Famous (9 page)

Dionne
October 28@7:35 p.m. | Mood: Happy

Dionne
was more than a little stressed. Even though Marisol and Starr were putting up a big-time front at being cool with each other, the tension was thick as gravy. It was getting so bad that she was glad to be out of the tug-of-war between them and go back home to Newark every day.

Starr said Marisol was acting like she wasn't used to having a boyfriend.

Marisol said Starr was ego tripping and way too judgmental when she couldn't sing.

She usually pleaded the fifth and tried to stay out of it.

In truth, Dionne thought Starr was wrong to drop Marisol as their choreographer without telling her. And she understood why asking Natalee to be a singer in the group had hurt Starr's feelings.

Other than that drama, Dionne was actually excited about the group. She liked the tracks. She loved the outfits and was pumped about the choreography—Marisol's and Eli's. But she also just couldn't see anyone taking them seriously with Starr as the lead vocalist—not at all.

They really and truly needed Natalee.

But Starr would never admit it and Dionne didn't think she would ever have the heart to tell her. But someone had to…before the talent show.

Dionne sighed as she looked down at the time on her BlackBerry. Hassan had football practice Monday through Thursday and she didn't get to see him until eight. Usually, he would come over and they'd chill while he did his homework.

“Ma,” Dionne yelled from the living-room window seat, where she was pretending to read some random book while waiting for Hassan.

“What?” Risha called back, the smell of fried chicken in the air.

“You haven't picked out a house yet?” she asked.

“Between you and your daddy I'm gonna scream,” Risha said, walking into the living room.

“Just asking, Ma.”

Risha eyed the window. “Sitting there waiting on your little boo ain't gonna bring him here sooner,” she said, with a playful twist of her mouth.

Dionne just buried her head in the book.

“And what does Hassan think about you moving? Not that it matters,” she stressed. “I'm just curious.”

“We're not boyfriend and girlfriend,” Dionne said.

“As much as he's been hangin' around here I thought I was going to hear wedding bells as soon as you two graduate,” Risha quipped.

“You're so funny, Ma, I forgot to laugh.”

Risha cocked her head to the side. “I'll let that slide
because I can tell something's bothering you. Is it about that music group? Do I have to be the Sonja to your Brandy or the Jonetta to your Usher?”

Dionne smiled, knowing Risha Hunt would be as good as those momagers combined, plus some. “I'm good,” she said.

“Sure?”

“A-plus.”

“Somebody at work told me that your daddy's getting married,” she said. “And don't act like you don't know because mother knows all about your Google alerts and daily blog reads.”

Dionne winced at an image of Candylixxxious's
ginormous
behind. “Is that his type?” she asked.

Risha stood up and looked down at her own buttocks. “It wasn't sixteen years ago,” she quipped. “I guess more money, more booty.”

“O-kay,” Dionne agreed, glad that she wasn't the piece of thong caught in Candylixxxious's behind. “But he said that's a lie. They went out, but no haps on the walk down the aisle.”

“Did you finish your rhyme?” she asked.

Dionne shrugged. “Yeah, Daddy helped me with it. He claims my flow is sick,” she bragged, dancing in her chair and snapping her fingers.

“Let me see for myself. I grew up on hip-hop,” she joked, like she was still fifteen and back in the 1980s.

“Let me tighten it up first. Okay?”

Ding-dong.

“Mr. Lover-Lover is here.” Risha stood up and walked back into the kitchen.

Dionne was excited as she buzzed him in. She stood in the doorway and listened to the sound of his feet on the steps.

And then it kinda hit her that her crush—her very first crush—was crushing on her just as hard.
Life is good.

Hassan smiled when he saw her. “Hey, are we going to the big Halloween party at Cole Lester's?” he asked as soon as he walked in the house.

Dionne's stomach dropped.

“Hey, Ms. Hunt,” he called out.

“Hi, Hassan,” she called back.

Dionne turned all the lights on. “Party?” she asked.

“Yeah, it's all over the blogs. The kids were talking about it at school.” Hassan dug his schoolbooks out of his book bag once he had settled his tall athletic frame. He wore a hoodie over his football jersey and oversize basketball shorts and Jordans.

“I think it's for adults,” she told him, as she discovered that lying was becoming easier and easier.

Hassan looked disappointed. “That's cool. There's a Halloween party at Westside and we can just go to that,” he offered.

Oh, crap! Miss the party? No way.
“Sounds like a plan,” she said, turning to walk into the kitchen.

