Hollywood High (20 page)

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Authors: Ni-Ni Simone

BOOK: Hollywood High
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I frowned back at her. “First of all, I didn't sleep with him. He was standing up. And I was down on my knees. So let's get that straight. And second of all, I didn't think he was still your boyfriend. You said you didn't want him! And he never once claimed you!”
Rich huffed, “Really, Spencer? I told you that I didn't want him six months ago. I changed my mind an hour after I told you that! Duh!”
“Well, you should've told me that!”
“I didn't have to tell you anything!”
“Then how did you expect me to know that you two were still together? Seriously, he never talked to you in school. And when he did he was always playing you like a dust mop.”
“That was me and Corey's business, trick, not yours! Hmph, maybe I like the silent treatment! Maybe it turns me on! And anyway that's beside the point. It still didn't give you the right to put your hands, mouth, or anything else on him. You had absolutely no business messing with him.” She shook her hair, spraying water on me. “What you did to me, Spencer, was despicable. I know we don't always get along, but you and I have been friends the longest. And you crossed the damn line.”
I folded my arms. “Yeah, and you crossed the river when you jumped the rowboat and got all London on me. Ever since Queen Kong . . .”
“Um, don't do it, boo,” London snapped, opening and closing her fist. “Please don't tempt me. Now, I've been quiet this entire time, so back up. Back. All. The. Way. Up!”
I rolled my eyes. “...I mean, London. Ever since she showed up swinging from the rooftops, everything changed between us. What we shared. And you're right, Rich. We don't always get along. But it was never like this. You've turned into Richzilla. And I don't like it one bit.”
“So what does that have to do with you sleeping with Corey?” she asked. “You were still dead wrong for doing that.”
“And where I come from you don't do that,” London said, eyeing me. “Your friends' boyfriends—past and present—are always off limits. You've violated all the rules in the girlfriends' handbook. And that's not written in small print.”
“And neither is kicking each others' backs in,” Heather added, narrowing her eyes at me. “And that's not written in small print either!”
I rolled my eyes up in the air. “Oh, Heather, simmer your tea, boo. I've never kicked anyone's back in. The only thing I've ever done was maced you.” I looked back over at Rich and said, “You're right. What I did to you was wrong. I shouldn't have done you like that.”
Rich glared at me. “Is that your half-assed way of apologizing to me?”
“Rich,” I huffed. “Now you're going too dang far. I'm not the one with deflated booty cheeks.” I cut my eyes over at Heather on the sly.
“I saw that, ho,” she snapped. “So are you going to apologize to Rich or not?”
“Yes,” I said, walking over to Rich, grabbing her crusty hand. “I'm truly sorry for what I did. I won't ever do that to you again.”
“Now don't you have something to say to her, Rich?” Heather asked, eyeing her.
She rolled her eyes up in her head. “Yeah, I accept your apology.”
Heather put a hand up on her rubberized hip, compliments of bootypadcentral. “Even though this ho tried to drag me. From where I'm standing, you still owe her an apology, too.”
“I owe her what?” Rich asked. “Oh, girl, please. I don't do that.”
“Mmmmph. That's the problem,” Heather said. “It's always what you don't do. So what's your suggestion, Rich, since
you
don't do that? How should we resolve this? Do nothing and part here as enemies? Or try to come together.”
London huffed, “Let's hurry up and get this over with. I need to get out of these wet clothes and my feet are aching from standing in these heels. But for once, I have to agree with Heather—scary, I know. But whatever! Bottom line, how do we end this? I can't be messed up in the media again because I can't have any more negative headlines. The next article written about me needs to be worshipping and praising me otherwise
all
three of you will be visiting me in a casket.”
Hotholywildfires . . . what
kind of sick games is London into? I'm not visiting her in a casket. Mmmph, she's crazier than I thought
.
I frowned. But kept my mouth shut.
“I got it,” Rich said, unfolding her arms and never offering an apology. “How about we throw a Making Up party to show the world that the Pampered Princesses still got it?!”
“A party?!”
“Over the top!” Rich beamed.
“That's a great idea!” I said, smiling.
“Bam!
This is bigger than no-good boyfriends.” Heather popped it, dropped it, and snapped her fingers.
“Yeah, because up until a few minutes ago we'd all lost sight of who we really were,” London reminded us.
Rich snapped her fingers. “Yeah, because I am Rich Montgomery. And we are . . .”
