Hollywood High

by Ni-Ni Simone

  Right now.

  At this moment.

  And even though I’d come up with a plan to creep up on him—with London in tow—and slice his throat, that still wasn’t enough to maintain my focus.

  And I wasn’t thinking about tomorrow’s headlines either, or the viral video of Co-Co Ming’s beat-down.

  And I didn’t wonder when I’d finish my American literature, chemistry, or calculus homework. Hmph, Hollywood High was the last thing on my mind.

  Instead, my head spun from something much crazier than any of that—like why I couldn’t stop thinking about my best friend, Christian, who everyone called by his last name, Knox.

  Knox had been my brotherly-type boo since second grade, with only one interruption—well, two. The first one was in third grade when he wrote me a note and asked me to be his girl.

  I checked the yes box.

  It lasted for a week and then my mother ordered me to dump him; and not because he was ten and I was only eight. There was never an allowed-to-love-and-date age assigned to me. After all being taught to marry well started early. And in the world of wealth and success men were never too old, or too young, they were always just right. So that wasn’t the issue.

  It was much deeper than that.

  Problem was Knox’s trust fund wasn’t deep enough, which meant his family wasn’t rich enough. They had everyday money. Low millions. No more than seven. Not enough to last a lifetime. And to top it all off his father was Daddy’s accountant, which my mother likened to the hired help. And although I didn’t have many rules, never ever dating, sleeping with, and marrying the hired help or their young was definitely one of them.

  So, I broke up with him and for the next few years we remained friends. Until this summer—July 4th weekend. My parents celebrated Independence Day at our home in the Hamptons but I stayed home alone in Beverly Hills. Knox’s parents were in Myrtle Beach and he couldn’t leave California because he was taking summer classes at UCLA.

  So he came over to my house to celebrate.

  Told me to give the chef the night off and he would barbecue.

  So he manned the grill and I bartended the drinks. Barbecue chicken, ginger shrimp, asparagus, orange Popsicle martinis and Jell-O shots were our specialty for the evening. Hours later we were full and loaded. And I drunkenly confessed to him that despite my mother’s wishes for us to only be friends, that I’d been in love with him since I was eight and no matter how hard I tried, my feelings wouldn’t go away . . . .

  I lay back on my seven-foot white leather headboard and squeezed my eyes tight. I had to stop Knox from invading my mind.

  He wasn’t important.

  Running up on Corey and teaching him a lesson for attempting to play me was important.

  Getting out of this bed and turning off this melancholy music was important. Shaking this sad side of Rich Gabrielle Montgomery and bringing back Rich the Party Girl was important.

  Snap. Snap.

  I was losing it and there was no way I could allow my thoughts to keep me off my square.

  I sat up in bed and said to no one in particular, “Where are you, Party Girl?”

  “Over here,” I answered myself.

  I shook my head. This was stupid. But whatever—’cause one thing was for sure and two things were for certain: I didn’t do regret and blue most certainly wasn’t my color.

  I hopped out of bed, changed my CD to Birdman’s “I Run This” and just like that I was amped again! I had twenty minutes to be at London’s so that we could run up in the club real quick and if everything went as planned, we’d be able to bust Corey in the head, drag him home, and drop it to the floor at a whole other club before the night ended.

  As Birdman chanted, I danced from my room to my dressing room and into my walk-in closet. I bounced over to my mirrored wall, tapped the center of it, and my holographic keyboard appeared. I typed in “black club dresses” and in the blink of an eye the section of black club dresses made their way down the automatic rounder and stopped before me. I chose my all black Gucci super-tight and ultra-mini dress.

  Dabomb.

  Perfect dress to bring Corey to his knees.

  Birdman continued to blast through the surround sound as I spun around and broke out into a throwback dance—the Pop-Lock-And-Drop-It. I carried my routine from the closet and into my shoe room—which could compete with the chicest upscale boutique any day of the week.

  It didn’t take me long to choose my black, Gucci, handwoven, peep toe boots that stopped midway up my thigh, and were so fly that they all but purred.

  Meow.