“Liar, liar,” her mother said under her breath.

Dionne ignored her and grabbed a can of soda from the fridge. Of course her mom knew she was lying. They'd already rented her costume. Dionne sat the soda can next to
Hassan and then plopped down onto the sofa. She frowned as she felt something pressing into her bottom. She stood and looked down. It was a gold cardboard jewelry box.

Her eyes got big as she looked at Hassan pretending like he was focused on his math homework.

Playing along, she said nothing else and opened the box. She gasped in pleasure at the three gold bangles nestled in the square of white foamy cushion.

Dionne slid them over her slender hand onto her wrist before she turned and hugged Hassan's sweaty neck. “Thank you, Hassan. They're sooooo cute,” she sighed, thinking the sweat from his football practice workout smelled better than the most expensive cologne.

As her heart beat faster, she allowed herself to inhale deeply of the scent of sweat and the faint remnants of some cologne.

“I know they ain't as nice as the ones you lost when you got robbed, but I thought you'd like 'em,” he said, leaning back to look up at her.

Dionne's face was just above his. Their eyes met. She brought her hand up to the side of his face as he raised his chin and pressed his mouth to hers. It felt like a scene out of a movie. Dionne sighed as he lightly touched her lips with his tongue.

Chills…up and down my spine…

“You my girl?” he asked huskily, his minty-fresh breath breezing against her mouth.

Wow.

Dionne raised her head and nodded. Hassan snuck one last soft peck before he placed his hands on her hips and
pushed her back toward her seat on the sofa. “Your moms don't play,” he whispered to her as he lifted his book bag into his lap to search for something.

“Y'all mighty quiet up there,” Risha called from the kitchen or wherever she was ear hustling.

He gave Dionne a comical look. “See!”

As Dionne opened her laptop and logged onto her computer science assignment, she tried to quell the guilt she felt. Hassan was
that
dude—cute, funny and completely fly. And she knew he liked her. He didn't hide it all. And with most guys so busy being cool and all swagged out, it was big-time nice to find one who let a girl know how he felt. The last thing he deserved was someone lying to him and being ashamed of him.

Dionne bit her lips, ignoring the taste of the lip gloss as she looked down at the bangles he'd bought her.

Her heart ached for him and for herself, because her grandmother always said, “What is done in the dark comes to the light.” And when the lights came on, Dionne knew Hassan might not be there.

Marisol
October 29@7:00 p.m.| Mood: Sad :(

“Your
mother is a beautiful woman.”

Marisol was leaning in the doorway of their living room looking on with pride as her mother was being interviewed for a feature in
Latina
magazine. She looked behind her, surprised to see her father standing there as well. Like her mother, Marisol wore all-white with bold turquoise jewelry.

“Dentro y por fuera,”
she said softly, as she turned back to her mother and the interviewer.

“
Sí,
you are right, Marisol. She is beautiful inside and out,” her father agreed, looking handsome in a charcoal-gray suede blazer, matching silk shirt and dark rinse denims with polished square-toe shoes.

Even Carlos was nicely dressed in a suit—and that dumb cap—somewhere around the house, ready to take a family photo to accompany the article. Her mother would not settle for anything else but a picture of her family.

“As the wife of a celebrity athlete you could easily spend
your days shopping, but instead you put in a lot of hours at many of the charities that you support. Why is that?”

Yasmine smiled and nodded in agreement. “In this economy, I am very aware of how fortunate my family is because my husband is a famous athlete,” she said, speaking more slowly than usual, so that her accent was less pronounced. “I feel that it afforded me a wonderful opportunity to do so much by contributing time and money for those less fortunate and in need. It's a blessing that I want to share.”

Marisol knew her mother attended charity events and donated plenty of money to several organizations. But as she continued to listen to the interview, she became aware of all the contributions her mother had made—scholarships, working to open a shelter for victims of domestic abuse, donating a large sum to help fund a children's burn unit in a low-income neighborhood. Her mother's diligent work for more than a dozen charities involving women and children or health-related causes was finally being recognized.

“There goes my baby…”

Marisol stepped back from the doorway and answered the incoming call. She didn't miss the look on her father's face so she kept walking toward the kitchen to get some privacy.

“Hello,” she said, already smiling.

Suddenly the phone was taken from her hand and Marisol turned around to see her father with her phone.
Oh Dios!

“Who is this?” he asked in clipped tones, his eyes on Marisol.

