Lights, Love & Lip Gloss

by Ni-Ni Simone

  That wasn’t me. I’d already made my mark. I didn’t need a break. I was a star. And this reality TV mess was beneath me. It was cramping my style. And I wasn’t having it. And I told her so, demanding she release me from my contract.

  “What?! A star?” She laughed in my face. “Little girl, stop being a silly trick and think! You either work and keep money coming in or hit the welfare line. Hollywood is not just about getting in the spotlight by being splashed all up in the media. It’s about staying relevant. So what you have—no, correction, had—a little stardom. At the end of the day—when you find yourself tossed out of your dressing room with your nameplate thrown in your face, all of your belongings stuffed in some raggedy box, and that little twinkling silver star gets yanked out of your hands, do you really think anyone is going to care about who you used to be in Hollywood?

  “You think they care about you being some bozo named Wu-Wu? No, dear, you are sadly mistaken if you think they do! Wu-Wu is dead, silly girl! Yeah, everyone with a clue knows who starred as Wu-Wu. You. But you are dumber and more delusional than I thought if you actually believe that you are Wu-Wu. Little girl, wake up! Go somewhere and have a seat! You didn’t write the script for Wu-Wu. Or pitch the idea. You auditioned for the role.” She laughed again. “You don’t even own the rights to the name Wu-Wu. The network does!

  “So don’t you ever stand in front of me and call yourself Wu-Wu again. What you better do is figure out who Heather Cummings is. Because right now, from where I’m sitting, Heather Cummings is broke! Heather Cummings is irrelevant! And Heather Cummings is getting on my last nerve! And that’s exactly how everyone in Hollywood is going to view you.

  “You want fame? Then be smart about it! Amass you a fortune! Because fame without fortune doesn’t mean a thing when you’re sleeping in a tent under a bridge, which is where you’re going to find yourself, little girl—smelling and looking like the inside of a third-world sewer, if you don’t stay focused. Being a star, having star power, is about getting on top and knowing how to stay on top. Branding, dear! That’s how you do it. Now, what I’m offering you, little girl, is an opportunity to get it right. So until you do, you’ll do reality TV. And for the next thirteen episodes, I’m your pimp. Now get out of my house and get out there and get me my money!” Bam! She slammed the door behind me as I walked out, feeling like I’d been beaten worse by Kitty’s words than I’d been with Camille’s fists and feet.

  “Bish, you did that!” Co-Co said, bringing me out of my thoughts as we stepped out of the sound booth. We were at Thug Hitz, a recording studio over on Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard in Baldwin Village—or as it was once known, the Jungle—finishing up the track for my first single: “Put Your Diamonds Up”!

  Ever since someone had posted a video of me and Co-Co ripping the stage at Club Noir Kiss on YouTube, I’d been getting crazy requests from Wu-Wu fans to drop a single. Co-Co said he knew a spot where we could go to make it happen. And so here we were. In the hood, at a studio packed wall-to-wall with thugs and thick clouds of weed smoke, getting ready to drop fire on the streets.

  “You did. That!” Co-Co repeated as he punctuated each word with a finger snap. “Yes gawd, honey! That ish right there... is hotness!” He pulled out his cell and started texting real quick, then after a few minutes slid his phone down into the front pocket of his pink fishnet jumper. “These tricks not gonna know what hit ’em when that ish drops tomorrow . . .”

  We high-fived.

  “You know that’s right,” I said as I shimmied my shoulders. “I’m about to drop hot turds on them Hollywood slores and trolls.”

  “Yes! Yes!” Co-Co threw a hand up in the air. “Droppin’ turds on all them silly birds!” He pulled out his compact and powdered his nose, then snapped it shut. I eyed him as he pulled out his phone and started texting again. When he was done, he shoved it back down into his pocket then stepped out of his heels and slid his size elevens into a pair of black Timbs that he had stuffed in his oversized bag.

  He’d been acting extra jumpy most of the night, kept stepping out of the room to “use the bathroom,” so he said. But all his strolling back and forth looked to me like he was trying to score himself some chocolate boy-joy for the night.

