by Ni-Ni Simone
Wait a minute! Did I hear her correctly? Consultation?
I shot up in bed, yanking the mask from my eyes. “Whaaaat?!” I shrieked. “Consultation for what?”
My mother stepped out of my walk-in closet holding up a pink, knee-length wrap dress. I frowned. After my shoot yesterday for Pink Heat, I didn’t want to look at anything else pink for a long while. “For your breast reduction,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone as if she were talking about the weather. “We have to get you down to an A-cup.”
I frowned, swinging my feet over the edge of the bed, reaching for my cell sitting on my nightstand. “Mother, you can’t be serious! I’m not having my breasts reduced to an A-cup.”
There were no calls! I glanced over at the clock. Eight a.m. Okay, that means it’s eleven p.m. back home. I sent Justice a quick text: GM, BABE. I MISS U & NEED U! PLZ CALL ME WEN U GET THIS.
“Oh, you most certainly will. Aside from binding them down, there’s no other option. I thought with the diet your breasts and that big jungle-bouncing rear end of yours would have shrunk to match your gorgeous waistline. But they didn’t. I need you hanger thin. Not voluptuous. You are too curvy, London. I have to be proactive to keep you working, darling. One day you’ll wake up and those C-cups will have ballooned into double Ds and that colossal derrière of yours will start to drag to the ground. I can’t have that. No, mia cara Londra. Sei troppo bella per essere grasso.”
I rolled my eyes at her. I hated when she spoke English and Italian in the same sentence. Oh my darling London, nothing! I didn’t give a damn about her thinking I was too beautiful to be fat. I wasn’t fat—although sometimes I felt like I was, because she made me feel fat. Because Justice would tell me I was fat. They both had a way of making me feel like a hippo. Still, I wasn’t interested in surgery. I’d starve myself first before I let anyone slice, suction, or staple anything on me.
I stood up and huffed indignantly. I was ready to have it out with her. “I’m not having anyone cut out any parts of my body, period. If the Italians don’t want me on their runways, then so be it.”
Before I knew what was happening, my mother was up in my face lightning fast. “You will not use that tone with me, London. You almost ruined everything once with your weight gain.” She glared at me. “I. Will. Not. Risk. You. Becoming some cheesy model who catwalks bedsheets or some god-awful, ill-fitted potato sack down a runway.”
She stroked my cheek. “I love you, my darling. One day, you will appreciate everything I’m doing for you . . .”
In that moment, I floated back to my childhood. I was five again. From charm school to being shuffled from casting call after casting call, to spending hours walking up and down a red carpet rolled out in the middle of our foyer, while balancing phone books on my head and walking in custom-designed heels way too big and high for my small feet, to being expected to stand like a mannequin, changing poses every fifteen minutes until I’d perfected the pose, the walk, the pivots, the hip thrusts. From go-sees to cattle calls and callbacks, my life has been a whirlwind of flashing lights, thick matte satins and frilly tulles.
“And you will thank me. But for now . . . you can show your gratitude by acting like you appreciate all of the wonderful opportunities being placed at your feet.”
Opportunities?
Really?
I let out a deep breath.
My man was ignoring me. My mother wanted to have me gutted and disfigured just so I could fit into her crazy mold of what beautiful was, or wasn’t. My so-called bestie still hadn’t had the decency to return any of my calls. And my mother expected me to happily embrace staged chances. The life she wanted for me.
She was delusional.
Rich was ignoring me.
Justice was avoiding me.
Was everyone back at home that absorbed in their own little worlds that they couldn’t take a minute, or two, or three, to reach out and touch? What was going on back in L.A. that had me feeling as though I was missing out?
My phone finally vibrated, causing my heart to jump. I quickly glanced at the screen. It was a text from Justice.
My knees buckled as I read: WTF?!!!! WHY IZ U ALL UP ON ME? STOP SWEATIN’ ME!!!! WORD IZ BOND YO! FALL BACK! LET ME BREATHE. U ACTIN 2 EFFN THIRSTY YO! IM NOT DIGGIN IT N IM OVER U. DO U LONDON N LET ME DO ME.
