Hollywood High (21 page)

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Authors: Ni-Ni Simone

BOOK: Hollywood High
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Uh, yes she would!
“How's Anderson?” she asked, changing the subject while gauging my reaction. “You
have
been spending time with him,
haven't
you?”
I nodded. “Kind of.” She raised a brow. “Well, we did spend time at this club out in Santa Monica a few weeks ago.” Okay, okay... it was a lie. But so what? Well, wait... it wasn't totally a lie. I mean, after all we
did
spend time together at the club—fighting, that is. Still, we were together. “And I spent the whole day with him yesterday.” Now that was unfortunately the truth. And the only reason I remotely considered it is because Daddy—before he left for New York with Rich's dad yesterday—demanded I spend time with Anderson and threatened to cut off my allowance for another two weeks if I didn't. So there you have it. Begrudgingly, I went. The thought of not having access to money is enough motivation needed to get my mind right. For the moment, until I could figure out a better plan of action.
Anyway, Anderson picked me up here around three-thirty—two hours before my Boo finally snuck up out of here—in a stretch Rolls-Royce Phantom.
He was dressed in a tailored suit and wore an ascot! To sum it up, Anderson was a cornball. There was no other way to say it. He was
swaaaaaaaagless
! I'm talking dud.com! He had no rhythm, no personality, and no damn business trying to be with a fabulous girl like me. Yet, everything about him spelled money. And it reeked from his dark chocolate skin. He was well-bred, well-educated, and well-dressed—yeah, as a banker, accountant, or the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. But for an eighteen-year old, Anderson dressed like somebody's grandfather. All he needed was a cigar, a pocket watch, and a pair of suspenders to add to his ensemble.
He kissed me on the cheek as I climbed into the cabin and sat across from him.
“You look beautiful,” he said, smiling.
“Of course I do,” I said with more edge than I had intended.
He dismissed me with the flick of his hand. “Well, I'm glad you finally came to your senses, London. Your behavior has been atrocious lately. You've acted like a common trollop long enough. It's about time you come back to reality and play your position—as
my
girl.”
I blinked, then frowned.
WTF?!
“Screw you, C-Smoove, the wannabe-wankster. You're lucky I even allow you to breathe the same air as me. I don't have—”
He picked up the car phone. “Stop the car,” he said into the receiver. The driver pulled over on the side of the I-10 freeway. Anderson reached over and opened the door. “Get out.”
I blinked. “Wh-what? You're joking, right?”
“Do you see me smiling,
home skillet?
Since you like it
hood
, Miss Thug in Chanel. Let me chop it up for you. Since you've been out here, you've partied like a rock star, sexed—God knows who—like a porn star, and done everything else,
except
what you've been directed to do.”
My mouth flew open. “You wait one damn—”
“Shut your trap. I'm talking. As a matter of fact, why are you still sitting here? Didn't I tell you to get out?”
I felt like he had just backhanded me. My cheeks burned. I folded my arms defiantly across my chest. “Who the hell do you think you are? You can't throw me out on the side of the road like this. Wait until I get my father on the phone. He will have your head!”
He snarled at me. “Oh shut up. The only head he's gonna have is yours,
Amazon
. In the meantime, I'll tell you who I am since you can't seem to remember. I'm the one who's going to keep your spoiled, ostentatious, disrespectful, hot-in-the-tail behind from having your inheritance snatched away from you and you ending up as some waitress at some greasy-spoon diner somewhere; that's who the hell I am. And the sooner you recognize it, the better. Now. Get. Out. Before I make that phone call to your father my damn self and tell him how you had your little gangster Boo up in his house for the last two-and-a-half days, sexing him up.”
I immediately felt the color from my face drain.
How in the hell did he know that? “Whaaaaaaat?!
You don't know what you're talking about, C-Smoove, Anderson, or whatever the hell your stage name is.”
He smirked. “Oh, I know exactly what I'm talking about. And I know all I need to know. And the one thing I do
know
is you don't want your father to find out just how slutty you've been. So, what's it gonna be,
ma-ma?
The road to poverty and despair? Or the freeway to the rich and fabulous?”
I tried to assess the situation at hand but quickly realized Anderson had me cornered and trapped. There was no escaping him. So I did the only smart thing to do. I reached over and slammed the door, fuming.
“Good. Now I'm going to tell you what I expect. I expect you to spend at least two days out of the week with me—any more time than that will make me sick. You disgust me. . . .”
I blinked.
“... Out in public, you
will
hold my hand, kiss me on the lips, rub my back and
act
like you're in love. And you
will
smile for the cameras, since we both know how much you enjoy being in the spotlight. . . .”
