by Ni-Ni Simone
“Rich!” The Glamdalous reporter interrupted me, “Tell us what happened the other night when you and JB got into one of your wicked fights! The police were called. Sources say you were arrested. Can you confirm or deny?”
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
I snapped, “Lies!” I peered at London and did my best to burn a hole through her face. “My baby, my man, my lover, my trick daddy and I have never been better.” I blessed her with a sinister smile, then looked over to the reporter and said, “And anyway, why are you all up in my crotch life?”
The reporter continued, “A source close to you says that, in fact, there was a fight, that you were arrested, and that you’re fully aware JB is no good for you, but you’re too busy, and I quote, ‘being a low-self-esteem, Jenny Craig dissin’, buffalo wing eatin’, beer drinking, trashy ball-eater’ to better yourself.”
My mouth fell open.
The blood in my face boiled.
My warm chocolate cheeks turned beet red.
There were a few gigglers in the crowd, and London had the nerve to be one of them! I zoomed in on her face. “Excuse, you, Londog? You find that funny? A second ago, I thought perhaps milk-mouth Spencer had flapped her Saturday night special. But maybe it was you, witcha jealous self. Always hatin’! Gon’ pull up in a stretch, like it’s prom time—girl, please! I swear this pampered ho wears me out! First, the suicide mission for attention, now this!”
London stepped closer to the podium. She was now a hair away. “Let me tell you something, I know you’re out here trying to impress these reporters with your low-grade church basement Easter speech—!”
“Not today, Satan.” I slammed my hand into the podium. “Not. To. Day.”
The reporters’ cameras clicked and flashed as they buzzed about, vying for the best angle of our dead-heat.
I couldn’t believe this. Destroying Heather was to be the new headline. The social media sites and magazines had already covered me dragging London—once in Heather’s driveway, another time in Club Tantrum, and the last time out of her deathbed to the grave . . . well, almost. At least I was about to, until the original ball-guzzler, my ex-ex-ex-ex-BFF, Spencer, got involved . . . long story. But you get the point, me beatin’ down London was old news.
London pointed her extra-long index finger into my face, and her hot gaze lit into me. “First of all, ghetto-tramp, I don’t even think about you, let alone waste my time talking about you. You’re not worth my breath.”
I plucked London’s finger out of my face and spat, “Don’t get deep fried and slapped, hooker!” I took my earrings off and laid them on the podium. “For the last few months, you been on the sick and shut in list, and now you wanna come for me? Girl, I will clothesline the life out of you, again!”
London didn’t bat an eye. “Oh, puhlease, spare me, what you need to do is clothesline the life out of that beer-belly muffin top hanging over your pants!”
Beer belly muffin top?! “Chile, cheese! At least I eat. Something you should try! Instead of pouring your guts in the toilet, you need to take your stitched-up wrists, pick up a fork, and practice holding down a meal. Or are you still enslaved to an IV drip?!” I paused, giving her a moment to soak that in. Then I popped my fingers in her face and continued, “And attention whore? Who’s more of an attention whore than you?!”
“Your mother!”
“My mother—”
London’s chiseled chin was practically midway to my nose, as she snaked her neck, looked down at me, and said, “You heard me, your mother, Shakeesha Slut-Bucket Gatling!”
Hell no, she didn’t!
I pushed up the sleeves of my blazer and stepped out of my heels, dropping six inches. London towered over me, but I didn’t give a damn. I stepped deeper into her space and said, “Let me get you together, son. Don’t you worry about my mother; worry about that raggedy, runway tramp of an egg donor you got, Miss Orphan! Your mother doesn’t even like you, and last I heard, she absolutely couldn’t stand your fat and funky father!”
London snapped, “If he’s fat and funky, he got it from your mother when he was snappin’ her legs back!”
Oh, hell no! Lies and deceit! My mother would never sleep with a bearilla like Turner Phillips! Not when she has the king of all kings, my daddy, spread across her sheets !
I took a step back, lifted my fist into the air, and just as I was about to hook this ho into another time zone, somebody caught my hand and yanked me around.
