Hollywood High

by Ni-Ni Simone

  Cliques were everywhere. And seated in the same exact place they’d be this time every day until the school year ended. And when the school year began again, they’d resume position.

  There were the jocks, their cheerleaders, the glees, the wannabes, the newbies, who sat across from their rivals, the fogies, better known as old money. The foodies, who complained about weight all day, and the super skinnies—who complained about weight all day. The preppies who wouldn’t be caught dead not wearing Polo. And the hip-hop crew who wouldn’t be caught dead wearing Polo. The rock-star goth kids whose parents hoped would one day appreciate the sun, and the half-dead Twilight kids who wore pale white make-up on purpose and whose secret code words for cuties were “team Edward” and “team Jake.” And they all had one thing in common: they were all rich, filthy rich. But the one thing they didn’t have was access to the clique of all cliques: The It clique. The Pampered Princesses.

  The Pampered Princesses sat in the center of the room, surrounded by peons. And these princesses weren’t rich. They were wealthy. Quite a difference. This clique had money that defined infinity. They could easily lunch in Paris, have dinner in Spain, and then hop on their parents’ private planes and be home in time for a nightcap. They were not the “Who’s Who,” they were the “Who.” The who you wanted to be, wanted to be seen with, wanted to be associated with, and would lay on a table and sell your kidney to be friends with. If you were with this clique then you’d made it.

  Period.

  And lucky for me, they decided that Wu-Wu Tanner, the hottest teen star ever, was worthy of their company—even if they didn’t really like me and I absolutely couldn’t stand them. Well, I could halfway tolerate Spencer. She wasn’t as judgmental as that loud mouth and ever-ready, throw-the-rock-and-fold-her-manicured-hands drama trick, Rich, or that Upper East Side–oh-this-is-how-we-do-it-in-New-York Buffy-chick, London.

  But whatever. None of that was important at the moment. What was important was my fan club president, Co-Co Ming, waving his tiny hand and dying to get my attention. I smiled and looked his way. “We love you, Wu-Wu!” he screamed.

  I returned his smile and blew him and his clique, the Stalkers and the Gawkers, air-kisses. “Oh, doll, Wu-Wu loves you, too.”

  Co-Co Ming and his table screamed.

  After signing a few autographs, doing my signature catcall, “Ahh Wu-Wu!” and moonwalking across the room, I finally made my way over to the Pampered Princesses. I fought with everything in me not to allow my eyes to inch toward the ceiling. I could feel myself about to roll them, hard. But, I didn’t. I leveled them and instead shot a wide smile, all teeth. Besides, out of all of them I was the only one who didn’t need my parents for star status. I was the star.

  I snapped my fingers and said, “Meow.” And don’t ask me why but a heated rush came over me and I felt like breaking it down and busting it out! So I did. I moved my hips from side to side, snaked down to the floor, and did a booty pop, all while chanting, “Ahhh, Wu-Wu’s in the house!” I popped up and repeated my routine. “I said, Ahhh, Wu-Wu’s in the house! A pow-pow! I said, Ahhh, Wu-Wu—”

  BAM! POP! DROP! “Ahhhhhhhh!” I screamed. Suddenly, my heels slipped from beneath me, and everything went black.

  5

  London

  Oh. . . my . . . God! These Hollywood scallywags have to be sniffing Krazy Glue! That’s what I thought the minute Heather hit the floor and commenced to scream as Spencer stood over her wearing a pair of Gucci ski goggles, spraying a whole can of Mace in her face and going off like a wild woman. I’d never seen anything like this. And I definitely didn’t think Spencer was the type of chick to set it off like that. But she proved me wrong.

  “You low-down, dirty, stank-a-dank, skid row, Cracker Jack booger! You and your no-good rickety-crickety, drunken mother tried to ruin me! Why, Heather?! I’ve been a good friend to you. I’m the only one who knows you’re walking around wearing booty bags and not once did I ever tell anyone that you’re really a flatty-Patty. And when the girls made fun of you I never laughed. Even though I knew it was funny. I always snickered, but I never stretched across the floor and howled. I’ve always been good to you and this is how you bring it. Burn my neck up! I have no choice but to do you good for that!”

  Heather screamed as if she was being flayed with a rusty steak knife.