  Whatever! I wasn’t interested in none of them. Yeah, most of ’em kept eyeballing me and licking their lips at me most of the day. And, yeah, a few were real cute. Still, I was. Not. Interested. We gathered our things, I said my good-byes to everyone in the studio, then headed out into the lobby with Co-Co behind me. I gave him the side eye as he—with his page-boy cut and sweeping bang, full beard, glossed lips, and his long slender fingers with each pinky painted pink—let the straps of his handbag drop into the crook of his arm. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing as Camille’s voice floated in my head. “Trans-Confusion, don’t come for Norma Marie . . . That rainbow cookie...”

  He tossed his bang from out of his left eye. “What? Why you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  He popped his lips. “Um. Like you sizing me up for a late night snack or something. I know you see all this sweet Asian lusciousness, boo. But you know Miss Co-Co don’t do the lesbian thing. My special duck sauce is for one thing and one thing only, honey.”

  I blinked. And what makes you think I do? Please, like I’d want to do him. I flicked a dismissive wave at him, ignoring his lesbian remark. “Chile, cheese. Don’t let your delusions get your feelings hurt. Now let’s get out of here. The limo should already be out front.”

  He stopped in his tracks, snapping a finger. “Oh, shoot. I got something I need to handle right quick. I’ll holla at you a little later.”

  I shot Miss Girl Wannabe a look, placing a hand up on my waist. “Something like what? We made plans. I thought we were stopping through Club Kix for a quick nightcap.”

  “We were,” he quickly said. He was acting real strange all of a sudden. “I have to meet someone real quick.” His phone started buzzing. He ignored it. “I gotta collect these coins so we can do it up, boo.”

  I eyed him suspiciously. “And you’re sure you don’t want a ride?”

  “No, no. I’ll get one of the little thug daddies in the studio to give me a lift.” He smacked his lips together. “You know how I do it, boo.”

  I threw a hand up in the air, waving him on. Told him to call me later and walked off. I thought I heard him giggle and looked over my shoulder, catching him putting his phone up to his ear. I rolled my eyes and headed down the hall toward the glass doors, the cameraman from the TV show in tow. The minute we stepped out of the building, a haze of flashbulbs blinded me.

  “Here she is now!”

  “Heather! Heather!”

  My eyes rapidly blinked then popped open. It was a herd of paparazzi charging at me. I turned to get back into the building, but the glass doors had already locked behind me. I saw the back of Co-Co’s black thong and flat booty cheeks peeking through the netting of his jumper as he quickly turned off down a corridor while I frantically banged on the door, having flashbacks of being back in Brazil, being dragged and disrespected by that reporter. So what if I’d called him myself? He still had no right to come there and play me. “Co-Co! Co-Co!” No, I know he wouldn’t do me like that.

  “Heather! Heather!”

  Don’t let them do you, girl!

  Think, Heather, think!

  Yes. Let these tricksters know what time it is.

  I took two deep breaths, then slowly turned to face the mob circling me like a pack of starved wolves. Cameras and recorders from every direction were being shoved in my face.

  “Hey, Heather Cummings. What happened with you and the rest of the Pampered Princesses at Hollywood High? We’ve heard it’s gotten real messy between the four of you.”

  I smiled my sweetest smile. “I have no use for backstabbing slores. No shade, boo. I’m doing me. And hopefully they’re somewhere off doing them. End of discussion.”

  A camera cl
icked.

  “Heather. Over here,” a brown-faced blogger for Dirty Deeds called out, waving a hand in the air. “Is it true you told the Pampered Princesses to put their diamonds up? What did you mean by that? Was that some kind of hidden threat?”

  I flashed another smile. “I don’t make threats. I make tracks. So what do you think it meant?” I took a step forward to leave but got stopped in my tracks. I glanced over and spotted the cameraman zooming in on the crowd, then me. I was furious.

  “Hey, Heather Cummings. How does it feel to be Hollywood’s fallen teen star?” a tall, dark-haired reporter asked.

  I turned to him. “Fallen? Ha! Never that. You better check your facts. I’m a star, baby!” I smacked my lips, tossing my hair and gliding a hand along my hip while turning slightly to the side and allowing my hand to travel over my ten-thousand-dollar clapper. I shook and popped my hips a few times and twerked for the cameras. “I’m the crème de la crème. The best of the best.”

  “Yeah, with a fake rump!” I heard someone in the crowd shout. “Fake trick went from booty pads to butt plugs!”