Westwick!
“Rich Montgomery!” he shouted, his eyes blazing and his mouth clenched. He stood in between London and me. “Stop this madness this instant!” he yelled. He tugged at the hem of his suit jacket, yanking invisible wrinkles out. “I’m so sick of you dragging the good name of this institution down!”
Mr. Westwick pointed into my face, his jaw clenched. “How dare you even have a press conference after I specifically told you last week that there’d be no further ‘red carpet’ events. Hollywood High Academy was built on intelligence, elegance, refinement, and pride. Not hood-bugger theatrics! This is a fine institution, not Skeezerville High! Yet you are single-handedly turning it into a pigeon’s nest with one beak-brawl after the next! We have become the laughingstock of the educational community. I told you this was to be no more!”
I sucked my teeth and parked my neck to the left. “Excuse you, but I have a duty to inform the community—!”
He gave a snort and shook his finger in my face. “Inform the what? The community? How about this, since you wanna inform the community. How about we let the good people know how you are dumber than all the doorknobs Spencer Ellington keeps in her mouth! That your IQ is lower than Heather Cummings’s bank account, and that if it were not for your parents’ black card you’d be in high school longer than London Phillips wants to be alive.
“Now get your things, and let’s go! These shenanigans are over! Done! Finished!” He snatched London and me by our wrists, forcing her to high-step and almost trip and me to stumble barefoot up the steps, leaving behind my shoes, my earrings, and the media’s camera clicks.
4
London
“Mr. Westwick, why am I here?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. I was annoyed. Very, very annoyed. And it was taking everything in me to remember my manners and bite my tongue. He had had me in his office with the door shut for the last ten minutes, sitting in one of the leather chairs situated in front of his desk.
Staring me down.
He straightened his paisley ascot, his gaze piercing through me as he pursed his lips, then clasped his hands together. “Well, let’s see, here, Miss Phillips, Miss Rambo Ratchet. Why are you here?” He cleared his throat. “If memory serves me correctly, you are here because you are weak and incompetent. You are here because you lack direction and sensibility. You, Miss Phillips, are here because you can’t seem to keep your ghetto antics at home . . . where they belong.”
I blinked. How dare he!
I huffed. “I’m not ghetto. And I’m definitely not ratchet, either. Wrong girl. Try again.”
“Oh, no, Miss Flop Tart. I have the right girl, all right. And the only thing you’re trying is my patience.”
I sucked my teeth. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
He snorted. “And therein lies problem numero uno: denial. Should I dial the Jesus Network to lay hands on you, to heal you from your waywardness—now or later? Or should I request a lifeline to hell for you? You’re not living in reality, London. And since you want to backtalk, that’ll be another ten grand—a discount, no less—for—”
“Ten grand?” I shrieked, giving him an incredulous look. Mr. Westwick was such a crook. He was always trying to squeeze hard-working taxpayers out of money with his dumb fines. There was a fine for being late—aka late fees. A fine for being disruptive—a disruptive tax fee, as he called it. A fine for sneezing—a clean air tax fee. A fine for this, a fine for that—fines, fines, fines, and more fines.
; He squinted at me for a moment, then scowled. “Yes. Ten. Grand. That’s a ten with a comma followed by three zeroes.”
“For what?”
“For waking up this morning, then coming to school with the intention of creating a disturbance. Umm, let’s see. For looking lost and lonely and being desperate for friends. What, your mommy didn’t give you enough hugs? She didn’t nurse you properly? Is that it, London? What, you have attachment issues? Abandonment issues?”
I blinked again. “How dare you,” I snapped, “disrespect me.” I stood to my feet. “I will not sit here and be insulted or ridiculed by you or anyone else. I’ve done nothing but be respectful to you, Mr. Westwick. And yet you try to offend me at every turn. My parents—”
“Your parents aren’t even together, Little Miss Orphan Annie, so sit your little hot box back in that chair or find yourself tossed out of the building on your forehead.”
I blinked, taken aback by his remarks. They stung.