I blinked. Reread his text. Thirsty. Fall back. Stop sweatin’ me. Let me breathe. I’m over you. I’m over you. I’m over you . . .
I felt like I was losing my mind. Felt like the world was falling apart. My world, my life . . . over!
I dropped to the floor and screamed.
9
Heather
Governador Celso Ramos, Brazil
Your favorite actress is officially hot. Posted up in a cushioned and canopied hammock.
Gettin’ my beauty rest on beneath the tawny afternoon sun.
Surrounded by the exclusive and private white sands of Ponta dos Ganchos.
Eyes shielded by mirrored aviators.
Hair blown wild and free in the heated breeze.
Metallic gold knit bikini painted on me.
Fresh blunt pressed between my Mac Cotton Candy glazed lips.
Yak on ice.
iPod on Snoop.
Body now servin’ you:
36-24-38.
Brick.
House.
Fiyah.
Bam!
The new Buffy.
The slayer.
The mayor of All Things Fly and Fabulous.
Don’t hate.
Bow down and celebrate.
I pulled in a long toke and pushed out a thick cloud of smoke as round and gracious hips sauntered across the beach and slithered into the water.
I did my all to keep my eyes from smiling and my lips from lifting at the corners, but the beautiful bronze bodies strewn across the beach sent taboo chills through me.
Stop it.
“Where the hell are you?” Kitty’s voice barged through my head as thoughts of her out-of-order wake-up call pissed me off, again.
Calling me at seven a.m. Screaming like she’d gone crazy. She’d been calling me practically every day since I’d been here over the last two weeks, stressing me out, badgering me. So what if she was really the one behind the three million dollars Spencer had delivered to me? I didn’t owe her anything. I wasn’t her slave. And so what if I’d slipped out on the escort she’d sent with me? I was tired of granny sweatin’ me. Following me. And hawkin’ me like I was on an invisible leash.
Therefore, I did what I had to do: spiked that trick’s morning cup of orange juice with three Ambien. And as soon as she was comatose, I boarded a flight for this sexy, sophisticated, and chic beach.
I pulled in another toke and this time slowly let out the smoke, as more luscious bronzed sweetness strolled past me, forcing me to trade in thoughts of Kitty for the wonderment of how my soft, plush, and luscious skin would feel pressed up against...
Stop it!
“Listen up, trashy.” Kitty’s voice haunted me again. “Let me inform you of what I will and will not tolerate! You will not go anywhere without my permission.”
My eyes scanned the beautiful beach. From the towering palm trees, to the snow-colored sand, to the crystal-blue ocean.
“You will not drug people!”
I smiled at the thought of my escort being nowhere around.
“You will not get high!”
I flicked my blunt’s ashes into the breeze.
“You will not drink.”
I poured more Yak in my glass and sipped.
“I want you drier than the Sahara! Your mother’s already an unmanageable drunk. The world doesn’t need two.”
I didn’t know who she thought she was talking to. She needed to worry about her daughter. Jizzle mouth. Queen of the Kneel Down. No shade. Spencer was my girl and all, but I’m just calling it how I see it.
“You will not hang out with Co-Co.”
Bish, please! Kill yourself! Bite me!
Crawl over my perfected butt cheeks and get lost in my new crack! Yeah, you paid for this booty. And yeah, it was everything. But you do not own me. And for real for real, after Spencer disrespected me with that three-million-dollar check, you’re lucky I’m even taking your calls. Mmmph. Don’t do me. I choose my own friends. And yeah, he dropped out of Hollywood High to sell drugs, but that didn’t make him a bad person. It simply made him misunderstood. So Kitty Ellington needed to get her life. And worry that dizzy broad she gave birth to.
“You will learn discretion.”
I am discreet. You can’t find me. And in a minute you won’t be able to reach me either because I’m having my number changed.
“And to help you build a new image, you are now happily involved with R & B sensation Haneef. I have e-mailed you a glossy 8-by-10 head shot and full body shot of him.”
Was she serious with this?
Did she really expect me to be the new Selena Gomez?
Rihanna?
I’m not thirsty.
I’m not playin’ those games.
