Hollywood High

by Ni-Ni Simone

  Corey stood quiet and I could imagine that thoughts of losing me floated through his mind and had him speechless. I knew he was set to give me an apology and for a moment I thought about not accepting it. But then I decided that two wrongs didn’t make a right, so I would forgive him, this time. Especially since this whole fiasco had to be an oversight on his part. But that was cool, too, because now I knew what I needed to focus my future-husband’s training on.

  I looked him in his eyes and just as I cocked my neck and prepared for him to beg my pardon he chuckled and said, “You effen crazy.”

  Pow!

  Bang!

  Bang!

  Was I shot?

  Did somebody just shoot me with a stun gun?

  I looked over at London and she was still speechless. “Umm, Earth to London.” I waved my hand in her face. “Don’t you have something to say? Cute and calm was your idea.”

  London picked up her bottom lip and said, “What did you just say to me, Anderson?”

  Anderson looked at London, frowned, and then took two tiny steps back as if her breath stank.

  Oh he needs to be cut. I can’t believe she doesn’t have him in check.

  Anderson carried on, “London, don’t even look to get crunked over here.”

  “Spell crunked, Anderson,” she snapped. “Now, as I was saying, I don’t appreciate having to call you—”

  “Don’t call me!” Anderson spat and if looks could kill he would’ve murdered London with a double-barrel shotgun. “Don’t call Anderson,” his words slurred. “You ain’t called Anderson all week and now you wanna run up on C-Smooth. I mean C-Smoove.” He took a swig of his champagne bottle and wiped the excess from his lips.

  Ill.

  “Psst, please, I’m not having it,” he carried on.

  “Don’t try to show off!” London said.

  “Show off?” Anderson took another swig. “I’m not showing off, you know I haven’t heard from you in a damn week. I’d been calling you and what did you do? You sent me to voice mail, ‘Hello this is London, leave a message at the beep.’ Beeep. Well here’s the message, London. You and your psycho homegirl take your Jimmy Choos and step!”

  “Yeah, beat it,” Corey said to me as he and Anderson turned away from us, grabbed two new girls, and resumed dancing.

  I couldn’t believe this. I could’ve sworn that I was supposed to die before I went to hell, yet here I stood, six-inch-stilettos deep. I looked at London and said, “I thought you had the master plan? Now had we gone along with my plan and busted them in the head, they wouldn’t have been able to sing all that yang. They’d be on the floor. Bleeding.”

  London blinked. And I didn’t know if she was in disbelief or wanted this whole night to disappear. But whatever. I couldn’t worry about that. I just knew that the night couldn’t end like this. I looked at London and said, “You might wanna be at Burger King trying to have it your way, but they just played us like the dollar menu. Now what’s next? Are we still going to keep it calm and keep it cute?”

  “Yes.” London drank in a deep breath. “Now follow me.”

  I complied and walked alongside of her as she went up behind C-Smoove and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around, sucked his teeth, looked London over and said, “You still sweatin’—?”

  Wham!

  Bam!

  Boom! A slap to the right cheek followed up by socking it to the left. London reached back and slapped C-Smoove so hard that spit sprung from his mouth and he stumbled two steps back, knocking the girl behind him to the floor.

  I couldn’t help but smile because that was all I needed. “Excuse me, Corey.” I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around. And as he twisted his lips to say something, I reared my hand back and took it to his gut! Corey’s champagne bottle crashed to the floor and made a zigzag trail as it rolled away and he dropped like a stone.

  Pow!

  Code ten!

  Man down!

  And just as we saw security approaching, we tucked our clutches securely beneath our arms and strutted outside to where the driver waited.

  London looked at me and said, “Here’s my friend’s number. Call him.” She handed me a shiny business card with the name Justice embossed. I ran my fingers across the name and said, “Maybe I’ll call him.”

  We eased into the car and as the driver pulled off leaving Club Sixty-Six Paradise in the distance, London filled two flutes with champagne, handed me one, and said, “Here’s to keeping it cute.”