  Then came a roar of laughter.

  I blinked. I wasn’t sure if I had heard right. I had to be hearing things. But I know I wasn’t that deep into my high that I’d be hallucinating. Not off of a pinch, anyway.

  Someone asked, “So how does it feel going from having your own sitcom to now being forced to do reality TV because none of the other major networks want to hire you? Do you see it as a kick in the face?”

  I blinked. “No. I see it as an opportunity.” Yeah, an opportunity to stay in the limelight until something better comes along. “And for the record, I wasn’t forced to do anything.” Okay, it was a lie. I hated it! And I felt trapped!

  “Whatever happened to your role as Luda Tutor in that new comedy series airing on the Kitty-Kitty network? We heard it was yours until you went on a drug and booze binge again.”

  I could feel the effects of my get-right completely draining out of my body, leaving me feeling naked and vulnerable. My hands started sweating. My insides began to tremble. Not one soul out here was screaming out for Wu-Wu. No one was cheering me on or chanting my name. No one was asking for my autograph. No. These vultures swooped down on me to peck me apart. This was an execution! A setup! I’d been ambushed. I couldn’t believe I was being cornered and put under attack like this! How did these media leeches know I was here? And who is this crowd out here? These are not my Wu-Wu fans!

  “Hey, Heather,” a reporter for Ni-Ni Girlz Glamalicious called out. “Is it true Spencer Ellington had to loan you three million dollars because you and your mother are flat broke?”

  Whaaat?! Who told this trick that? I wanted to scream out, I’ma kill that effen beyotch, Spencer! Instead, I batted my long, purple-tinted mink lashes. “Wrong answer, boo. I wasn’t loaned anything. It was a gift.”

  “So you’re denying the fact that you’re broke . . . ?” a red-haired journalist for J-14 questioned.

  I felt the ground shake beneath my purple, six-inch gladiator boots. I quickly glanced at all the eyes staring back at me, waiting for the chance to slaughter me. Yeah, I ran through most—okay, okay, practically all—of the money Spencer had given me. Still, that didn’t give anyone the right to pry into my personal affairs! I had to live! I needed things! And what I did with my money was no one’s business!

  “Yeah, she’s broke!” Someone shouted way in the back of the mob. Dear God! I must be hallucinating. Surely no one would be trying to serve me fever. “Look at her! Cheap, cheesy trick in that hooker suit! Skidrow trash!”

  More laughter.

  I felt my heart stop. My Wu-Wu fans would never do me like this! There was nothing cheesy or cheap about the outfit I was wearing, a skintight pink leopard-print Lycra catsuit with a plunging V-neckline to give my 34DDs breathing room. I was doing it. Serving it. Eff them!

  I craned my neck to see who was trying to toss shade all up over me. Clearly, it had to be someone who couldn’t stand all this divaliciousness I was serving up. They had it in for me. But who? Rich? Yeah, it had to be that miserable slore. I’d read her for gutter filth my first day back at school. So what? I’d finally given her what she’d been giving me behind my back and to my face—a taste of her own medicine. If you can’t stand the heat, then stay out the fire!

  I pushed my way through the crowd, flinging my arms as I tried to stomp off with the cameraman trailing behind me. All of this was being captured on film. These effen cameras! This effen reality show! I gotta get outta here! Away from everyone! I didn’t ask for this kind of media attention!

  I signaled for the cameraman to cut off his camera. But the no-good dirty ninja kept on rolling. “Get outta my way!” I shouted, almost knocking someone down trying to get through the crowd.

  The media hounds and bloggers rushed behind me. “A source says that in less than a month you’ve, quote-unquote, tricked up all your money on drugs, Korean knockoffs and—”

  I whipped my head in the bloggers’ direction, slapping a few of them in the face with my long ponytail. “Lies. Lies. And more lies. I’ve done no such thing! I haven’t touched drugs since I’ve been home. And if you think I have, show me the receipts!”

  “Heather. Is it true that your mother tried to kill you after you’d gone missing for almost three weeks?”

  No comment. I kept on fighting my way through the crowd.

  “Yeah, the ole drunk tried to kill her!” someone else yelled in back of me. “If you had a daughter who looked like that wouldn’t you try to kill her too?”