  I showered, dressed, confirmed with my private eye that Corey was still in the club tearing up the scene, and summoned my driver to take the Phantom. We picked up my girl, London—who was dressed just right to kill—red Chanel dress that dipped low in the front and stopped midway up her thighs, and six-inch black Tabitha Simmons chandelier sandals. And before I could drop the bomb on London as to why we were really going out she turned to me and said, “Are you and Corey really serious?”

  That threw me. Where’d that come from? “Why’d you ask you ask me that?”

  “Because,” London hesitated, “I had somebody who I wanted you to meet. And I didn’t want to be introducing you to him if you were really hung up on Corey.”

  “Well, who is he?”

  “My boy Justice and he’s fine.” London popped her lips for emphasis.

  “Fine,” I said and sipped my champagne. “Anytime fine is said like that, it usually means that Mr. Fine is low money. And this princess doesn’t do low money.”

  London rolled her eyes and refreshed her drink. “You just insulted me. I don’t do low money on any level.”

  “Girl, now you know I didn’t mean to insult you. You know that’s not how we do. We came out to have a good time and that’s what we’re going to do. Now let’s make a toast.”

  We clinked our glasses as we pulled up in front of Club Sixty-Six Paradise in Santa Monica. Better known as the newbies and the classless rich kids’ hole in the wall.

  Ugh.

  A place where neither the paparazzi nor I would dare be seen—except for tonight of course.

  But, I wasn’t here to party or snatch a headline. I was on a mission—The Chin-Check-This-Playa-Playa Mission.

  London and I finished our glasses of champagne as the driver pulled in front of the club. I frowned. There was no red carpet, no one taking celebrity roll call, and no velvet rope to separate the VIPs from the common folks. How gross!

  “So where are we?” London asked as the driver rolled out the emergency red carpet that I kept in the trunk.

  “Santa Monica,” I said as the driver opened the door and assisted London and me out of the car.

  “I know we’re in Santa Monica,” London said as she shook her hair and dusted invisible wrinkles from her dress. “I meant what’s up with the club? What kind of spot is this?”

  “Oh,” I said and batted my lashes. “I almost forgot you didn’t know.” I quickly refreshed my gloss and popped my full lips.

  “Know what?” She gave me a suspicious smile.

  “That this is the spot we ’bout to tear up.” I quickly clicked my heels toward the door. Obviously London was on pause so to help her along I turned toward her and said, “Girl, what are you waiting on?”

  She blinked. Blinked again. And then hurried over to me. “What. The. Hell. Do. You. Mean. ‘This is the spot we ’bout to tear up?!’ ”

  “Girl, let me tell you.” I slapped my right hand on my respective hip. “Corey’s been lying. Again. And I swear I’m sooooo tired of his lying. It’s like he just lives and breathes to lie, lie, lie. So when I texted him and he didn’t respond to me for two days. And in that text he had the audacity to say, “I’ll be home tomorrow night. Call you then.” No ‘hey baby.’ No, ‘I miss you.’ Nothing. Just some whack ‘I’ll call you tomorrow night.’ Oh hell no. I wasn’t having that. So, I sicced a P.I. on him.”

  �
��A what?!”

  “A P.I. I had to see what kind of slick-playa-playa moves ole-boy was trying to pull over on me. Besides, you always have to know what your investment is doing. And right now this is a losing quarter for me. So come on, let’s go inside and make it pop-pop-get it-get it.”

  “O.M.G. this is just way too much.” She shook her head and tapped her feet. “I don’t believe this. When you called me screaming in my ear I didn’t know this was the type of pop-pop-get it-get it you were talking about!”

  “What, they don’t make it pop in New York?” I curled my top lip. “The East Coast needs to get it together. Oh my.”

  “Rich, I thought we were coming to party, dance a little bit. Get. Our. Drink. On. You didn’t tell me that we were coming here to run up on your boyfriend!”

