Hollywood High

by Ni-Ni Simone

  I stared at my mother and felt a pang in my chest. Guilt was a terrible thing. I knew that she loved me; knew it without question. And I knew she thought I was beautiful. Still, I wished when she looked at me that her eyes would light up the way they did every time she spoke about me being on the runway, modeling for one of the international fashion houses. Or anytime she reminisced about when I was a reigning print-ad beauty. Before puberty, and everything else that came along with it, changed my life.

  I felt sick to my stomach and hoped like hell the laxative-induced bowel movements I had early this morning were enough to flush out the four pounds I had gained in her absence and keep her mouth shut.

  She blinked back what looked like sadness, then clapped her hands. “Okay, up on the scale.” I held my breath, dropping my robe and stepping on the digital scale.

  I dropped my head. “Chin up, London. Don’t worry about what’s going on down at your feet. The scale never lies.” I held my breath. “Okay, step off.”

  Maybe if I hold my breath long enough I’ll pass out. Hit my head on my way down, and never open my eyes again.

  No luck!

  I watched as she opened the smooth leather binder, removed the cap off her pen, then scribbled in her ledger. I imagined her one day writing a tell-all book about the ups and downs and highs and lows of my stubborn weight. I envisioned it being titled something like: The Wondrous Weight Gain of My Fatso Daughter.

  I shuddered as she eyed me. “You’ve lost two and three-quarter pounds. Still not enough to crack open the champagne. I don’t understand for the life of me why you aren’t losing more. You should have shed at least fifteen pounds by now.”

  OMG, she’s delusional if she thinks I’ll ever walk around looking like a damn string bean. Not. Apparently she had overlooked the memo that guys loved girls with swerves and curves.

  “The only saving grace is that you’re still young. But if we don’t get this weight off in the next year, I might need to look into having your stomach stapled.”

  I gasped. “Mother, I’m not getting my stomach stapled. That’s going a bit far.”

  “Come,” she said, waving me over to her. I glanced down at my feet. 130 pounds. “Well,” she continued, wrapping the measuring tape around my waist, “desperate times call for drastic measures.” Next she wrapped it around my hips. She grunted her dismay. “We’re going to need to do something, fast. All I can see is you becoming like your grandmother and aunts on your father’s side with them double-D and E-cup breasts, big-ole dimpled behinds, and those ham-hock ankles. We’ve already had one setback, we don’t need another.”

  She eyed me, suspiciously. I shifted my gaze from hers.

  “From what I’ve heard from your father and seen on the blogs you have managed to, once again, get caught up with the wrong crowd. I can only imagine what else you’ve been up to while I’ve been gone.”

  Damn, another wish not fulfilled! The first chance I got I was going to have to get on my knees and have a good, stern talking-to to the butterfly gods. This was ridiculous. Can I get at least one of my wishes, please!

  She logged my measurements in the book. If I ever get my hands on that damn thing, I’m gonna burn it! “Oh, I bet you thought I wasn’t going to say anything since your father had already addressed you on it. Do I have to bring you back to Paris with me?”

  I sighed.

  I wanted, needed, to believe that all wishes do come true. No wish is impossible.

  Then why the hell is she still standing here?

  “You’re working your way up to becoming a common criminal before I can get you back on the runway. Is that what you want?”

  “No.”

  “Then you must be hoping to land yourself some kind of reality-TV show, a spin-off of that god-awful show Good Girls Gone Hood. Is that it?”

  I shook my head. Arguing with her was pointless, and sooooo not worth my energy; especially since I needed to focus on what I was going to wear to school today.

  “No.”

  She narrowed her brown eyes until they were slits. “London, I’m warning you. Please don’t have your father and me ship you to an all-girls boarding school. You know we’ll do it. Is that what you want?”

  I bit my tongue. But inside I was screaming, “I’m not going any-damn-where. And I’m gonna eat whatever-the-hell I want! And there’s nothing you can say or do to stop me. So kiss my naturally plump fatty!” But, being the rational child that I am, I settled for, “No, Mother.”