  If you had a daughter who looked like that? No one laughed. Still, the heckler’s words slashed right through me. I felt the stinging in my eyes as I fought back tears. What I looked like was a sore spot for me. No one knew how much I hated looking in the mirror at times, seeing the reflection staring back at me.

  Hold it together! Don’t you dare let them see you shed one tear!

  “Hey, Heather. A source says you finally know who your father is. Is that true?”

  A gasp caught in the back of my throat.

  “It’s about time someone wanted to claim her!” someone else jeered, then started yelping like a wounded animal. “Someone call the SPCA! Lost mutt in heels on the loose.”

  I felt my knees buckle. Then I heard the screaming in my head. Felt the tightening in my chest as the cameraman finally decided to shut off his equipment and help usher me through the swelling crowd, pushing our way through at the same time the limo pulled up to the curb.

  The minute the door opened, I slid into the back of the limo and sank dejectedly into my seat, just as a ran-over pump, packed with dog poop, came soaring into the cabin of the limo, splattering all over.

  Its message loud and clear: You ain’t nothing, Heather!

  7

  Heather

  “Get me outta here!” My voice cracked as I tried to hold back my tears. I couldn’t believe someone had tossed dog poop into my limo. I was never so humiliated, embarrassed, in my entire life. I shouted at my driver, “Drive, idiot! Run them all down! And what took you so effen long?! You were supposed to already be out here! Waiting on me! Not the other way around! I will have your job for this! You bungling moron! Because of your incompetence I had to suffer public humiliation! You worthless piece of scum!”

  He tried to pull off but couldn’t. We were blocked in. The crowd had swarmed around us, banging on the windows, throwing eggs and tomatoes at us. I’d never experienced this kind of horror. I was mortified, as it was all being caught on film. I screamed at the cameraman for standing there and letting them animals attack me like that.

  He shrugged. I glared at him as he scrunched up his nose and reached for a stack of napkins, then picked up the heel dripping with brown funk, inched the window down just enough to push the shoe out, then quickly rolled it back up.

  He shut the camera off and callously said, “Get over it. It’s business. It’s all about the ratings. Besides, I’m not your bodyguard.�
�� He turned the camera back on as the driver pressed down on the accelerator and was finally able to pull off from the sea of media serpents and haters. “Now tell us. How did all of that craziness make you feel?”

  I blinked. How do you think any of this makes me feel?! I felt like the ground had opened up and I was being sucked down into the bowels of hell. And effen Spencer was there standing in the middle of the fire with her pitchfork, stabbing me in the center of my big bouncy Brazilian, deflating each of my implants.

  I stared into the camera. “I’m pissed! I feel betrayed! That’s how the eff I feel! Turned on by some jealous trick who doesn’t have a life! I can’t believe she tried to drag me like this. Why? Because I traded her raggedy Lamborghini in for something I wanted? Bish, please! Drink Drano. And die a slow death!”

  I was done. And I wasn’t in the mood for this goddamn camera either! All I wanted to do was escape. Be left alone. Disappear. Drop off the face of the earth. Find me a dark hole and get lost. All I wanted was a little grace and mercy. That’s it. Was that too much to ask for?

  I wanted to live. Just not like this. Not under someone else’s rules. Not under someone else’s microscope, or through someone else’s cloudy, rose-colored lenses. No. I wanted to live my life, my way. But I couldn’t!

  “So, why do you think people in the crowd were taunting you like that?”

  “Eff them haters!” I spat. I felt sick from the lingering smell of poop everywhere. I reached over and rolled my window down. “They don’t know me!”

  “Then why don’t you tell us,” the cameraman said, zooming his lens on me. “Tell us who you are. Let the viewers know.”

  I blinked. Tossed the question around in my pounding head. I was still shaken from being ambushed and demeaned. I couldn’t think straight.

  Who am I?

  A broke nobody who just got dog poo thrown at her!

  A tear rolled down my face. My insecurities kicked in. Next came the avalanche, a rushing well of tears pouring out of my eyes. Then came the screaming for the cameraman to get his goddamn camera out of my face! Followed by the banging on the partition for the driver to stop the limo. I yelled and screamed and cursed and carried on to no end until the driver pulled over. I swung open the door.