“The Pampered Princesses!” the four of us yelled, snapping our fingers.
“Still doing it, baby,” Heather said, doing a two-step.
“Still hot like fire,” London chimed in.
“And I'm
not
tryna have a Kim Kardashian meltdown,” Rich said. “I'm tryna reign supreme forever. I have fans. People adore me. Little girls tryna be me. So there's no way in hell we're gonna let the likes of Corey or any other boy come in between us.” Rich looked at me. “You know, Spencer. I realize that Corey might have taken advantage of you being real special. But you know what? We're gonna move past this. And we're gonna show the world that
we
are about our business. That nothing can stop us!”
“Oh Rich!” I said. “You finally realize that I am special! And that party was such a great idea!”
“That's right!
Meeeeeeeeow
, snap-snap!” Rich said.
“Snap-snap,” we all said in unison, laughing.
“Now let me call my publicist,” Rich said, excitedly swiping strands of wet hair from out of her face, and pulling out her cell. “We need to get ready for the press release. I can see the headlines now.” She waved her arms in the air. “P
AMPERED
P
RINCESSES
G
OT
T
HE
B
OOM
-B
OP
ON
L
OCK
! Claire!” Rich yelled into her cell phone. “SOS! I need a press conference scheduled pronto! Snap-snap baby! The Pampered Princesses are throwing the royal party of the century!”
“Umm, Rich.” I tried to call for her attention.
She held her index finger up. “Wait a minute,” she mouthed. “Okay, Claire. I'm at Spencer's, have them outside and waiting for us in an hour.” She disconnected her call and smiled at us. “It's all set and ready to go!” She shook her hair. “Now tell me, how do I look?”
“Ummmm, boo,” Heather said, pointing at London and Rich. “Wu-Wu loves you, baby. But, uh...I don't know what the hell y'all were doing before you got here but both of you might wanna hurry and shower before the cameras arrive.”
“Why?” Rich popped her lips.
“Because,” I said, walking over to her and London. “You two look as if you've been to war.”
“Oh God!” Rich screamed. “I need to use your shower!”
“You sure do,” I said. “The one in the pool house. I don't allow aliens to bathe in here. No offense.”
26
London
I
knew I was beautiful. I knew I had a banging body. And I knew every voluptuous curve that went along with it in the way I knew Chanel, Dior, Louis Vuitton, YSL, Cavalli, and Versace. But a girl could only look for comfort and confirmation in a mirror for so long before it became too damn depressing. Before she wanted to take a hammer and smash her reflection into pieces, causing shards of glass and insecurities to scatter about her stiletto-clad feet.
My God, London. At the rate you're going, you'll never make it on the runway. You'll only be good enough to bounce and shake for rap videos. . . .
Taking a deep breath, I untied my robe, allowing it to slide off my shoulders and gather around my ankles. I turned my naked body from side to side, checking out my profile in the mirror. I loved my melon-sized breasts. I loved my flat stomach. I loved the way my long, milk chocolate legs were sculpted. And most of all, I loved, loved, loved my big, juicy booty. Still...
For the love of God, London, why did you have to ruin your
body . . . you
just had to go and screw up everything I've worked so hard for....
“If I don't have a problem with how I look, then why should you?” I said to my reflection.
Your body, beauty, and youth are your tickets to fame and fortune. You lose them and you'll have nothing. No one in the industry wants a fat, ugly, old-looking girl on their
runway
. . . .
“I'm not fat, ugly, or old-looking,” I replied back at the mirror image before me.
Well, you're definitely not ugly. And you're far from old-looking, yet. Thank God you have my genes. But, fat... mmmph. You're well on your way. I blame your father's genes for that... I should have married more carefully.
I shook the voice from my head, then snatched my robe up and put it back on. “I'd be so glad when I don't have to deal with this anymore,” I thought aloud as I walked back into my bedroom suite. I walked into the adjoining sitting area and picked up my favorite Swarovski butterfly sitting on the end table. I held it up to the morning light that bum-rushed its way into the room, taking in the way the light danced through the crystal in my hand. I admired the distinctive beauty in each color.
I, too, am a butterfly!
Mmmph, I wish I could spread my wings and flutter my way out of here!
Wait. Did you know Native American legend has it that whispering a wish to a butterfly, then releasing it to carry it to the heavens, will make the wish come true? I learned that in one of my advanced literature classes. But I didn't know how true that myth was since I'd been wishing to butterflies since the eighth grade. And nothing remarkably close to anything I had ever wished for had happened yet. Still, I believed—or at least I wanted to like hell—in miracles.