  “Your father and I gave you a choice to either move to London to attend school, or come out here—against our better judgment. But we let you decide. And you promised, swore to us, that you wouldn’t get into any trouble. Please don’t make us regret it. I do not want a repeat of what happened in New York. Do you understand me?” I nodded. “We’ve already pushed the release of your trust fund once. The next time it’ll be pushed back until your twenty-first birthday. Please don’t force my hand because the next time, it’s going to be pushed back until you’re forty. And we’ll be shutting down your allowance and frivolous shopping sprees.”

  I felt my knees buckle. OMG! She wouldn’t dare!

  Uh, yes she would!

  “How’s Anderson?” she asked, changing the subject while gauging my reaction. “You have been spending time with him, haven’t you?”

  I nodded. “Kind of.” She raised a brow. “Well, we did spend time at this club out in Santa Monica a few weeks ago.” Okay, okay... it was a lie. But so what? Well, wait... it wasn’t totally a lie. I mean, after all we did spend time together at the club—fighting, that is. Still, we were together. “And I spent the whole day with him yesterday.” Now that was unfortunately the truth. And the only reason I remotely considered it is because Daddy—before he left for New York with Rich’s dad yesterday—demanded I spend time with Anderson and threatened to cut off my allowance for another two weeks if I didn’t. So there you have it. Begrudgingly, I went. The thought of not having access to money is enough motivation needed to get my mind right. For the moment, until I could figure out a better plan of action.

  Anyway, Anderson picked me up here around three-thirty—two hours before my Boo finally snuck up out of here—in a stretch Rolls-Royce Phantom.

  He was dressed in a tailored suit and wore an ascot! To sum it up, Anderson was a cornball. There was no other way to say it. He was swaaaaaaaagless! I’m talking dud.com! He had no rhythm, no personality, and no damn business trying to be with a fabulous girl like me. Yet, everything about him spelled money. And it reeked from his dark chocolate skin. He was well-bred, well-educated, and well-dressed—yeah, as a banker, accountant, or the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. But for an eighteen-year old, Anderson dressed like somebody’s grandfather. All he needed was a cigar, a pocket watch, and a pair of suspenders to add to his ensemble.

  He kissed me on the cheek as I climbed into the cabin and sat across from him.

  “You look beautiful,” he said, smiling.

  “Of course I do,” I said with more edge than I had intended.

  He dismissed me with the flick of his hand. “Well, I’m glad you finally came to your senses, London. Your behavior has been atrocious lately. You’ve acted like a common trollop long enough. It’s about time you come back to reality and play your position—as my girl.”

  I blinked, then frowned. WTF?! “Screw you, C-Smoove, the wannabe-wankster. You’re lucky I even allow you to breathe the same air as me. I don’t have—”

  He picked up the car phone. “Stop the car,” he said into the receiver. The driver pulled over on the side of the I-10 freeway. Anderson reached over and opened the door. “Get out.”

  I blinked. “Wh-what? You’re joking, right?”

  “Do you see me smiling, home skillet? Since you like it hood, Miss Thug in Chanel. Let me chop it up for you. Since you’ve been out here, you’ve partied like a rock star, sexed—God knows who—like a porn star, and done everything else, except what you’ve been directed to do.”
>
  My mouth flew open. “You wait one damn—”

  “Shut your trap. I’m talking. As a matter of fact, why are you still sitting here? Didn’t I tell you to get out?”

  I felt like he had just backhanded me. My cheeks burned. I folded my arms defiantly across my chest. “Who the hell do you think you are? You can’t throw me out on the side of the road like this. Wait until I get my father on the phone. He will have your head!”

  He snarled at me. “Oh shut up. The only head he’s gonna have is yours, Amazon. In the meantime, I’ll tell you who I am since you can’t seem to remember. I’m the one who’s going to keep your spoiled, ostentatious, disrespectful, hot-in-the-tail behind from having your inheritance snatched away from you and you ending up as some waitress at some greasy-spoon diner somewhere; that’s who the hell I am. And the sooner you recognize it, the better. Now. Get. Out. Before I make that phone call to your father my damn self and tell him how you had your little gangster Boo up in his house for the last two-and-a-half days, sexing him up.”