I’ma be with who I wanna be with! How I wanna be with ’em! And wherever I wanna be with ’em!
“Heather?”
I looked to my left and spotted an over-tanned, short white man, dressed in green-and-yellow Bermuda shorts, a white tank top, a pencil behind his left ear and a camera hanging around his neck.
The paparazzi! Oh my God!
I’d forgotten that I called TMZ anonymously—three hours ago—and told them that I spotted Heather Cummings on an exclusive beach.
I quickly mashed my blunt in the ashtray and knocked it behind the table and into the sand.
“Heather Cummings?” He was now standing alongside the hammock.
I side-eyed him. And yeah, I may have called the paparazzi, but at this moment I was pissed. How dare he show up here three hours late like I was some Celebrity Rehab D-lister?
I twisted my lips, slid my aviators down the bridge of my nose, and said, “Who wants to know?”
“The world.” He tossed in a smile. “And in addition to the world, Teen Enquirer wants to know.”
Teen Enquirer? Teen Enquirer?! I called TMZ! Not these lonely, low-totem-pole, don’t-move-off-the-newsstands-ever magazines! Where the heck is TMZ?!
Okay, okay, breathe. Breathe. Relax. You’re queen. And apparently they need this interview! “Yes, I’m Heather Cummings.”
“Great! Do you mind—”
“Mind what? If you take some pictures of me? Of course not.” I jumped out of the hammock and the first shot I served him was a camera full of butt cheeks, my delicious thong bikini lost like dental floss in the crack of newfangled booty. I was bent over with my hands on my toes, my head tossed to the left, looking back over my shoulder.
The next pose I handed him was a sexy squat—from the back, of course.
And last, I took my sunglasses off and blessed him with a full-face shot. Lips tooted and manicured hands on my newly expanded 38s.
“Wow, great shots! Real classy!” he said, a little too excited. “Now, do you mind if I ask you some questions?”
I sat back on the hammock, crossed my legs, and batted my lashes. “Of course not.”
“Great.” He pointed his iPhone toward me and pressed record. “How does it feel to be fresh out of rehab?” Before I could answer, he continued on. “And have you given any thought to being the spokesperson for the Say No campaign?” He looked over at my drink, then at the bottle of Yak that I’d forgotten was on the table, then at the blunt half buried in the sand, and back over at me. “Or will you be following in the steps of Lindsay Lohan?”
My heart thundered in my chest. Should I punch him in the face now or later?
Relax.
I batted my lashes again before sliding my aviators back on. “No. And no. I don’t think so. Now, I just graced you with exclusive pics of me. So the last thing you need to do is try to play me.”
“I would never do that. Nor would the folks at Teen Enquirer. We’re big fans of yours. Now, let me ask you this: Now that Wu-Wu’s dead, what’s new on the horizon for you?”
I felt like he’d just gripped me by the throat. “First and forevermore: Wu-Wu is not dead.”
“Well, the show was recently canceled.”
“Because the imposter Wu-Wu killed it.”
“So what you’re basically saying is that you ruined your career?”
“You motherfu—” I paused. My eyes took in this short and orange-looking mofo. I was doing all I could to be the gracious star that I am, but he was pushing me. “How. Dare. You. Try to blame me? If anything, it was the producer being an idiot. Throwing chairs around. Having mangina tantrums. Acting like he had a period. That’s the problem in Hollywood. The ones who should have balls are on their period, and the ones who are supposed to have a period got their feet stuck in Timbos. Spaghetti and meatballs in the producers’ and directors’ chairs!” I reached for my drink and then shot him a nasty smile as he clicked his camera.
“What are you drinking?” he asked.
“Fruit punch.”
“Nonalcoholic?”
I sucked my teeth. “Of course.”
“So I hear love is on the horizon?”
Breathe. “Yes, me loving my new body.”
“Not just your new body, but a source close to you says that you are also loving R & B superstar Haneef. Is that so?”
“Really?” I looked up at him over my sunglasses. “If that’s your story, then run with it.” I flicked him a dismissive wrist.
“So would that be a yes?”
