by Ni-Ni Simone
“You better—”
“The only commitment I have to the word better, is that I better stay rich and I better stay beautiful, anything other than that is optional. Now you on the other hand, what you better do is shut your mouth, take your compact out and look at the pimple-face bearrilla growing on your neck!”
She gasped.
And I waited for something else nasty to slip from her lips. I’d had enough. Over. It. Besides, my mother taught me that talking only went thus far, and when you tired of the chatter, you were to slant your neck and click-click-boom your hater. But, never with the hands, that was so unlady like. Instead, one was to clip their nemesis with a threat that their dirtiest little secret was an e-mail away from being on tabloid blast. “Now, Spencer,” I batted my lashes and said with a tinge of concern, “I’m hoping your silence means you’ve discovered that all of this ying-yang is not the move for you. So, may I suggest that you shut the hell up? Unless, of course, you want the world to uncover that freaky videotaped secret you and your mother hope like hell the Vatican will pray away.”
All the color left her face and her lips clapped shut.
I smiled and mouthed, “Pow! Now hit the floor with that.”
3
Spencer
I can’t stand Rich! That bug-eyed beetle walked around here like she was Queen It when all she really was, was cheap and easy. Ready to give it up at the first hello. Trampette should’ve been her first name and Man-Eater her last! I should’ve pulled out my crystal nail file and slapped her big face with it. Who did she think she was?
I fanned my hand out over the front of my denim mini-dress, shifting the weight of my one-hundred-and-eighteen-pound frame from one six-inch, pink heeled foot to the other. Unlike Rich, who was one beef patty short of a Whopper, I was dancer toned and could wear anything and look fabulous in it. But I chose not to be over-the-top with it because unlike Rich and everyone else here at Hollywood High, I didn’t have to impress anyone. I was naturally beautiful and knew it.
And yeah, she was cute and all. And, yeah, she dressed like no other. But Trampette forgot I knew who she was before Jenny Craig and before she had those crowded ass teeth shaved down and straightened out. I knew her when she was a chunky bucktooth Teletubby running around and losing her breath on the playground. So there was no way Miss Chipmunk wanted to roll down in the gutter with me ’cause I was the Ace of Spades when it came to messy!
I shook my shoulder-length curls out of my face, pulled out my compact, and then smacked my Chanel-glossed lips. I wanted to die but I couldn’t let pie-face know that, so I said, “Umm, Rich, how about you shut your mouth. After all the morning-after pills you’ve popped in the last two years, I can’t believe you’d stand here and wanna piss in my Crunch Berries. Oh, no Miss Plan B, you had better seal your own doors shut, first, before you start tryna walk through mine. You’re the reason they invented Plan B in the first place.”
I turned my neck from side to side and blinked my hazel eyes. Sweet . . . merciful . . . kumquats! Heather’s mother’s perfume had chewed my neck up. I wanted to scream!
Rich spat, “You wouldn’t be trying to get anything crunked would you, Ditsy Doodle? You—”
“Ohmygod,” London interrupted our argument. Her heels screeched against the floor as she said, “Here you are!” She air-kissed Rich, then eyed me, slowly.
Oh, no this hot-buttered beeswax snooty-booty didn’t!
London continued, “I’ve been wandering around this monstrous place all morning—” She paused and twisted her perfectly painted lips. “What’s that smell?” London frowned and waved her hand under her nose, and sniffed. “Is that, is that you, Spencer?”
“Umm hmm,” Rich said. “She’s wearing La-Voom, from the freak-nasty-rash collection. Doesn’t it smell delish?”
“No. That mess stinks. It smells like cat piss.”
Rich laughed. “Girrrrl, I didn’t wanna be the one to say it, since Ms. Thang wears her feelings like a diamond bangle, but since you took it there, meeeeeeeeow!” The two of them cackled like two messy sea hens. Wait, hens aren’t in the sea, right? No, of course not. Well, that’s what they sounded like. So that’s what they were.
“I can’t believe you’d say that?!” I spat, snapping my compact shut, stuffing it back into my Louis Vuitton Tribute bag.