“I'm not doing that!”
He raised a brow, pulling out a Mac laptop. He started clicking keys. “Oh, so you think I'm bluffing, don't you?” He clicked onto something, then handed the computer to me.
Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!!!!
I clutched my chest and started hyperventilating. “Wh-where . . . h-how . . . did you get this?”
He snatched the laptop from out of my hands. “Don't worry about all that. Just know I have my eye on you when you least expect it.”
“You've been spying on me. H-h-how . . . dare you! You have no right invading my privacy like this!”
“No. I have every right. I'm protecting my investment. That's what I've been doing. And this right here is my insurance policy that you will do what has been agreed upon.” He twirled his hand dramatically in the air. “Now, you were saying?”
I turned and looked out the window. Wondering how much it would cost to hire someone to snuff him out. If I wasn't so afraid of spending my life behind bars I'd put a hit out on him for sure. He finished running down his laundry list of things I was expected to do. Then he had the audacity to say, “I'm the best thing that will ever happen to you. And don't have me have to remind you again.”
Needless to say, the rest of our ride to wherever we were headed was deadpan silent. I felt like I was riding in a hearse, instead of a plush limo, en route to my own funeral.
We ended up at a private landing field where Anderson whisked me off in one of his family's helicopters. From there, we flew over Beverly Hills and past the Hollywood Bowl to Universal Studios. The pilot flew so close to the Hollywood Sign that I could almost reach out and touch it. Then he swooped down a hundred and fifty feet above the shoreline, so that I could see the beautiful beach cities before flying us over the Santa Monica Pier. If I wasn't so pissed at him, I would have actually enjoyed myself. Whatever! The tour ended with the pilot hovering over the rear deck of Anderson's family's hundred-and-fifty-foot, three-level yacht,
Buff Daddy.
Yuck!
“Anderson is such a gentleman,” my mother said, smiling approvingly as I recapped the horrific experience, leaving out the details I knew she wouldn't care about. “He's a real thoughtful young man.”
And a bore!
“He'll make a fine husband.”
I'm not marrying that,
that . . . pompous
idiot!
Anyway, we landed on the helipad. And when the doors opened, Anderson took me by the hand and helped me out, acting as if he hadn't talked all reckless and nasty to me hours earlier. He waited for the chopper to go airborne again before grabbing my hand and pulling me.
I flinched.
“I have something for you,” he said, leading me down to the main level of the beautiful boat. Still, the name was ugly. He told me to have a seat in the living room. Then, a few minutes later, he reappeared holding a gift box from Cartier. Inside was a breathtaking Trinity-draped diamond necklace. Had this been someone else, who shall be nameless, I would have jumped in his lap, kissed him passionately, then made sweet love to him up on the deck beneath the stars. But I was there stuck with cornball.com.
My mother continued smiling.
“Anderson isn't who I want,” I blurted out.
My mother's facial expression, body language, and tone changed. And the temperature in the room had dropped by twenty degrees. “You will learn to love him. Now that's enough.”
27
Heather
R
elax... You got this...
“Lights. Camera. Action! Take two! You're on!”
I stood behind the prop's makeshift door, awaiting my cue to enter the set's '50s-style vintage kitchen. I leaned from one foot to the next and did my best to focus and envision my lines the exact way they were in the script.
But I couldn't.
All my mind's eye could see was a blur.
I had to wing it and pray that this time the director would be happy with my ad-libs.
Think . . . Think . . . Think . . . come
on, Wu-Wu.
My eyes shifted from the director to the stagehands, the cameramen, to Spencer—who I'd invited to watch me tape the first episode of the season.
I had to get this right.
I had to.
“Where's Wu-Wu? I hope she's up and ready for school!”
That was my cue.
Focus . . . focus . . . focus . . .
“Ahh, Wu-Wu's in the house!” I said, extremely high-pitched and animated. I shook my coils and flopped down in the kitchen chair, next to my television father, who resembled George Lopez.
I quickly eyed my director. He grimaced but he didn't stop tape.
“Good morning, Wu-Wu!” my television mother said, smiling, as the rosy cheeks on her porcelain face glowed. “How's my little Snuckums-Snuckums-Wukums doing this wonderful morning?”
The laugh track boomed through the set and immediately I had a migraine. I could've sworn that it was louder this time than it was two takes ago. Not to mention that
that Snuckums-Snuckums-Wukums
line may have been classic and killed the TV audience with laughter, but the last thing I found it to be was funny.
It actually worked my last nerve.