I stared at the beautiful sculpture one last time, then closed my eyes and made another wish. I was sure, as I had done many times before, to be very specific about what I wanted, hoped for. And like with all the other times, I promised myself that I wouldn't share my wishes with anyone else until after they had come true. I had read somewhere while traveling the Slovenian coast with my parents that talking about a wish in progress could disrupt its energy and break the spell. So my lips were sealed! With everything else I had been risking, I couldn't take chances on jinxing myself.
“Oh, there you are, sweetheart,” my mother's voice said, slicing into my moment, robbing me of peace and solitude. “Good morning.”
Now I was extra annoyed that so far one of my many wishes still hadn't been granted. “Good morning,” I mumbled, turning to face her. “When did you get home?”
“A little after two in the morning. My flight got delayed. I thought they were going to cancel it.”
I wish they had!
I looked her over. No matter how hard I wanted to downplay how beautiful she was, I couldn't. Her looks alone quieted the noisiest rooms and mesmerized onlookers. And it's what lured Daddy and had him chasing her for almost three years before she gave in to his advances. Well, not to mention my grandmother, Jacqueline Obi, guarded her precious jewel with her life until Mother turned eighteen. Then she allowed Daddy to date her. A year later, he married her. By that time my mother had already been well-established in the modeling industry and was the most sought after model.
I smiled. She had her shoulder-length hair pulled back into a chignon, her face lightly dusted, her lips freshly coated.
Always runway
ready
. . .
Head
up . . . back straight . . . one
foot in front of the other . . . bounce with it... own the
catwalk . . .
“I'm glad you're back safe.”
I kept my eye on her as she glided across the carpet toward me wearing a gorgeous pearl silk kimono over a matching spaghetti-strapped nightgown that had slits on the sides, showing glimpses of her beautiful legs as she moved about the room. It almost reminded me of a wedding gown. Around her neck she wore a Van Cleef & Arpels ruby and diamond butterfly necklace. I gasped at its beauty, secretly coveting the exquisite piece. And in her diamond-embellished hands, she held her morning supplies: a scale, a leather-bound logbook, her 18-karat Tibaldi Spartacus rollerball pen, and a measuring tape.
She kissed me on the cheeks, then gave me a one-armed hug. “I've missed you.”
I smiled, inhaling the hyacinth, orchard, and amber scent of her fragrance. The smell reminded me of springtime in Paris. Still, as much as I wanted to reciprocate her sentiments, I couldn't. But the truth is I did miss her. I just didn't miss the constant monitoring of my weight, or her incessant—almost compulsive—measuring of my body fat. I wanted a mother who didn't obsess over caloric intake or cringe every time I wanted to eat a bag of Doritos, or bite into a candy bar, or sink my teeth into a double-fudge chocolate cake. I wanted a mother who didn't care if I gained ten pounds or only lost two.
“Okay, let's weigh in,” she said, sitting the scale down in front of me. “God only knows what kind of poisons you've contaminated your body with while I've been gone. I'm sure we'll have to do a complete detox. Diet is everything in this industry, London.”
Easy for her to say. There were two types of models. The ones who were born naturally thin and had exceptionally high metabolism, allowing them to eat any-and-every-thing they wanted and never gain a pound. Then there were the ones who starved themselves and chain-smoked. Jade Phillips had the frame and metabolism to be effortlessly thin.
I rolled my eyes. “I know, Mother. ‘You are what you eat,'” I repeated before she could remind me for the two hundred billionth time. She'd rather see me eat radishes, alfalfa sprouts, and the whites of a hard-boiled egg, than to indulge in any of my guilty-pleasure foods.
“Exactly,” she said, smiling at me. She kissed me on the cheek again. “And the sooner you start to live by that motto, dear, the sooner you can get all this god-awful weight off and we can get you back on the runway and onto the cover of all the fashion magazines where you belong.
Sei bella mia cara, Londra
,” she added in Italian, telling me how beautiful I was. “You were born to be in front of a camera. The lights, the
haute
couture . . . oh, London, my darling, the fashion world is yours for the taking. You can be bigger than Tyra Banks ever was. You can be greater than any of the legends in the industry, including myself, have ever been. But I need you to lose this weight and listen to me.”