  “It’s just a layover. We don’t have to make this our destination. Trust. This will not take long at all. And right after this we can still get our drink on.” I did a quick two-step and a booty bounce. “Ahh, see girl. When we leave here we gon’ hit up this spot in Hollywood and bust it. Now come on.” I took a step closer to the door and waved at a few cuties eyeing us. London was back on pause. I walked over to her and said tight-lipped, “Would you come on before somebody out here thinks you’re slow?”

  “Rich!” London called my name like she was crazy. “I’m serious! My daddy will flip. He’s already warned me and besides, I didn’t come dressed for this! The least you could’ve done was clue me in from the beginning and then I would’ve slipped on some jogging pants!”

  “Eww.” I heaved. “Clutching pearls. Please spare me the jogging pants visual, I have a phobia of those things.” I shivered. “Believe me, London, we are not about to get physical. We’re ladies, remember? So we’ll be out of here and tearing up a whole other club before you can say ‘Weezy!’ ”

  Before she could continue with her protest I locked arms with her and practically pulled her into the club. Waka Flocka Flame’s “No Hands” blasted through the D.J’s speakers. There were people everywhere. Sweating. Throwing their arms in the air and yelling something about the roof being on fire. And all I could think was Cheesytothe-max. org.

  This little horrid spot was a sea of red, courtesy of the red strobe lights and the naked red bulbs that hung over the dance floor and illuminated the bar. The whole scene reminded me of an indie film gone wrong.

  London and I were definitely overdressed and out of place.

  “Hey,” caught my attention. I looked to my right and there was a gold-mouth freak, standing before me grinning. “Y’all lookin’ good.”

  I rolled my eyes toward the ductwork running through the ceiling. I could spot a wannabe gangsta rapper a mile away. “Ain’t you Richard Montgomery’s daughter? Yo, can I slide you my mix tape? And after that can I get your phone number? And my man over there was looking at your girl.” He turned to London. “He wants to know if you wanna be the bust-it baby in his video?”

  Instinctively London and I took two steps back. I frowned. “For real,” I said and batted my lashes. “What’s good with you? Like why are you in my space? Back up.”

  “Seriously,” London said and looked him over. “ ’Cause the only thing you need to be mixing is a toothbrush and Colgate—”

  “And a Tic and a Tac,” I added as I flicked my hand and London and I walked away quickly before this monster could say anything more.

  We walked over toward the bar and I couldn’t find Corey anywhere in here.

  “Hold Up. Wait a minute,” London said as she placed her right hand like a visor over her eyes. “Is that . . .?” She paused. “Is that . . .?” She paused again, and said more to herself than she did to me, “. . . Anderson?”

  “Anderson?” I frowned. “Who is Anderson?”

  I looked over toward where she pointed and boom, there he was: Corey.

  “You mean, Corey?” I said as I stretched my arm toward the dance floor. “Oh hell nawl, I know this mofo is not walking around telling people his name is Anderson! What kind of whack mac-daddy game is that?! Oh I’m pissed. He’s walking around calling himself Anderson!”

  “Not him.” She blinked and pointed both of her index fingers. “The one standing there with a bottle of champagne in his hand and breaking it down like a dog pissing on a fire hydrant!”

  “Oh him.” I shook my head. I was disgusted watching the dude London pointed to hold his right leg in the air and pump his pelvis into some hoochie’s behind like a curbed dog. “His name is not Anderson,” I said. “That’s Corey’s friend C-Smoove. Corey is the one over there shaking his bottle of champagne and doing the white-boy dance.”

  “I don’t believe this,” London said.

  “Me either,” I said as I watched Corey become sandwiched between two chicks. Then he took his bottle of champagne and passed it to the girl dancing in front of him. The girl took a swig and gave it back to him. Corey took a swig and then passed it to the girl behind him.

  WTF!

  I shook my head. Something told me to roll through there packin’!

  “Oh hell nawl!” I spat, coming out of shock. I turned to London. “You see this?!”

  “I don’t believe Anderson.”

  “Didn’t I just tell you that was C-Smoove!” I said aggravated, stomping my feet. “Would you get the name right!”

  London curled her lip. “What the hell is a C-Smoove? His name is Anderson!”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “Because that’s my boyfriend.”