  “Amen.” I batted my eyes and clinked her glass. “Next stop Hollywood!”

  11

  Heather

  A week later

  The sun-dyed streaks in my chestnut hair dazzled in the window’s reflection as I sat in the back of my British literature class. My eyes half-mast. Shoulders slumped. And the tips of my fingernails bitten into sore and jagged pieces.

  I couldn’t concentrate.

  I couldn’t think straight.

  And the last thing I wanted to hear was Mr. Hammond pour his heart into a Shakespearean soliloquy, because at this moment suicidal Romeo and Juliet couldn’t do a thing for me.

  I didn’t need medieval literature in my life. I needed New Millennium advice on how to shake whatever had my stomach cramping. And how to stop the sweats that made me feel as if I should’ve worn a bikini; or quench the dry mouth that made me thirst for a gallon of water. And I needed to know how to stop this eerie voice that eased over my shoulders and whispered faintly in my ears, “You need a hit.” That’s what I needed. Not this!

  Ugh!

  There was no way I could stay in here much longer.

  I had to leave. I had to.

  I’d already proven that I wasn’t a junkie and could stop anytime I wanted to. So one hit to help me get my Wu-Wu back was nothing. It didn’t matter that I’d been snorting Adderall—twice a day—for the last year, what mattered was that I had control over it. Adderall was like... like ... my assistant. It helped me focus. Kept my lines together. Kept the stress of dealing with Camille and fronting for the Pampered Princesses at bay. Adderall was my ride or die. We understood each other. And it wasn’t about chasing that first high. It had nothing to do with me needing more and more pills to maintain. It was about being sane. Because without Adderall to maintain it was only a matter of time before I lost my mind!

  “He never wanted you . . . You were a mistake . . . I was supposed to abort you ... He never wanted you ... He knows about you . . . It’s Richard ... It’s Richard ...” Shaking Camille’s voice from my head I turned to the left of me and there was Rich Montgomery, sitting there.

  I wondered. . . .

  It’s Richard....

  No....

  It’s Richard . . .

  No it couldn’t be. . . .

  It’s Richard. . . .

  I continued to stare at Rich until she looked over at me and frowned.

  He already has a daughter....

  I gotta get out of here.

  Just as I slid my book into my backpack to bolt out of there, my phone vibrated. It was a text from my agent returning my call from this morning.

  Finally.

  I’d only been trying to reach her since last night.

  I slung my backpack over my right shoulder and strutted out of the classroom unapologetically. And I didn’t care if Mr. Hammond gawked. Given the way I felt, I would’ve smacked him.

  My heels pumped out an angry drumbeat as I walked into the girls’ lounge, quickly locked the door, and then hid in the last stall. I dialed my agent’s number and screamed at the top of my lungs, “WHERE IN THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?!”

  “Heather—”

  “Don’t Heather me, Diana! You work for me and you better remember that, so I don’t expect to have to wait six minutes let alone six hours to hear back from you!”

  “Heather, you called me at two o’clock this morning. I’m just seeing your text. I’m truly sorry.”

  “And that you are!” Sweat poured over m
y brow.

  “Heather,” she said, her voice making evident that she would be attempting to pacify me. “Just breathe and tell me what’s wrong.”

  “What’s wrong? What’s wrong? I have a laundry list of things that are wrong! Camille waking up every day is problem number one. Problem number two are these shallow, superficial, money-controlled chicks that I’m forced to be friends with—”

  “That’s for your image.”

  “I don’t care about my image anymore!”

  Diana sighed. “Heather. Relax, please. I am working with Camille on her drinking. I am doing all that I can to get you on another show. A fresh start. A chance to showcase your true talents. All you need is to give me some time and it will all come together.”

  “When?!”

  “Soon, dear, soon. And by the way have you taken a pill today?”

  “No!”

  “Well then you need one, maybe two.”

  “Don’t tell me what I need.”

  “I just want you to be stress-free. And let me worry about your next move. And as far as the Pampered Princesses, just act as if they’re family and all will be well.”

