by Ni-Ni Simone
The ballroom was absolutely elegant. White draped walls. Round tables smartly dressed with crisp white linen tablecloths while tall crystal vases centered in the middle of each table were filled with a bouquet of fresh calla lilies. The DJ was spinning. The stage was set. The dance floor glowed. And Drake was backstage waiting to perform. The paparazzi were swarming around with cameras on ready. And Rich was still nowhere to be found. She was somewhere else playing damn games, like always. All these students-slash-guests and only two of the other half of the so-called Pampered Princesses were here. Rich and Heather’s absence simply added to the rumors: that we had fallen apart. That we were backstabbers. That we had fallen from grace. And this was not how it was supposed to be.
My cell rang and I quickly glanced at the screen hoping it was Rich. It wasn’t. It was Justice. I took a deep breath, then pressed ignore. I hadn’t heard from him in a month. He ignored my calls, ignored my texts, and simply ignored me like I was nobody. Although, seeing his name flash up on the screen lifted the burden of being disregarded. But as badly as I wanted to hear his voice, I would not allow myself to answer. Not this time. I turned the phone off.
Walked over to the mirrors lining the wall and applied a fresh coat of lipstick, then glided a coat of lip gloss over my lips to make them pop. Then I checked myself out to make sure I was still looking divalicious in my Vera Wang exclusive that wrapped around my body like a glove. I glanced at my timepiece. Fifteen minutes to show time. I had to get in the room.
As I turned from the sink to head to the ballroom, Rich burst in. She was draped in black diamonds. Her neck, ears, and wrists glistened while wearing a gorgeous black dress and a pair of royal blue and black crystal-embellished heels.
“Ohmygod, there you are. Where the hell have you been? I have been calling you . . .” I eyed her, taking her in. Then my expression changed. “Are you okay? What’s wrong? Why are your eyes red? Are you crying?”
“No. I’m fine.”
She stood at the adjoining sink beside me, unsnapping her clutch, pulling out a Chanel handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes. I studied her through the mirror, placing a hand up on her shoulder. “Rich, look at me. I’m serious. What’s going on? Why are you crying?”
The tears started pouring down her face. “I-I . . .”
“Don’t say a word yet,” I said, walking over to the door and locking it, then walking back over to her. “Now, tell me. What’s wrong? And please don’t tell me you’re crying because you ran up your credit card again.”
“Girl, please, I wish.”
“Well, did your parents take them?”
“I wish it was that.”
I blinked. If Miss Shop-A-Holic was wishing her parents had shut down her credit cards then I knew this was some serious business. “Ohmygod, you’ve been banished to the mall. Is that it?”
She held her head back, wiping tears with the back of her fingers. “Right about now, girl, I’d take the mall. But it’s not that, either.”
I turned her to face me, placing both of my hands on her shoulders, looking her in her wet eyes. “Rich, you’re scaring me now. What is it?”
She held her head down. “I really messed up this time.”
I lifted her chin, taking the handkerchief from her to dab her eyes and face. “How? What happened? I mean, I know it can’t be because your father couldn’t get Drake here because he’s already backstage.”
She shook her head. “No, that’s not it.”
I let out an exasperated sigh, feeling myself losing my patience. “Look, you need to tell me what the hell is going on. You come up in here four hours late. No one’s heard from you. Not answering your calls and now you’re standing here effen up your makeup with a bunch of tears and I have no clue as to why.”
“Look, you asked me what is going on—”
“Yeah, I did. Because I’m worried. I’ve been calling you all damn morning and hadn’t heard from you. And you’re looking crazy. Now get to the point and tell me what the hell is wrong here. We have a damn party to get to. Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad. Now give me your concealer.” She handed me her make-up bag. I took her concealer out and dabbed her eyes with the sponge. “You’re too damn beautiful to be crying like this. We don’t do tears. And especially when we are draped in our jewels and fine wears.” I touched up her mascara and Rich’s eyes watered again. “Oh, no. Stop with the tears. This make-up is not waterproof.”
“I’m pregnant,” she whispered.
“What? What did you just say?”
She looked me in the eyes, fighting back what appeared to be an avalanche of tears. “I said. I’m pregnant.”
“Pregnant? Ohmygod, Corey got you pregnant? You slept with Corey without a condom? Illll. Oh, you done hit rock bottom with that one. Corey?”
“No, I’m not pregnant by Corey. I only slept with him three times and we always used a condom.”
“Well, I know you’re not the Virgin Mary. And if Corey’s not the father, then who were you out getting your creep on with because he’s the only one I knew you were with. We have about five minutes of true confessions then we got to roll. So let’s go. Start from the name of the baby daddy, then work your way to how the hell you let this happen, followed by what time is your appointment. And do I need to be there with. I’m waiting.”
She took a deep sigh. “His name is Knox.”
“Knox? Who the hell is a Knox?”
“That’s not important. And there’s no appointment.”
I blinked. “So, what does that mean?”
She looked me in the eyes and responded, “I’m keeping it.”