  I immediately felt the color from my face drain. How in the hell did he know that? “Whaaaaaaat?! You don’t know what you’re talking about, C-Smoove, Anderson, or whatever the hell your stage name is.”

  He smirked. “Oh, I know exactly what I’m talking about. And I know all I need to know. And the one thing I do know is you don’t want your father to find out just how slutty you’ve been. So, what’s it gonna be, ma-ma? The road to poverty and despair? Or the freeway to the rich and fabulous?”

  I tried to assess the situation at hand but quickly realized Anderson had me cornered and trapped. There was no escaping him. So I did the only smart thing to do. I reached over and slammed the door, fuming.

  “Good. Now I’m going to tell you what I expect. I expect you to spend at least two days out of the week with me—any more time than that will make me sick. You disgust me. . . .”

  I blinked.

  “... Out in public, you will hold my hand, kiss me on the lips, rub my back and act like you’re in love. And you will smile for the cameras, since we both know how much you enjoy being in the spotlight. . . .”

  “I’m not doing that!”

  He raised a brow, pulling out a Mac laptop. He started clicking keys. “Oh, so you think I’m bluffing, don’t you?” He clicked onto something, then handed the computer to me.

  Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!!!!

  I clutched my chest and started hyperventilating. “Wh-where . . . h-how . . . did you get this?”

  He snatched the laptop from out of my hands. “Don’t worry about all that. Just know I have my eye on you when you least expect it.”

  “You’ve been spying on me. H-h-how . . . dare you! You have no right invading my privacy like this!”

  “No. I have every right. I’m protecting my investment. That’s what I’ve been doing. And this right here is my insurance policy that you will do what has been agreed upon.” He twirled his hand dramatically in the air. “Now, you were saying?”

  I turned and looked out the window. Wondering how much it would cost to hire someone to snuff him out. If I wasn’t so afraid of spending my life behind bars I’d put a hit out on him for sure. He finished running down his laundry list of things I was expected to do. Then he had the audacity to say, “I’m the best thing that will ever happen to you. And don’t have me have to remind you again.”

  Needless to say, the rest of our ride to wherever we were headed was deadpan silent. I felt like I was riding in a hearse, instead of a plush limo, en route to my own funeral.

  We ended up at a private landing field where Anderson whisked me off in one of his family’s helicopters. From there, we flew over Beverly Hills and past the Hollywood Bowl to Universal Studios. The pilot flew so close to the Hollywood Sign that I could almost reach out and touch it. Then he swooped down a hundred and fifty feet above the shoreline, so that I could see the beautiful beach cities before flying us over the Santa Monica Pier. If I wasn’t so pissed at him, I would have actually enjoyed myself. Whatever! The tour ended with the pilot hovering over the rear deck of Anderson’s family’s hundred-and-fifty-foot, three-level yacht, Buff Daddy.

  Yuck!

  “Anderson is such a gentleman,” my mother said, smiling approvingly as I recapped the horrific experience, leaving out the details I knew she wouldn’t care about. “He’s a real thoughtful young man.”

  And a bore!

  “He’ll make a fine husband.”

  I’m not marrying that, that . . . pompous idiot!

  Anyway, we landed on the helipad. And when the doors opened, Anderson took me by the hand and helped me out, acting as if he hadn’t talked all reckless and nasty to me hours earlier. He waited for the chopper to go airborne again before grabbing my hand and pulling me.

  I flinched.

  “I have something for you,” he said, leading me down to the main level of the beautiful boat. Still, the name was ugly. He told me to have a seat in the living room. Then, a few minutes later, he reappeared holding a gift box from Cartier. Inside was a breathtaking Trinity-draped diamond necklace. Had this been someone else, who shall be nameless, I would have jumped in his lap, kissed him passionately, then made sweet love to him up on the deck beneath the stars. But I was there stuck with cornball.com.

