did you get this?” Dionne asked, squinting as their entire bodies were illuminated by the reflection from the TV. “What is it, three hundred inches? Jeez.”

“Focus, ladies,” Starr said, ignoring the fact that her parents had upgraded her sixty-five-inch flat screen. “Meet the team that I have hand-picked to help us on our way to destiny.”

On-screen was the smiling face of woman in her mid-twenties.

“There goes my baby…”

“Marisol!” Starr snapped in aggravation from the rear of the room.

“Sorry.”

After silently counting to ten, Starr continued with her presentation.

“This is Indria, one of the top image specialists in the country. She has styled everyone from Usher to Christina Aguilera.”

Click.

“Makeup diva and hairstylist phenom, Kia Strikes. Best on the East Coast.”

Click.

“Fiyah, a new producer from Atlanta that I am having flown in to help us cut two singles for our demo. He's new, but my sources say he's dope.”

Click.

Marisol gasped as a smiling photo of her filled the screen.

“Marisol aka MariMari, choreographer,” Starr said.

Marisol clapped excitedly.

Click.

“Dionne aka Diva DiDi—rapper.”

“That's whassup,” Dionne said, nodding her head in agreement.

Click.

“Starr aka Starr, of course—lead singer and song-writer.”

“Do di-vahhhh,” Marisol said with three snaps in the air.

Click.

A small image appeared on-screen and grew in size as a dope beat filled the room through the surround sound. With a boom, an image of a star filled the entire screen, with
Go Gettas
written in graffiti.

More than satisfied with her presentation and the team she'd pulled together in just a few days, Starr walked to the front of the theater. “We are the Go Gettas, ladies, and our team should help us deliver,” she said emphatically.

Starr hit the remote. The lights came on, the music faded, and the screen went black just before the pale gold curtains
whooshed
closed.

“Deliver what to who?” Marisol asked, rising to fix herself a frosted Jamaican-Me-Crazy ice.

“A demo to my daddy,” she said. “I'm Cole Lester's little girl, but he is all about his business. So we got to come correct to make this happen.”

“And you did all this since when?” Dionne asked.

“Three days ago.”

“Wow,” Dionne and Marisol said in unison.

Wealth and fame definitely had its privileges.