  Click.

  I hung up on her! I simply couldn’t take it anymore. You need a hit....

  “Shut up!” I kicked the locked door. I could feel water building in the back of my mouth and my stomach bubbling all over again.

  Just one hit...

  That’s it...

  Screw it. I sat down on the closed lid of the toilet and opened my bag. Then I quickly closed it.

  My goal was seven days—pill-free.

  I had two more to go and then I wouldn’t have a doubt that I wasn’t a junkie.

  I stood up, unlocked the stall, and quickly walked toward the door. I unlocked the door and as I placed one foot on the other side I quickly pulled it back in, closed the door, and leaned against the back of it.

  One hit. That’s it.

  I ran back into the last stall, locked it, and laid a dollar bill on the lid of the toilet. I placed two Black Beauties in it, wrapped the bill around it, and pounded the dollar bill with my fist. Two seconds later I opened it and snorted a breath of fresh air.

  I lay back on the toilet and just as the golden gates of Heaven opened up and welcomed me in, the rushing sounds of footsteps bolted into the bathroom.

  Didn’t I lock the door?

  My heart thundered as I climbed into a tight and still fetal position on top of the cold toilet lid. It was a good thing I was 5’2” or this would definitely be a problem.

  Two sets of feet walked back and forth: one dressed in pink ostrich six-inch heels and the other in Marc Jacobs sneakers.

  “Wait! Wait!” said a female voice belonging to a set of the unwelcome footsteps. “We have to make sure there’s no one else in here.”

  Who is that? Is that... no that’s not...

  “Come on, baby,” a familiar male voice said. “It’s nobody in here. You don’t have to check in every stall.”

  “But Corey, we have to make sure the Coast Guard is clear.”

  Corey? Rich’s boyfriend, Corey?

  “It’s all good, baby. Trust me.”

  OMG, that is Corey!

  “Are you sure?” the female voice whined and all I could think was, I know for sure that ain’t Rich. And I know that can’t be Spencer....

  “Come over here and let me show you how sure I am,” Corey growled.

  It took everything in me not to squeal in laughter.

  After a moment of silence the couple was going hot and heavy, panting and kissing. I knew I needed to lie perfectly still but I had to confirm this creeping couple. I eased as quietly as I could off of the toilet and peeked under the door.

  And... I ... almost ... died....

  Straight flatlined. . . .

  Look at what we have here . . . Legally blond by morning and sex kitten by lunchtime: Spencer, and Rich’s boyfriend.

  Damn!

  I took my phone from my purse, pressed record, and happily watched Corey’s belt buckle hit the floor and his jeans fall to his ankles all while Rich’s good friend Spencer dropped to her knees.

  Ahhh . . . payback.

  12

  Rich

  I sli d the canary-diamond heart-pendant on my Tiffany necklace back and forth as I stared off into the distance. I hated that at the very moments I should’ve thought about where Corey was and why I hadn’t heard from him, yet again, that Knox rocked my brain cells.

  Me avoiding Knox since the Fourth of July weekend was intentional and not happenstance. So why my mind couldn’t swing with that was beyond me. Instead, Knox ruled my thoughts and completely wrecked my flow.

  Seriously, this was a situation that I was in and I didn’t have time for distractions. Corey—who’d called me all week, begged for my forgiveness relentlessly, and promised me during our creep-creep pillow talk two nights ago that he would get his priorities in order and make me his number one—had pulled the infamous whooptie-wam on me and suddenly stopped returning my texts.

  Like really?

  Really?

  Clearly, he had me confused. ’Cause now my level of pisstivity had risen from a simple slap-your-face-crunked-ten to a gut-punched-nunchucked-twenty.

  And there you have it.

  I was too through. How dare he ignore my texts since yesterday afternoon! And so what if I texted him a hundred and twenty-five times . . . okay a hundred and twenty-nine times, but so what. All he needed to do was respond to one. But instead I got nothing.

  That just simply wasn’t acceptable.

  No way.

  No how.