  “Ohmygod, girl,” I snapped, feeling sorry for her. I looked over at Rich, who recorded the whole scene with her phone. “Aren’t you going to stop her?”

  “Me?” Rich blinked and pointed to her chest. “And risk some of that poison popping into my face? Oh no, I don’t do that. And besides, why should I? What Heather and her wretched, ratchet, Crenshaw pigeon mother did to Spencer was downright sinful. You should never take advantage of the afflicted and they knew Spencer was—”

  “Code Red, Code Red!” a voice blared through a bullhorn megaphone, cutting through the loud buzz in the café and cutting Rich off. “Wu-Wu down . . . repeat, Wu-Wu down. Need immediate backup!”

  The Stalkers and the Gawkers rose from their seats, two of them even fainted once they saw Heather sprawled across the floor.

  Rich and I looked at each other and cracked up, tears flowed from our eyes from laughing so hard.

  “I repeat, Wu-Wu down!”

  “What in the hell?” Rich and I said in unison.

  “Move, move ... get out the way. Co-Co Ming coming through.”

  The crowd stepped back and there stood this . . . this, I don’t know what it was. All I know is he wore a pink ostrich hair floor-length coat over a sharp, brown Brooks Brothers suit with a pink tie and a pair of pink kitten heels on his feet, holding a bullhorn in his hand. “Drop the can, Spencer. And slowly back away from the Wu-Wu.”

  Rich and I looked at each other and resumed laughing.

  “Ohmygod, who the hell is that?” I asked in between chuckles.

  Rich waved me on. “Oh, girl, please. Pay him and his theatrics no mind. That’s Co-Co, president of the Wu-Wu Tanner fan club.”

  Co-Co? Alrighty then...

  “I said step away from the Wu-Wu. I’m warning you, Spencer. Drop the weapon . . .”

  Spencer dropped the can of Mace, then dropped down to her knees putting her hands up over her head as if she were under arrest. She looked dazed.

  Ohmygod, her goggles are fogged up!

  “Don’t shoot,” she said. “I didn’t wanna hurt her. I swear I didn’t. I only wanted to teach her a lesson for burning my neck up. I really didn’t wanna bust open a can of whip-azz on her and make it rain up in here. But she had it coming. Please don’t shoot me.”

  I blinked.

  Rich blinked.

  Then we both burst out laughing as security escorted Spencer out of the café, and Heather was rolled out on a stretcher, screaming, “Wu-Wu took a lickin’, but Wu-Wu still kickin’. I can’t see, but I’ma always be me. Ohmygod, my eyeballs are on fire!”

  “We love you, Wu-Wu!” Co-Co Ming screamed as he followed behind the stretcher. “Co-Co Ming has your back! Don’t worry, I’ll set it off for you, just like you did in the last episode when Jenny tried to attack you and you had to smack her. I got you, Wu-Wu!”

  I’d never seen anything like this in my entire life. Back in New York, yeah, we were real catty. And, yes, we could be downright ... messy when called for. We ruled the world. And you were lucky if we let you live in it. But, setting it off on the first day of school is, and was, a definite no-no. But, here it was only fourth period and I was already exhausted from all the drama I’d witnessed today. I needed a damn Cosmo!

  “Girl, I can’t,” I hollered in laughter. “I can’t believe Spencer took it to Heather’s face like that. Nutty or not, that girl has heart.”

  Rich pulled out a Chanel handkerchief and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “I can’t breathe,” she wailed in laughter. “Spencer said, ‘I had no choice, no choice...’” Rich stuttered, “ ‘. . . but to do you good!’ ”

  I laughed and shook
my head. “But wait, wait, did you see Heather, I mean Wu-Wu, drop down and sweeping the floor with it. She looked like a circus ho on E-pills. And what the hell is a Wu-Wu, anyway?”

  “Oh, you don’t know. I thought I told you. That’s Heather’s TV show character. The show is hot and popping. She’s dubbed herself America’s sweetheart. Whatever. All I know is that she doesn’t know when to come out of character. Trust she gives new meaning to Trash TV.”

  “Poor thing. Bless her little raggedy, confused heart,” I said, laughing again. “And this president of her fan club. Girl, he’s a fashion nightmare. Who in the hell wears ostrich hairs in eighty-degree weather and kitten heels with a man’s suit? Ohmygod he was dead wrong for that.”