“Oh, what? You think I don’t read the gossip mags? You think all I do all day is sit around and be fabulous? No, Miss Phillips . . . I sit around being fabulous, reigning over one of the country’s most prestigious schools, while staying abreast of all current events—the real, the raw, and the trashy.”
I rolled my eyes, sinking back onto my seat. I angrily folded my arms over my chest. “Fine. But you don’t have to disrespect me.”
“No, little girl,” he retorted, reaching over his desk and extending an arm out, putting one of his pudgy hands up like a stop sign, mere inches from my face. “You don’t have to disrespect yourself!” He plopped his butt back in his chair and slammed his hand down on his desk. “But all you do is disregard Hollywood High’s policy on etiquette and social grace. I keep warning you, Miss Phillips, that I will not tolerate your antics up on this campus. I’m not playing out here in these streets, Miss Phillips. And yet you continue to test me. You continue to be defiant and belligerent. Being aggressive and inciting a riot on school grounds is grounds for suspension—no, expulsion. And criminal char—”
“A riot?”
“Yes. You heard me. R-I-O-T, riot! And I will not stand for it.”
“Are you frickin’ kidding me?”
“Watch your tone and your language, Miss Phillips. Better yet, that’s going to cost you another ten thousand dollars—for using aggressive language.”
My nose flared. “This is bull crap, Mr. Westwick.”
“Make that another five grand,” he snapped, snatching open his desk drawer and pulling out a digital calculator. He began punching in numbers, his stumpy fingers quickly moving over the keys. “You’re racking up a nice bill, London Phillips. Shall I run Daddy’s black card now, or just keep a tab going?”
I tsked. “This is so not fair, Mr. Westwick. And you know it.”
“No, Miss Phillips. What I know is that you are a disgrace to your parents, your peers, your headmaster, and this fine institution. Hollywood High was built on the principles of class, sophistication, honor, and integrity. And you and that Rich Montgomery have done nothing but drag down this school’s reputation with all of your hood-boogie shenanigans.”
He gave me a stern look, raising one of his bushy eyebrows. He tilted his head. “Go ’head. Say something so I can tack on another fine. Your disrespect for my authority is appalling. And, quite frankly, Miss Phillips, I’m a split second from having you hauled off in handcuffs . . .”
I felt a flash of anger. “Handcuffs?”
“Yes. H-A-N-D-C-U-F-F-S. You do know what they are, don’t you? Silver wristlets. Seems like that’s the only way you little ruffians in heels learn—in shackles and restraints.”
I gasped. “Are you serious right now?”
“Oh, I’m ’bout as serious as a bad case of herpes.”
I huffed, shifting in my seat. “Fine. I’ll just sit here and keep my mouth shut. Let you do alllll the talking. It’s your world, Mr. Westwick.”
Mr. Westwick suddenly smiled. “Good answer. Now we’re finally getting somewhere.” He reached into his top drawer and pulled out a compact mirror, then flipped it open. “You know, Miss Phillips, it hurts me to say this”—he reached for what looked like a tiny toothbrush and started brushing his eyebrows—“but I’m utterly disappointed and ashamed for you . . .” He peered over the mirror and eyed me. “I thought you had better sense than trying to associate yourself with the likes of Rich Montgomery. I’d thought you’d learned from the last time she shunned you. She dragged your name through the toilets every chance she got, has wished you nothing but ill will, and still you grovel for her friendship.”
“I do no such thing,” I stated defensively, my voice not nearly as convincing as I hoped. I swallowed hard and turned my head and glanced around the office as I fumbled with the tangle of pearls at my throat.
Mr. Westwick laughed, bringing my gaze back to his. “And there goes that nasty denial thing again. You’re drowning in it, Miss Phillips. Deny, deny, deniiiiii . . . al. Have you no shame? No dignity? Rich Montgomery is a disgrace to this institution. She’s a prime example of what a cheap motel on two feet looks like. She’s the triple T’s . . .”
I gave him a perplexed look, but said nothing.