“Whaaaaatever,” London said, waving me on like I was some second-class trash. “Do you, boo. And while you’re at it. You might want to invest in some Valtrex for those nasty bumps around your neck.”
I frowned. “Valtrex? Are you serious? For what?”
She snapped her fingers in my face. “Uh, hellllllo, Space Cadet. For that nastiness around your neck, what else? It looks like a bad case of herpes, boo.”
Rich snickered.
I inhaled. Exhaled.
Batted my lashes.
Looked like I was going to have to serve her, too.
I swept a curl away from my face, tucking it behind my ear.
Counted to ten in my head. ’Cause in five... four... three . . . two . . . one, I was about to set it up—wait, wait, I meant set it off—up in this mother suckey-duckey, okay? I mean. It was one thing for Rich to try it. After all, we’ve known each other since my mother—media giant and billionaire Kitty Ellington, the famed TV producer and host of her internationally popular talk show, Dish the Dirt—along with Rich’s dad, insisted we become friends for image’s sake. And in the capital of plastics appearance was everything. So I put up with Rich’s foolery because I had to. But, that chicken-foot broad London, who I only met over the summer through Rich, needed a reality check—and quick, before I brought the rain down on her.
Newsflash: I might not have been as braggadocious as the two of them phonies, but I came from just as much money as Rich’s daddy and definitely more than London’s family would ever have. So she had better back that thang-a-lang up on a grill ’cause I was seconds from frying her goose. “You know what, London, you better watch your panty liner!”
She wrinkled her nose and put a finger up. “Pause.”
Did she just put her finger in my face?
“Pump, pump, pump it back,” I snapped, shifting my handbag from one hand to the other, putting a hand up on my hip. My gold and diamond bangles clanked. “You don’t pause me, Miss Snicker-Doodle-Doo. I’m no CD player! And before you start with your snot-ball comments get your facts straight, Miss Know It All. I don’t own a cat. I’m allergic to them. So why would I wear cat piss? And I don’t have herpes. Besides how would I get it around my neck? It’s just a nasty rash from Mrs. Cummings’ new perfume. So that goes to show you how much you know. And they call me confused. Go figure.”
“You wait one damn minute, Dumbo,” London hissed.
“Dumbo?! I’ll have you know I have the highest GPA in this whole entire school.” I shot a look over at Rich, who was laughing hysterically. “Unlike some of you hyenas who have to buy your grades, I’m not the one walking around here with the IQ of a Popsicle.”
Rich raised her neatly arched brow.
London clapped her hands. “Good for you. Now... like I was saying, Dumbo, I don’t know how you dizzy hoes do it here at Hollywood High, but I will floor you, girlfriend, okay. Don’t do it to yourself.”
I frowned and slammed my locker shut. “Oh ... my... God! You’ve gone too far now, London. That may be how you hoes in New York do it. But we don’t do that kind of perverted-nastiness over here on the West Coast.”
She frowned. “Excuse you?”
I huffed. “I didn’t stutter, Miss Nasty. I said you went too damn far telling me not to do it to myself, like I go around playing in my goodie box or something.”
Rich and London stared at each other, then burst into laughter.
I stomped off just as the homeroom bell rang. My curls bounced wildly as my stilettos jabbed the marbled floor beneath me. Welcome to Hollywood High, trick! The first chance I get, I’m gonna knock Miss London’s playhouse down right from underneath he
r nose.
But first, I had more pressing issues to think about. I needed to get an emergency dermatologist appointment to handle this itchy, burning rash. My heels scurried as I made a left into the girls’ lounge instead of a right into homeroom. I locked myself into the powder room. I had to get out of here!
OMG, there was a wildfire burning around my neck. Ooooh, when I get back from the doctor’s office, I’m gonna jumpstart Heather’s caboose for her mother trying to do me in like this.
I dialed 9-1-1.
The operator answered on the first ring, “Operator, what’s your emergency?” Immediately I screamed, “Camille Cummings, the washed-up drunk, has set my neck on fire!”
4
Heather
My eyes were heavy.
Sinking.