  Rich chuckled. “Girl, Co-Co Ming is the king of Project Runway.”

  “Mmmph. More like Project Train Wreck. He looked a mess.”

  “Oh really?” Captain Sticky Pants popped up out of nowhere, with his bullhorn to his side and his ostrich feathers blowing. He jumped in my face, snapped his fingers, and stomped his feet.

  “Excuse you?” I said and frowned.

  He wiggled his neck. “Yeah, ah, excuse you, boo-boo.” He tooted his lips.

  Was he trying to set it off?

  He carried on, “Oh, you wanna talk about Co-Co Ming. Well, let Co-Co set you straight, sweetness. The only mess-up in here is you and that crystal ball, oh wait. That’s your big-ass forehead shining like that. Don’t do me, Miss Stink-Stink! I’m the president of the Wu-Wu fan club and I—”

  “Little Geisha boy, I don’t care who you are.”

  “Well you better care, Amazon.”

  Rich gagged, slapping her hand up over her mouth.

  I leaned over toward Rich. “Ummm, I’m still trying to figure out who this RuPaul wannabe is talking to.”

  Rich bucked her eyes. “Well, he definitely isn’t talking to me. Co-Co doesn’t want it with me. So it must be you, boo.”

  I eyed him. “What you better do is run along.”

  He slammed a hand up on his hip, then neck rolled while jabbing a finger in the air at me. “No, Sweet Cheeks, what you better do”—he snapped his fingers and stomped his foot—“is take your high-rolling, jungle-booty, trick-ass back to Dirty Jersey where you belong.”

  Oh no this back-alley Snow Cone didn’t!

  This was definitely not how I had expected my first day of school to jump off, but it had. And I was two breaths from sealing this boy’s lips shut. “It’s New York, Egg Noodle. Don’t get it twisted. And what you better do is skip along with all that finger movement in my face before you find yourself flat on your back looking up at the front of your eyelids ’cause I will shut your lights out in a New York minute. And you only get one warning. So take heed.”

  He snapped his fingers. “Oh, no, Miss Tuna. Put it back in the can”—he stomped his right foot again and placed a tiny hand up on his hip, waving the other hand in the air—“ ’cause I don’t do fish. So you better take heed. Or get the Co-Co Ming reading of your life.”

  I took a deep breath, glanced over at Rich. “I really don’t want to beat this Tootie-Fruity down, but he’s asking for it.”

  Rich smirked. “Well, girl. You’ve already warned him. So give it to him. He’ll learn.”

  But before I could decide what to do Co-Co Ming had grabbed someone’s pomegranate smoothie off the table and tossed it in my face. “Tootie-Fruity on that!”

  I blinked my eyes in disbelief as the cold slush clung to my lashes and dripped down onto my five-thousand-dollar blouse, staining the one-of-a-kind creation.

  “Oh, no the hell he didn’t!” Rich snapped, leaping up from the table at the same time I did.

  “Oh, yes Co-Co did,” he snapped back.

  Rich looked at me.

  I looked at her.

  And, before he could say another word, it was lights... camera . . . and fist rocking. We tag-teamed his behind. Punching, slapping, and kicking him. He started running. And we chased him down. I caught up to him first and yanked him by the back of his coat and swung him around. Boyfriend wind-milled his arms, but Rich came behind him and kicked him in his back. He stumbled forward, twisted his ankle in his heels, then it was on. Heels and feathers flew everywhere.

  The next thing I knew, Rich and I were being pulled off of him by four security guards and dragged out of the café. Here I was trying my damnedest to stick to the script and not like this girl. And there we were—two divas with our clothes tore up, hair all wild, heels broken off our shoes—being escorted to the headmaster’s office on the first day of school. We were partners in crime. Damn her! Not getting close to her was definitely going to be harder than I had anticipated. She had my back. And now I was going to have to have hers.

  6

  Rich

  I sa t in the office lounge, closed my eyes, and did all I could to meditate my way into a painful vision. Something that grieved me worse than the thought of being banished to the mall and made to shop amongst the tourists and the commoners. Something that made my eyes swollen with tears. So that once Mr. Westwick, the headmaster, and Mr. Sharp, his assistant by day and drag queen mistress by night, switched their way in here I’d be able to freak out and transform into an overloaded panic attack; accompanied by Academy Award–winning tears and Oscar-worthy snot ooze and lip drool.