“Daddy, no,” she begged, horribly embarrassed as she stepped forward to take it back.

Her father held up his hand. “And why are you calling my daughter?”

Marisol turned and pressed the entire side of her face to the marble counter on the kitchen island.

“And you go to Pace?” Alex asked.

With each question Marisol died just a little.

“Well, Percy, do you think it is appropriate to be the friend of a man's daughter and not have the respect to come and meet her father?”

Marisol unstuck her face from the marble as her eyes got big as dollar coins.

“Good, then until you learn to put the first step back in front of the second—and not the other way around—do not call my daughter's phone.”

Click.

Her father handed her the phone and Marisol reached for it.

“This
friend
that is a boy, is he your boyfriend?” he asked, sliding his hands into the pocket of his denims.

Marisol shook her head. She already knew an official
boyfriend
was a no-no until she was sixteen. “Just a friend, Papi,” she said.

“You are not to talk to him again until after I talk to your mother about this tonight. Clear?”

Marisol knew from the look in her father's eyes that he meant business.
“Sí,
Papi.”

He wrapped his arm around her shoulder as they walked back to the formal living room.
Still,
Marisol thought,
he didn't say anything about texting!

 

Marisol couldn't wait to be alone in her room.

She was already putting her phone on vibrate and texting Percy before the door closed behind her good.

 

Sorry 4 that earlier. Dad is trippin hard.

 

Bzzz.

 

No problem. IMU.

 

Bzzz.

 

Aww. IMU2.

 

Marisol set her phone down and flopped back onto her bed. She turned her head and eyed her newly dry-cleaned costume hanging on the clothes rack she used to hang the outfits she picked out for school the night before.

Between Starr firing her as the choreographer and the two of them barely being cordial since then, Marisol considered not even going to party at all, especially since they'd made the dumb pact not to bring dates because Starr didn't have one. Ugh! Double ugh!

Marisol flopped over onto her stomach as she lay across her bed. Outside of what little time they saw each during school and very briefly after school before he went to football practice, Marisol hardly saw Percy at all. It wasn't like she could tell her parents she was going out to the movies with a boy. No haps.

It would have been so cool to chill with him at the party. Take pictures. Maybe even share that first kiss.

She'd given the girls her word though.

Still, weren't they wrong to even ask her to give her word?

Knock-knock.

“What,
vato?
” she asked, knowing it was Carlos.

The door opened and he stuck his curly head in. “Mommy and Daddy want you,” he said.

Marisol rolled off the bed and kicked off her heels, deciding to leave her phone behind before her father caught on that she was texting Percy.

Her brother ran ahead of her down the hall and the staircase making noises like he was in a NASCAR race. Marisol took her time, still weighing her options: hanging out with her girls or chilling with Percy.

Decisions, decisions…

Before she was halfway down the stairs, she heard the familiar loudness and laughter of her extended family. The rooms downstairs were filled to capacity.

Everyone must have arrived around the same time because Marisol knew when she went up the stairs there was no one else but the immediate family.

She made the rounds, kissing, hugging and being spun around by grandparents, aunts, uncles and older cousins. The sound of rapid-fire Spanish filled the air and soon the aroma of traditional Spanish food mingled with it.

Her eyes searched for her father and found him sparring playfully with Carlos while he talked to his darker-skinned brother Miguel. Her mother was lying on the chaise by the
patio doors—which was unusual for someone who took being hostess very seriously.

Marisol was heading her mother's way to check on her when she saw her father move to her mother's side. He helped his wife to her feet and then motioned for both Marisol and Carlos to join them.

Curious, Marisol moved toward them, wishing she had known they were having guests so that she would have put on some shoes.

“Yasmine and I wanted to have the family around us as we share some exciting news about our family,” Alex said, placing his free hand atop her brother's head.

The chef strolled into the room pushing a cart with a huge and colorful cake in the shape of a crib.

The entire room gasped.

“Un bebé?”
some asked softly.

“Sí. Sí. Un bebé,”
her mother said with a smile.

Marisol stood there staring at the cake as all their relatives surged forward to congratulate them. She was just starting to figure it out. As much as she loved her little
hermano,
Carlos, he could be a real pain with little effort.
What if it's two against one?
she wondered.
Our entire wing of the house will smell like Cheez Doodles and onions!
Marisol had to fight the urge to run across the room screaming like a banshee, kicking and stomping the cake with her feet.