And the more I struggled to keep them open the heavier they felt. I wasn’t sure what time it was. I just knew that dull yellow rays had eased their way through the slits of my electronic blinds, so I guessed it was daylight.
Early morning, maybe?
Maybe . . .?
My head was splitting.
Pounding.
The room was spinning.
I tried to steady myself in bed, but I couldn’t get my neck to hold up my head.
I needed to get it together.
I had something to do.
Think, think, think... what is it...
I don’t know.
Damn.
I fell back against my pillow and a few small goose feathers floated into the air like dust mites.
I was messed up. Literally.
My mouth was dry. Chalky. And I could taste the stale Belvedere that had chased my way to space. No, no, it wasn’t space. It was Heaven. It had chased my way to the side of Heaven that the crushed up street candy, Black Beauty, always took me to. A place where I loved to be ... where I didn’t need to snort Adderall to feel better, happier, alive. A place where I was always a star and never had to come off the set of my hit show, or step out of the character I played—Wu-Wu Tanner. The pop-lock-and-droppin’-it, fun, loving, exciting, animal-print wearing, suburban teenager with a pain in the butt little sister, an old dog, and parents who loved Wu-Wu and her crazy antics.
A place where I was nothing like myself—Heather Cummings. I was better than Heather. I was Wu-Wu. A star. Every day. All day.
I lay back on my king-sized wrought iron bed and giggled at the thought that I was two crushed pills away from returning to Heaven.
I closed my eyes and just as I envisioned Wu-Wu throwing a wild and crazy neighborhood party, “You better get up!” sliced its way through my thoughts. “And I mean right now!”
I didn’t have to open my eyes or turn toward the door to know that was Camille, my mother.
The official high blower.
“I don’t know if you think you’re Madame Butterfly, Raven-Simoné, or Halle Berry!” she announced as she moseyed her way into my room and her matted mink slippers slapped against the wood floor. “But I can tell you this, the cockamamie bull you’re trying to pull this morning—”
So it was morning.
She continued, “—Will not work. So if you know what’s best for you, you’ll get up and make your way to school!”
OMG! That’s what I have to do! It’s the first day of school.
My eyes popped open and immediately landed on my wall clock: 10:30 A.M. It was already third period.
I sat up and Camille stood at the foot of my bed with her daily uniform on: a long and silky white, spaghetti-strap, see-through nightgown, matted mink slippers, and a drink in her hand—judging from the color it was either brandy or Scotch. I looked into her ice-chipped blue eyes. It was Scotch for sure. She shook her glass and the ice rattled. She flipped her honey blond hair over her blotchy red shoulders and peered at me.
I shook my head. God, I hated that we resembled each other. I had her thin upper lip, the same small mole on my left eyelid, her high cheekbones, her height (5’6” ), her shape (a busty 34DD), her narrow hips and small butt.
Our differences: I looked Latin although I wasn’t. I was somewhere in between my white mother and mysterious black father. My skin was Mexican bronze, or more like a white girl baked by the Caribbean sun. My hair was Sicilian thick and full of sandy brown coils. My chocolate eyes were shaped like an ancient Egyptian’s. Slanted. Set in almonds. I didn’t really look white and I definitely didn’t look black. I just looked... different. Biracial—whatever that was. All I knew is that I hated it.
Which is why, up until the age of ten, every year for my birthday I’d always blow out the candles with a wish that I could either look white like my mother or black like my father.
This in-between thing didn’t work for me. I didn’t want it. And I especially didn’t like looking Spanish, when I wasn’t Spanish when people asked me what was I? Where did I come from? Or someone would instantly speak Spanish to me! WTF! How about I only spoke English! And what was I? I was an American mutt who just wanted to belong somewhere, anywhere other than the lonely middle.
Damn.
“Heather Suzanne Cummings,” Camille spat as she rattled her drink and caused some of it to spill over the rim. “I’m asking you not to try me this morning, because I am in no mood. Therefore I advise you to get up and make your way to school—”
“What, are you running for PTA president or something?” I snapped as I tossed the covers off of me and stood to the floor. “Or is there a parent-teachers’ meeting you’re finally going to show up to?”