Seriously.
But whatever, I forced a stupid smile on my face and did all I could to push Heather back and allow Wu-Wu to rock the forefront.
Wu-Wu was losing.
I looked at Jani Rossi, the actress who played my TV mother, and I knew by the look on her face that I'd paused too long, so I hurried and spat my line... what I could remember of it. “Your Snuckums-Snuckums-Wukums is soooo bummed, Mom.”
I looked at my director, and the slight grin on his face said that I'd gotten my line right.
Thank
God . . . okay,
I can do this. Now feed the dog the bacon.
Ugh, I hated that dog. But I did what the episode called for and reached for a piece of bacon and then slyly fed it to the dog—a humongous chestnut brown and white St. Bernard—who barked like crazy—the exact way he was supposed to.
His owner beamed from across the room.
“Wu-Wu Tanner,” José, my television father, said, pulling my attention back onto the set. “You know better than to feed Bird bacon. You know bacon gives him gas.” Bird looked up at us and whimpered and there went that stupid laugh track again.
My head's going to explode!
I swallowed, sat up in my chair, and said, “Awl, Dad, leave Bird alone. He's got bigger problems than bacon. He's a St. Bernard named Bird.” I pointed toward the floor where Bird lay lazily.
“I happen to like the name Bird,” Jani said, sitting a stack of pancakes on the table. She kissed me on my cheek, smiled, and fluffed my curls. “Now tell Mother why my little Pinky-Poo's all bummed out?”
I folded my arms and pouted. “Because Robert didn't call me at all last night!” My eyes watered. “And I don't know what to do!”
“Robert? Who's Robert?” José interjected, ruffling his newspaper and peering around the side of it. “That must be a nickname for Roberta.”
It took everything in me not to scream at that damn laugh track! Uggggggg! And this St. Bernard was licking my legs. Slobbering on my sandals. If he wasn't so big and I knew I could get away with it, I'd kick him.
You need a Black Beauty...
No I
don't...
Yes you
do . . .
“You're a junkie!”
Camille's voice invaded my thoughts.
I'm not a junkie!
“You're nothing!”
I'm Wu-Wu!
“I made you. I'm the real star!”
“Cut!” the director yelled, jumping up from his chair. “What the hell are you doing, Heather?”
“Huh?” I blinked, and looked around at my television parents, who stared back at me in confusion. I shot them a fake smile.
Before I could say anything the director yelled, “Have you gone insane! What is wrong with you? This is the third time we've had to redo this take!” He violently clapped his hands together. “We're wasting time and time is money!” He clapped his hands again. “Now take it from the top for the fourth time!” He rolled his eyes and huffed his way back into his chair.
I need a Black Beauty.
No I don't. I can do this.
Okay . . . okay . . . I
got this... here goes.
It was like déjà vu as I stood at the makeshift door, waited for my cue, skipped across the set, said my lines, fed this overgrown dog a piece of bacon, and just as my television dad said, “I know that's a nickname for Roberta” . . . I drew a blank. A complete and utter blank and just as I saw my director turn beet red I said, “Umm, I have diarrhea.”
Where in the hell did that
come from . . .?
“CUT!” The director jumped from his seat, purposefully knocked it to the floor, and kicked it out of his way. In the midst of him throwing a two-year-old's tantrum he shook the script in the air and sailed it toward the set. The ceiling looked to be raining paper, scaring the dog. “What the hell is wrong with you!” he screamed at me. “Are you an idiot?! You have screwed up four takes in a row!” He held up four fingers. “FOUR TAKES! I don't know what your problem is, Heather. But I need Wu-Wu! Wu-Wu Tanner. Do you have any idea where in the hell she is? You know what, maybe, maybe we need to take five. Take ten. Matter of fact maybe we need to take twenty while you go and get Wu-Wu and let her know that if she doesn't resume her place on the show, she will be unemployed!” He stormed off the set, speaking in angry tongues.
I felt like a Navy knot had made its way into my throat and was threatening to strangle me at any moment.
My eyes welled and Jani patted my hand. “It'll be okay,” she said. “It happens to the best of us. Go to your dressing room, relax, and we'll see you in twenty.”
I looked over at José and he smiled. “Don't sweat it, kiddo. Things happen. Like Jani said, go back to your dressing room and maybe meditate. It'll come to you.”
I looked over at Spencer, who looked just as embarrassed as I was. My full eyes were about to overflow at any moment.
“You're nothing . . .!”
Maybe you're right. . . .
I jumped from my seat and ran straight to my dressing room. Never once looking back. I quickly slammed the door and locked it behind me.