I took a deep breath and forced it out through my nose. In a minute, I was about to pop off! For one: I called TMZ and this bottom-scraper showed up, turning this interview into a circus. Two: I didn’t like him coming out the side of his neck, questioning me about my drink. Drinking was never a problem for me. That’s Camille’s issue. Not mine. And as far as Haneef goes, I don’t know that East Coast hood bugger. And don’t wanna know him!
This freak continued running his mouth. “So your boyfriend, Haneef, is number one on Billboard. Two-time Grammy Award winner. And an all-around ladies’ man. He was recently linked to Rihanna. What do you think she’ll think of the two of you? Do you think she’ll come after you?”
I slid off the hammock and stood with my bare feet planted in the sand. I pointed. “Let me get you together real quick. Rihanna and her big-ass forehead better behave and have a seat. Because I don’t want Haneef. I don’t like him. Or his whack music! Auto-Tune king. Pst, please. I’m not about to be another one of his beards!”
“And how would you know all of this? Do you know him or don’t you?”
I pushed a finger into this sucker’s face and snapped, “Know what? I know what I’m not about to do. And that’s you and your interview!” I picked up my drink to leave.
“So are you still homeless?”
I felt like he’d kicked me in my chest. I spun around toward him and dashed my drink in his face.
He smiled as he wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Thought you said it was nonalcoholic.” He smacked his lips. “Tastes like cognac to me.”
I screamed. “Whack ninja! Eff you and your lowlife magazine!”
10
London
Milan, Italy
Two a.m. I was awakened from a restless sleep, heart pounding, chest heaving. Eyes wide and crazed. I’d been dreaming. No. Having a nightmare was more like it. I was locked away in a small room with white padded walls and a white floor. I was wearing a white paper-thin hospital gown, sitting in a large wheelbarrow. On the other side of the room was a sign—no, a banner—that read: FAT GIRLS RULE. Beneath it was a huge bariatric scale with a four-hundred-pound capacity.
I sat up in bed, blinking back tears. I reached over and grabbed my cell off the nightstand. There were no calls. No texts. Nothing!
Justice, how could you do this to me?
I sent him a text: JUSTICE WHAT HV I DONE 2 U?! Y WOULD U BREAK U
P W/ME? PLEASE CALL OR TEXT ME.
I wiped at my tears. This is fricking ridiculous! I’m so effen stupid to keep sweating this boy! I flopped back in bed, resting my cell up on my chest, holding it against my trembling heart. I shut my eyes, my mind drifting back to my nightmare.
My face and hands were covered with different types of frosting: lemon, strawberry, chocolate, and cream cheese. In my lap was a boxed assortment of three dozen mini cupcakes. In my nightmare, I was popping them into my mouth one by one, stuffing my jowls with the moist cakes and delicious whipped frosting. I devoured the entire box.
I could hear keys clanking on the other side of the steel door. Panicked, I started stuffing the cupcake foils into my mouth, gobbling up all evidence, just as the double locks clicked and Justice walked in. Stalking over to me. Grinning. Maybe he was sneering. And I was happy to see him. He didn’t speak. Just leaned in. Then with his finger, he swiped a fleck of chocolate frosting off my nose, brought it back to his own mouth, and licked. And I could feel myself melting, melting, melting all over myself as he leaned in farther and licked the lemon frosting off my chin. I went to reach for him with my pudgy little hands and he slapped them down, inching his face closer to mine.
His gaze met mine. In anticipation, I had closed my eyes and puckered my cream-frosted lips and waited with bated breath to feel his soft kisses against my lips. Instead, I am greeted with laughter. “You’re a fat nasty slob . . . I don’t know why I ever effed wit’ you . . . stank hippo . . . Look at you . . .” He kept shaking his head over and over. “Pathetic, yo . . . You crazy, London . . . I hope they put you outta ya misery, yo . . .”
Then I was being violently rolled over toward the scale. “Get up, Miss Piggy! Time for your weigh-in!” The gown rustled and swished as I lifted up on legs that stuck and rubbed together as I wobbled up on the scale. Gas passed from between two wide cheeks, dimpled and cratered and exposed. As I shut my eyes, held my breath, tears leaked from my eyes, staining the front of my paper gown as I waited for the verdict.