I stared at my mother and felt a pang in my chest. Guilt was a terrible thing. I knew that she loved me; knew it without question. And I knew she thought I was beautiful. Still, I wished when she looked at me that her eyes would light up the way they did every time she spoke about me being on the runway, modeling for one of the international fashion houses. Or anytime she reminisced about when I was a reigning print-ad beauty. Before puberty, and everything else that came along with it, changed my life.
I felt sick to my stomach and hoped like hell the laxative-induced bowel movements I had early this morning were enough to flush out the four pounds I had gained in her absence and keep her mouth shut.
She blinked back what looked like sadness, then clapped her hands. “Okay, up on the scale.” I held my breath, dropping my robe and stepping on the digital scale.
I dropped my head. “Chin up, London. Don't worry about what's going on down at your feet. The scale never lies.” I held my breath. “Okay, step off.”
Maybe if I hold my breath long enough I'll pass out. Hit my head on my way down, and never open my eyes again.
No luck!
I watched as she opened the smooth leather binder, removed the cap off her pen, then scribbled in her ledger. I imagined her one day writing a tell-all book about the ups and downs and highs and lows of my stubborn weight. I envisioned it being titled something like:
The Wondrous Weight Gain of My Fatso Daughter.
I shuddered as she eyed me. “You've lost two and three-quarter pounds. Still not enough to crack open the champagne. I don't understand for the life of me why you aren't losing more. You should have shed at least fifteen pounds by now.”
OMG, she's delusional if she thinks I'll ever walk around looking like a damn string bean. Not. Apparently she had overlooked the memo that guys loved girls with swerves and curves.
“The only saving grace is that you're still young. But if we don't get this weight off in the next year, I might need to look into having your stomach stapled.”
I gasped. “Mother, I'm not getting my stomach stapled. That's going a bit far.”
“Come,” she said, waving me over to her. I glanced down at my feet.
130 pounds.
“Well,” she continued, wrapping the measuring tape around my waist, “desperate times call for drastic measures.” Next she wrapped it around my hips. She grunted her dismay. “We're going to need to do something, fast. All I can see is you becoming like your grandmother and aunts on your father's side with them double-D and E-cup breasts, big-ole dimpled behinds, and those ham-hock ankles. We've already had one setback, we don't need another.”
She eyed me, suspiciously. I shifted my gaze from hers.
“From what I've heard from your father and seen on the blogs you have managed to, once again, get caught up with the wrong crowd. I can only imagine what else you've been up to while I've been gone.”
Damn, another wish not fulfilled! The first chance I got I was going to have to get on my knees and have a good, stern talking-to to the butterfly gods. This was ridiculous.
Can I get at least one of my wishes, please!
She logged my measurements in the book.
If I ever get my hands on that damn thing, I'm gonna burn it!
“Oh, I bet you thought I wasn't going to say anything since your father had already addressed you on it. Do I have to bring you back to Paris with me?”
I sighed.
I wanted, needed, to believe that all wishes do come true.
No wish is impossible.
Then why the hell is she still standing here?
“You're working your way up to becoming a common criminal before I can get you back on the runway. Is that what you want?”
“No.”
“Then you must be hoping to land yourself some kind of reality-TV show, a spin-off of that god-awful show
Good Girls Gone Hood
. Is that it?”
I shook my head. Arguing with her was pointless, and sooooo not worth my energy; especially since I needed to focus on what I was going to wear to school today.
“No.”
She narrowed her brown eyes until they were slits. “London, I'm warning you. Please don't have your father and me ship you to an all-girls boarding school. You know we'll do it. Is that what you want?”
I bit my tongue. But inside I was screaming, “I'm not going any-damn-where. And I'm gonna eat whatever-the-hell I want! And there's nothing you can say or do to stop me. So kiss my naturally plump fatty!” But, being the rational child that I am, I settled for, “No, Mother.”
“Your father and I gave you a choice to either move to London to attend school, or come out here—against our better judgment. But we let you decide. And you promised, swore to us, that you wouldn't get into any trouble. Please don't make us regret it. I do not want a repeat of what happened in New York. Do you understand me?” I nodded. “We've already pushed the release of your trust fund once. The next time it'll be pushed back until your twenty-first birthday. Please don't force my hand because the next time, it's going to be pushed back until you're forty. And we'll be shutting down your allowance and frivolous shopping sprees.”
I felt my knees buckle.
OMG! She wouldn't dare!

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