  My mother continued smiling.

  “Anderson isn’t who I want,” I blurted out.

  My mother’s facial expression, body language, and tone changed. And the temperature in the room had dropped by twenty degrees. “You will learn to love him. Now that’s enough.”

  27

  Heather

  Relax... You got this...

  “Lights. Camera. Action! Take two! You’re on!”

  I stood behind the prop’s makeshift door, awaiting my cue to enter the set’s ’50s-style vintage kitchen. I leaned from one foot to the next and did my best to focus and envision my lines the exact way they were in the script.

  But I couldn’t.

  All my mind’s eye could see was a blur.

  I had to wing it and pray that this time the director would be happy with my ad-libs.

  Think . . . Think . . . Think . . . come on, Wu-Wu. My eyes shifted from the director to the stagehands, the cameramen, to Spencer—who I’d invited to watch me tape the first episode of the season.

  I had to get this right.

  I had to.

  “Where’s Wu-Wu? I hope she’s up and ready for school!”

  That was my cue.

  Focus . . . focus . . . focus . . .

  “Ahh, Wu-Wu’s in the house!” I said, extremely high-pitched and animated. I shook my coils and flopped down in the kitchen chair, next to my television father, who resembled George Lopez.

  I quickly eyed my director. He grimaced but he didn’t stop tape.

  “Good morning, Wu-Wu!” my television mother said, smiling, as the rosy cheeks on her porcelain face glowed. “How’s my little Snuckums-Snuckums-Wukums doing this wonderful morning?”

  The laugh track boomed through the set and immediately I had a migraine. I could’ve sworn that it was louder this time than it was two takes ago. Not to mention that that Snuckums-Snuckums-Wukums line may have been classic and killed the TV audience with laughter, but the last thing I found it to be was funny.

  It actually worked my last nerve.

  Seriously.

  But whatever, I forced a stupid smile on my face and did all I could to push Heather back and allow Wu-Wu to rock the forefront.

  Wu-Wu was losing.

  I looked at Jani Rossi, the actress who played my TV mother, and I knew by the look on her face that I’d paused too long, so I hurried and spat my line... what I could remember of it. “Your Snuckums-Snuckums-Wukums is soooo bummed, Mom.”

  I looked at my director, and the slight grin on his face said that I’d gotten my line right.

  Thank God . . . okay, I can do this. Now feed the dog the bacon. Ugh, I hated that dog. But I did what the episode called for and reached for a
piece of bacon and then slyly fed it to the dog—a humongous chestnut brown and white St. Bernard—who barked like crazy—the exact way he was supposed to.

  His owner beamed from across the room.

  “Wu-Wu Tanner,” José, my television father, said, pulling my attention back onto the set. “You know better than to feed Bird bacon. You know bacon gives him gas.” Bird looked up at us and whimpered and there went that stupid laugh track again.

  My head’s going to explode!

  I swallowed, sat up in my chair, and said, “Awl, Dad, leave Bird alone. He’s got bigger problems than bacon. He’s a St. Bernard named Bird.” I pointed toward the floor where Bird lay lazily.

  “I happen to like the name Bird,” Jani said, sitting a stack of pancakes on the table. She kissed me on my cheek, smiled, and fluffed my curls. “Now tell Mother why my little Pinky-Poo’s all bummed out?”

  I folded my arms and pouted. “Because Robert didn’t call me at all last night!” My eyes watered. “And I don’t know what to do!”

  “Robert? Who’s Robert?” José interjected, ruffling his newspaper and peering around the side of it. “That must be a nickname for Roberta.”

  It took everything in me not to scream at that damn laugh track! Uggggggg! And this St. Bernard was licking my legs. Slobbering on my sandals. If he wasn’t so big and I knew I could get away with it, I’d kick him.

  You need a Black Beauty...

  No I don’t...

  Yes you do . . .

  “You’re a junkie!” Camille’s voice invaded my thoughts.

  I’m not a junkie!