Camille let out a sarcastic laugh and then she stopped abruptly. “Don’t be offensive. Now shut up.” She sipped her drink and tapped her foot. Her voice slurred a little. “I don’t give a damn about those teachers’ meetings or PETA, or PTTA, PTA or whatever it is. I care about my career, a career that you owe me.”
“I don’t owe you anything!” I walked into my closet and she followed behind me.
“You owe me everything!” she screamed. “I know you don’t think you’re hot because you have your own show, do you?” She snorted. “Well let me blow your high, missy—”
You already have. . . .
She carried on. “You being the star of that show is only because of me. It’s because of me and my career you were even offered the audition. I’m the star! Not you! Not Wu-Wu! But me, Camille Cummings, Oscar award-winning—”
“Drunk!” I spat. “You’re the Oscar award-winning and washed up drunk! Whose career died three failed rehabs and a million bottles ago—!”
WHAP!!!!
Camille’s hand crashed against my right cheek and forced my neck to whip to the left and get stuck there.
She downed the rest of her drink and took a step back. For a moment I thought she was preparing to assume a boxer’s position. Instead she squinted her eyes and pointed at me. “If my career died, it’s because I slept with the devil and gave birth to you! You ungrateful little witch. Now,” she said through clenched teeth as she lowered her brow, “I suggest you get to school, be seen with that snotty-nose clique. And if the paparazzi happens to show up you better mention my name every chance you get!”
“I’m not—”
“You will. And you will like it. And you will be nice to those girls and act as if you like each and every one of them, and especially that fat-pissy-princess Rich!” She reached into her glass, popped a piece of ice into her mouth, and crunched on it. “The driver will be waiting. So hurry up!” She stormed out of my room and slammed the door behind her.
I stood frozen. I couldn’t believe that she’d put her hands on me. I started to run out of the room after her, but quickly changed my mind. She wasn’t worth chipping a nail, let alone attacking her and giving her the satisfaction of having me arrested again. The last time I did that it took forever for that story to die down and besides, the creators of my show told me that another arrest would surely get me fired and Wu-Wu Tanner would be no more.
That was not an option.
So, I held my back stra
ight, proceeded to the shower, snorted two crushed Black Beauties, and once I made my way to Heaven and felt like a star, I dressed in a leopard cat suit, hot pink feather belt tied around my waist, chandelier earrings that rested on my shoulders, five-inch leopard wedged heels, and a chinchilla boa tossed loosely around my neck. I walked over to my full-length mirror and posed. “Mirror, mirror on the wall who’s the boom-boom-flyest of ’em all?” I did a Beyoncé booty bounce, swept the floor, and sprang back up.
The mirror didn’t respond but I knew for sure that if it had, it would’ve said, “You doin’ it, Wu-Wu. You boom-bop-bustin’-it-fly!”
“Good day, madam,” my driver said as he held the limo’s door open for me.
“Good day, Charles.” I nodded as I walked up the red carpet toward Hollywood High’s entrance. And just in case there were any paparazzi hiding in the bushes I threw my hips and silicone-filled booty pads in overdrive, rocking them from side to side.
I walked on cloud nine and the moment the doorman opened the double glass doors and I walked into the school’s marble foyer, I felt like ordering someone to signal the trumpets and announce that I’d arrived.
I made a brief stop into the headmaster’s office and smiled at him. Mr. Westwick shook his head and pointed to the clock: 12:30 P.M.
“I had to get dressed.” I smiled.
He didn’t smile back; instead he simply nodded and said, “School begins at half past eight. But I will make an exception today.”
“Merci. I forgot my schedule. What class am I supposed to be in?”
He perched his thin lips. “Miss Cummings, it’s lunch time. The juniors are all dining in the Déjeuner Café.”
I really was late. “Bonjour.”
I threw my hips in motion and clicked my Manolo Blahniks toward the café, which could easily pass for any topnotch club in the city—white leather couches, reclining chairs, lava-topped tables, plasma TVs, white glove service. The glass doors slid back and I stepped into the room of the Who’s Who.