“Trifling, trashy, and trouble,” he continued, snapping his compact shut. “I pride myself on maintaining the upmost discretion when it comes to the students here at Hollywood High, but Rich Montgomery is the walking definition of classless. And the human billboard for what sloppy seconds looks like. And you want to be friends with that? You’re walking around here crying, slinging snot, and wringing your hands, to be embraced by some reckless little floozie.”
My eyes widened. I opened my mouth to say something, but then quickly shut it, deciding it was best not to add any more fuel to his already lit fire.
Mr. Westwick gave me a deadpan stare. Then he shook his head. “Why on earth would you want to be linked to that? I mean. I understand your self-esteem is low and your self-worth is nonexistent, but that still doesn’t excuse your choice in peers, Miss Phillips. Rich Montgomery is going nowhere fast. She’s a pink helmet special. She’s the black Honey Boo Boo of the ghet . . . toe with the IQ of an army ant. She’s borderline crazy. And she’s hotter than a hot chili pepper. And would you like to know what they say about her on the men’s—I mean, boys’—locker room walls?”
“I—”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” he said, cutting me off. “They say she’s better than an Easy Bake oven. Always hot, always ready, always easy to stuff. Is this the type of girl you want to be associated with, huh, Miss Phillips? Some whorish little troll?”
I shrugged. “Rich and I are no longer friends,” I finally said, moving my bangs to the side and staring directly at him. Everything he was saying was true. And yet, for some reason, I almost wanted to take up for her. Almost. I knew enough to know that Rich would never return the courtesy. I owed her nothing. So I said nothing.
Mr. Westwick grunted. “Mmmph. Lucky you. Count your blessings and get on with your life, Miss Phillips. There’s still hope for you. I mean—of course, we all know you’ve failed at being the next top supermodel, so there’s no need for the world to relive that epic fail all over again. But at least you can, hopefully, make an honest living wearing a black smock at some makeup counter popping pimples and applying concealer in one of the local department stores.”
“Excuse you?” I snapped incredulously. “I’m not ever going to be standing on my feet applying makeup to anyone’s face or cleaning out some woman’s pus pockets. A counter girl is not what I aspire to be.”
He chortled. “And you’re obviously not aspiring to upgrade the company you keep either, Miss Phillips. So let me give you some friendly advice: Pick a side. Either toe the line or get towed out of here. You’re ice-skating on some very thin ice, young lady. So let me help you save yourself from another white coat visit.”
He wrote out a pass, then slid it over the desk toward me. “Stay. Away. From. Rich Montgomery. Or su
ffer the consequences.” He raised a brow. “Do I make myself clear?”
I reached for the pass and nodded. “Yes. Very.”
“Good.” Mr. Westwick stood to his feet and whisked around his desk, then sat on its edge, crossing his feet at the ankles. He ran his hands through his thick, blond man weave. Or maybe it was a man wig. Whatever it was, from the neck up, it made him look like a fifty-five-year-old version of Justin Bieber.
I stood to my feet as Mr. Westwick eyed me.
“I trust we won’t have to have this conversation again, Miss Phillips. Will we?”
I rolled my eyes and gave him a tight smile. “Absolutely not.”
“Good, Miss Phillips.” Mr. Westwick squinted at me. Then he lifted himself from his desk and sashayed toward the door, swinging it open. “Now get your snooty butt out of my office.”
5
Heather
10:30 a. m.
Calculus.
I was thirty minutes late.
The classroom was packed.
Though I usually sat waaaaay in the back, tucked away in the cut, some powder-face Goth chick had plopped her Dracula-ass in my seat. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she took her coal-black bravado, looked at me, and smiled.
I shot her the finger. And begrudgingly took the only seat left, in the front row, directly before Mrs. James, who pursed her lips into a tight frown, then leaned against her mahogany bureau, and unleashed, “Class, if you desire to be something in this life, you must learn to be on time and show up for your success.”
Whatever.
I wasn’t about to give this old bird the pleasure of me flipping out, just so she could command me to Westwick’s dungeon.
Screw her. And screw him too!
Instead, I looked straight ahead, stared out of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that framed Mrs. James’s desk, and watched the fresh raindrops hit the glass, then melt away.