  My plan was to have my glossless bottom lip hang and in between a series of incoherent “Why me’s?” convince them that although Co-Co Ming had to be carted out of here by way of EMTs, that London and I were really the ones who’d been under siege. And that Co-Co Ming had simply gotten the beat-down that he’d asked for.

  But the tears wouldn’t fall. All that would fall were the pink diamonds in my tennis bracelet, my earrings, and the right sleeve of my Burberry blazer that had hung on by an unraveling thread.

  I shook my head, opened my eyes, and jumped. “Ahh!!!! Clutching my pearls!” I blinked, blinked, and blinked again. Who was that creature sitting next to me? For a moment I wondered if this was Lauryn Hill. This creature’s clothes were tattered, it had a pair of broken heels in its lap, wore one earring, had red lipstick that sailed its way from its lips to its cheeks. Its false eyelashes were crooked and one had just fallen off and almost touched me. “Ugg!” I couldn’t believe what I was seeing and that’s when it hit me that this was London.

  OMG!

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or stand and give a eulogy.

  But one thing I did know was that Co-Co Ming was lucky I didn’t really believe in violence or else I’d run into one of his parents’ five-star sushi restaurants and kill him. DEAD.

  London flipped her hair behind her ears and sniffed. “I don’t believe this,” she said more to herself than to me.

  “Believe what?” I took my Chanel handkerchief and dabbed the sweat from her forehead and then balled up the cloth and placed it in her hand. “You can keep that.”

  “If this is only the first day of school, my God.” She blinked and her remaining lash fell into her lap. “What the hell is tomorrow going to look like?!”

  “Calm down,” I said as I popped open my ruby compact and realized that my mascara was streaked across my face like war marks. “Today was highly unusual. Maybe this is how you sling it in New York, but we don’t usually drop down low enough to have a physical slugfest. We usually let the blogs, and the TMZs, Popsugars, and the Perez Hiltons of the world do our dirty work.”

  “What?” She looked half baffled and half disturbed. “What are you talking about? This place has been popping off since I walked in the door. I’m not used to this.” She wiped her face with the handkerchief. “This is too much for me! I can’t do this!” She tossed her head back. “I’m not really religious, but one thing I know for sure is that you all need Jesus.” She started to fall apart. “I have to get out of here!” she screamed. “I have to get out of here! Ohmygod! My blouse is ruined!”

  I gasped. Here I thought Miss International had it together and yet, here she was acting
like new money. I hobbled over to the door, one heel on, one heel broken, and closed it. “London!” I said tight-lipped. “Get it together. Right now.” I shook her by the shoulders. “Get it together.”

  “I’m not used to this!” London repeated.

  “What is wrong with you? The only thing we did wrong was allow Co-Co Ming to come close to us and inhale our air. He deserved everything he got today.”

  “Hollywood High is not the place for me.”

  “London! Listen. Once you understand how we do things around here you’ll be fine. Just know that next time a freak approaches us, we don’t get our hands dirty. We hire bodyguards to do that. We’re ladies at all times.”

  London spat. “He tossed a damn smoothie all over my Chanel! I should have dug his grave with his head! My daddy is going to be so pissed and I hope like hell this doesn’t make the press—”

  “And why not?” I said taken aback.

  “Because rocking the front page of the Enquirer, and Star, and In Touch, and whatever other disgraceful ran-by-a-prick magazine was not on my list of things to do today! I don’t need that kind of press!”

  My heart skipped a beat. Apparently she was really clueless. “All press is good press. Period. We don’t run from the paparazzi. We welcome them. Around here popularity and ruling the press are more of a drug than Chanel could ever be!”

  “What? And why is that?”

  “Because the secret to survival at Hollywood High is to keep people talking. Be their dinner conversation. Little girls should look up to you. Mattel should offer to make a Barbie doll in your likeness, companies need to call and beg you to endorse their products. People need to worship you. And you know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because you have pulled the infamous Jedi mind trick. And now you have fans, not because you’re talented, but because you’re famous. And you’re famous for no gawt-damn reason at all. Now get it together! And I’m not going to tell you anymore,” I said as I pulled out my iPhone and scrolled through the images I took of Spencer macing Heather, and the one I managed to take of London smacking Co-Co Ming to the floor before I jumped on him. I showed her the pics. “You see this?”