I'm
nothing . . . nothing . . . nothing . . . can't
even get my lines straight...
I felt like I was about to hyperventilate. “What the hell is wrong with me?” I screamed, knocking everything off of the glass vanity's counter with one swing of an arm. The make-up, perfume, barrettes, and copies of the script swished to the floor. The broken bottles of perfume quickly saturated the script, causing the words to disappear from the paper the same way they'd disappeared from my head.
I can't do anything!
I'm nothing!
I ruin everything!
I grabbed a handful of costumes and yanked down my wardrobe. I tossed all the clothes to the floor and sweat gathered on my forehead, drenching my face.
Why can't you get yourself together, Heather!
“Because you're a junkie!”
Camille's voice raced into my head. The walls were closing in on me and the ceiling looked like it would fall on my head at any moment. My silk-walled dressing room had gone from a customized space to a place that I no longer wanted to be in.
I don't think I can breathe.
I can't breathe. . . .
Get it together.
“I will replace you!”
the director's voice echoed in my head.
“I made you! I'm the real star!”
Camille's voice taunted me.
“Get out of my head!” I screamed as tears fell from my eyes.
Knock... Knock...
I jumped. Wiped my eyes and yelled, “What!”
“Heather, it's Spencer.”
“I'll be out soon, Spencer.” The last thing I needed was for her to see me like this. . . .
“Let me in,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you.”
I took a deep breath and wiped my eyes. I thought about telling her to go away. Of all the days to invite her here...
“Heather, open up.”
I sighed as I cracked the door open enough for Spencer to slide into the dressing room. I quickly locked it behind her.
Spencer leaned back against the door and eyed the room slowly, soaking up every inch of my self-made hurricane. “Umm, Heather, is this what has you so upset? That they didn't send housekeeping? I don't blame you because I'd be mad, too. You're a star and obviously by your director's hissy fit the show can't go on without you. So they really, really need to clean your dressing room.”
This girl had no idea. For a moment I wondered what it must be like to be Spencer, to not have a care or a clue in the
world. . . .
“And umm, Heather, what is a Snuckum-Snuckum-Wukums and a Pinky-Poo? Those names are just so, so . . . stupid. And why did they add that hideous laugh track? For a moment I thought a bunch of hyenas had escaped from the San Diego Zoo. Dear Jesus, it tore my nerves to pieces.”
I wiped my eyes and snapped. “Spencer, really, who cares!”
“I care. I don't want them calling you that. And I don't want to hear that stupid laugh track.” She paused. Walked over to me and squinted, “Are you crying, Heather?”
“No,” I said, with my eyes full and threatening to spill a river of tears any second. “I'm overdosing on Visine.”
“Really?”
I quickly turned away and did everything I could not to break down. “Just give me a minute, Spencer.”
“No, Heather,” she said. “I can't leave you here upset like this. And I'm really concerned about you overdosing on Visine.”
“Spencer, I was being sarcastic. I'm not overdosing on Visine.”
“Then what is it? Are you upset with that nasty director of yours? If you need me to I will mace him down to his smiley-face booty shorts. I will bring him to his flour-caked knees and you know it. Just say the word ‘Mace' and I'll cuss him out in French and give him a burning sensation to scream about! Trust me, that'll be the last time he gets it crackadank with you! And if you want, that St. Bernard can get it, too!”
“I don't want to mace the director or that nasty dog!” Tears spilled from my eyes without my permission. “I just want to get out of here!” I grabbed my purse and walked toward the door.
“Heather, wait!” Spencer ran and blocked the door.
“Move, Spencer!”
“Just wait!”
“I'm tired of waiting!” I flung my arms in the air. “What the hell am I waiting for? To mess up again? This is over, Spencer! I'm done! Finished. And I really don't give a damn what happens next! I'm tired and I've had enough.”
“Just relax, Heather. You only tripped over a few lines and they were stupid anyway.”
“It's not about the lines! It's about everything!” My head pounded, my hands trembled, and my stomach boiled. I hated this feeling!
I hated that every time I took a break and didn't snort Black Beauty for a day that I crashed. Sank to the bottom of hell. Couldn't think straight. Couldn't eat. Couldn't focus. All I could think about was Black Beauty.
It was never supposed to be like this. Black Beauty was only supposed to relieve my stress and put me in the mood to party.
Not make me sick if I didn't have a hit.
Not interfere with my job.
Not become my out-of-control personal assistant.
I felt like... like... I was caught up in a torturous love affair and I didn't want this sick and twisted pervert anymore.

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