  “Dr. Corny? Whaaaat?!” I screeched as my eyes popped open wide. “I would’ve never imagined him being your taste. You just messed me up, girl. Oh my, clutching pearls,” I sighed. “Now we gon’ have to bust ’em both in the throat!”

  London gave me a blank stare.

  “Why are you looking at me like that? Didn’t you just say that was your boyfriend?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well we need to be making a move over there.” I pointed to the boys. “They’re over there poppin’ bottles and trickin’ up on these girls. Oh hell no. We have to do something about this—”

  “Rich—”

  “Don’t worry, London, we’ll still be ladies. And if for any reason we forget our manners then we’ll just show up at the Catholic church and make a confession.”

  “But I’m not Catholic.”

  “Me either, but that doesn’t matter, they’ll still see you. Now let’s go get ’em!”

  “Wait.” London pulled me back. “I really can’t get into any more trouble, especially not tonight. If I do my black card and trust fund will be on the line.”

  “So what? We’re just going to let them play us?”

  “They don’t have to play with you.” A voice drifted over my shoulder. “But I sure want to.”

  I gagged. Another gold-mouth creature stepped to us and grinned. London and I eyed this thing so hard that he practically tripped out of our way.

  “Now,” London continued, as our distraction ran away. “As I was saying, we will keep it cute and keep it calm.”

  “Always,” I agreed. “You know my motto: always be a lady. And that’s exactly why I’m going to tap Corey on the shoulder and let him know that I will be politely busting him in the head.”

  “No you will not,” London said sternly. “We will walk over there, tap them on the shoulders, tell them that the car is waiting, and they need to come on. All arguments will be saved for the ride home.”

  “What?” I shrieked. “Tap them on the shoulders and talk to them? What kind of mess is that?”

  “Rich, would you just try it my way? I got this.”

  I hesitated. “All right,” I agreed. “Okay, we’ll try it your way.”

  We strutted across the club and onto the dance floor. I did my all to compose myself and remember London’s plan but as this skank placed her hands on the floor and backed it up on my man in front of me, London’s plan became a distant memory.

  I yanked the girl out of Corey’s face a
nd wouldn’t you know she shot me a nasty look. I took a step into her personal space and said, “I wish a hood-ho would.” I looked her over. “Now lose yourself!” I pointed to the girl dancing with C-Smoove a.k.a. Anderson and said, “And take that floozie with you!” The girls sucked their teeth and scurried away.

  I bucked my eyes at Corey. “Umm, we won’t even discuss why you had a set of walking STDs in your face. But what we will discuss is why haven’t I heard from you, Corey?”

  He hesitated and then he said, “I just flew in tonight.”

  “And what’s your excuse, Anderson?” London snapped.

  Don’t you know this clown C-Smoove twisted his lips and said, “I don’t have an excuse, I just didn’t call you.”

  Freeze... What did he just say?

  London gasped and for a moment I thought about chin-checking this puppy real quick, but I didn’t. I turned my attention back to Corey and he continued on with his lies. “Yeah, I got back tonight. An hour ago and then I came here to chill with my boy.”

  This is some straight up bull! “Corey,” I said. “Corey, look at me, Coreeeee. Look. At. Meeeeee.” I shook my head with every word. “Now what are you lying for, Corey?”

  “Lying?” He looked pissed.

  “Yeah, lies. Coreeeee. ’Cause I know and you know that you may have arrived at night, but it was last night. 10:07 last night. And then you pulled into your circular driveway at 10:47. You were in bed Coreeeee by midnight. And even though you didn’t come to school you were up this morning by 8:03 A.M. Then you headed to the gym. And by one o’clock you were taking a nap. An hour later you were having tea with your mother, then you had a dip in the pool, and all of this was done by 3:15 in the afternoon. And not once did my phone ring because I was receiving a call from you!”

  “Rich—”

  I wagged my finger. “Don’t interrupt me. ’Cause you and your boy, C-Smoove, or is it Anderson, tried to play me and my girl over here, and we won’t be having it. You hear me, Coreeeee?”