  And it’s not that I was so in love with Corey that I couldn’t fathom not being with him. I mean he was fine but my mirror confirmed that I was much prettier. And it’s not that Corey had my nose open or I was so caught up that I couldn’t see the forest for the trees—the hoes for the stroll. I wasn’t in love or in stupid. Psst, please. Spare me.

  I knew Corey was a pimp. Ah duh, it was obvious. And that’s exactly why my plan was to dump him. Can him. Say bye-bye, boo. But first I had to get him and keep him where I wanted him: sweatin’ me. Dying to have me. Swearing that his life couldn’t go on without me, and then I could dump him.

  Boom!

  After all, relationships weren’t about love, they were about financial growth, potential assets. And being that last week his father’s company was accused of allegedly running sweatshops in Guatemala, which caused their stocks to tank, ole boy had to get the boot. Problem was he didn’t behave long enough for me to not only dump him but to be certain that he would have a nervous breakdown behind it.

  Life sucks.

  “Hey, doll,” London said as she walked over to our center table and air-kissed me. She flopped down in the pink leather chair and said, “And why weren’t you waiting for me at your locker?”

  “Girl,” I said with a drag. “It completely slipped my mind.”

  “How could something that we do every day slip your mind? What’s really the problem?” she asked, her New York accent making her sound as if she had a head cold.

  I rolled my eyes toward the heavens. “What do think is the problem or who is the problem, I should say.”

  “Corey?” She frowned.

  “Umm hmm. He’s ignoring all my texts. Won’t answer my calls or anything. I’m soooo sick of this.”

  London rolled her eyes. “I wish you would just dismiss him already, like seriously he is such a douche bag.”

  “Eww...” I curled my lip and crossed my legs. Sometimes when London opened her mouth there was no telling what kind of gutter trash was bound to come out. “Douche bag? That is so unladylike.” I picked up my chopsticks and dipped my spicy tuna sushi into wasabi and soy sauce.

  “No, unladylike is you allowing Soulja Boy to play you. You deserve better than that.”

  I blinked. Blinked again. Apparently she had me confused, too. “Of course I do. I know that. But first I have to make sure he worships t
he royal ground I walk on before I dump him. I need to make sure he is officially sweatin’ me. And when I know that he loves me enough to walk the plank after I dismiss him, I will send him a text and tell him to never call me again.”

  London side eyed me and said, “Blank stare.”

  “Whatever.” I waved my hand dismissively as we ate our lunch of varying rolls of sushi. “Anyway, did you peep the new embroidered and signature Louis boots?” I asked, excited.

  “Straight sick.”

  “Cancerous. Meow! Snap. Snap. Oh, yes. And there are only two hundred in the world.”

  “Ohmygod,” London said in a panic and reached for her phone. “I need to reserve mine. I have to call my—”

  “Girl, put that phone down, you know I got you, boo. I had my stylist order four pairs. Two pairs for me and two pairs for you. A size nine, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “They will be here in two weeks, just in time for us to shut Hollywood High down, again.”

  London and I cracked up and in the middle of us sweatin’ ourselves and squealing about the perks of being born fly, Spencer cut across our conversation with a yay-wide smile and an extremely loud, “Hey girls!”

  “And where have you been?” I looked at my watch. “Last I checked lunch started twenty minutes ago.”

  “Did it really?” She batted her lashes. “And did you count those minutes all by yourself, Rich? Or did you and Miss Upper East Side make that a joint effort?”

  Did she just get nasty?

  London looked at me and her eyes seemed to be asking the same thing. Before I could decide if I should let Spencer’s remark slide she pointed to the chair where Heather usually sat and asked, “Where’s Heather?”

  London frowned. “Last I checked I wasn’t her keeper.”

  “Ding dong the witch is dead. You’re so bright, London. Not.” Spencer shook her curls. “Stevie Wonder can see that you’re not a keeper. This isn’t a zoo. Although with the way you carry on, I most definitely understand the confusion.”

  I didn’t mean to make a sound, but somehow “Meow” slipped out.