“Whaaaaaat? You’re keeping it? A baby? Oh, now you’re bugging. First of all what are you going to do with a baby? You don’t even like kids. We have plans to shop and do it up. And now you’re talking about keeping a baby. Remember, we’re supposed to be traveling. Or did you forget? Oh, that’s right, of course you did. You’re pregnant. So you’d rather give up Milan in the fall, Switzerland in the winter, Paris in the spring, and wherever else we want to be in the summer to be confined between a baby’s crib and the nanny’s quarter, is that what you’re saying? You wanna give up Chanel for Carter’s, handbags for diaper bags, stilettos for some cheesy, scuffed ballet slippers and your jewels for pacifiers and drool? A mess! Have you even thought this through? A baby, Rich? Are you serious? It’s one thing to be pregnant—been there, done that. And it’s a whole other level to be a mother. And how are you going to boom-drop it with a damn baby up on your hip? Not the move. And definitely not a good look.”
“Look, I don’t need you to lecture me. I didn’t ask for your advice. After the morning I’ve had, I don’t need any more advice.”
“No, you’re right. What you need is to face reality because right now you’re living in a fantasy. You don’t spring this kind of madness on someone four minutes before a show. Now, had you come to me last night, we could have balled up and cried together and ate tubs of ice cream . . .”
“London! London!” Spencer disrupted our moment banging on the door. “Open this door!”
Before I walked over and unlocked the door, I glanced at Rich and said, “It’s time to put your game face on. Now. And you better not let her see you sweat.”
She turned back to the mirror, tugged at a few strands of her hair that had fallen out of place, then pulled out her gloss and coated her lips. She slowly turned back to me, eyes clear and lips popping, and replied, “Game time.”
I unlocked the door and Spencer rushed into the bathroom. “What in the world are you...” She looked over at Rich. “Oh, there you are. It’s about time you showed up.”
“Have you finished digging up the rocks to find Heather?” I asked her, snidely.
She furrowed her eyebrow. “Excuse you?”
“You heard me. I said, have you gone to the junkyard and found your damn trashy friend. She’s still not here and it’s three minutes before we hit the red carpet and hold court.”
“Wait a minute, first of all. Let’s not even talk about trashy. Would you like for me to call you a gorilla? Or fifty foot? You don’t come me at like that.”
“No, you wait a minute,” I snapped, slamming my clutch down on the counter. “You are about to get your face cracked.”
Spencer patted her clutch. “Try it. And you’ll be on fire. It’ll be stop, drop, and roll for your big-faced self. Now try me. And the last time I checked I wasn’t on ho-patrol. When I walked in here and saw that you had found Rich, I thought that was your job.” She looked over at Rich. “Now the question is where were you, somewhere having last-minute lipo to reduce your waistline?”
“Don’t worry about my waistline,” Rich said. “Worry about the next video you gonna make, ho. Talking about you don’t check for hoes on the stroll. I don’t know why not because you own it.”
Spencer huffed, “Yeah, that’s right. I’m a ho. I own the stroll. But at least I own it up front. And I’m not an undercover ho, like you.”
Rich walked over to Spencer, stood in her face and spoke in a low tone, clenching her teeth. “I will slap. The spit. Out of you. Today is not the day. Now if your stank friend isn’t here, that is not my problem. If you’re a ho, then be a ho. But you keep my name out your mouth. And when we get out there, you better act like we’re the best of friends. Or we will stop, drop, and roll on the red carpet. Now freshen your gloss, and let’s go.”
Spencer popped her lips. “You know what. I’ma put my knife back in my clutch, I’m gonna gloss my lips, and I am going to go out there and pretend to be your friend. But when the cameras stop clicking and the red carpet is rolled up, all bets are off.”
Rich eyed her one last time. “Then get ready to cash in your chips.” She looked over at me. “Let’s go, London. It’s game time.”
One foot in front of the other, camera-ready, we walked out of the girls’ lounge. Click, click. The three of us with our backs straight, and heads up. Hollywood’s finest at its best, ready for show time as we swayed down the red carpet that had been rolled out down the hall, leading to the ballroom, stopping every so often to take pictures and answer questions.
“Hey, Rich Montgomery, what are you wearing?”a reporter for Teen Style magazine asked.
She flashed a bright white smile. “The dress is Gucci, the shoes are Jimmy Choo from his private collection, so don’t go looking for them. The diamonds are from Chopard Jewelers. Muah!” Rich blew a kiss and gave a small wave toward the camera.
I had to smile at Rich. Although her stomach looked pudgy, she looked fabulous in her form-fitting dress. If only she would suck her stomach in. I couldn’t give her ten stars with that stomach looking like it did. But she was every bit of eight-point-five stars. Hair, face, and jewels were all sparkling.
“Hey, London Phillips,” a fashion blogger asked. “Will we ever see you on the runway again?”
I felt like she had slit me across the throat with her question, considering when I stepped on the scale this morning I had gained three pounds, throwing my mother into a hissy fit, threatening to have my jaws wired for a month. I shook the thought and pressed a smile on my face. “You never know.”
“Hey Rich Montgomery, who’s the new love interest you’ve been spotted with?”
Rich smiled sheepishly. “No comment,” she said to the reporter.
“Spencer Ellington,” a reporter for Ni-Ni Girlz Glamali-cious called out. “Do you plan to stay away from Rich’s new beau? Or will this one not be off limits like the other?”
“Of course she will,” Rich answered, placing an arm around Spencer’s shoulder, smiling for the cameras. “The last time was simply a big misunderstanding.”
“Where’s Heather Cummings?” another reporter asked.
Spencer whispered to Rich and me, “I got this one.” She turned to the reporter, smiled and batted her eyelashes. “Heather is a little tied up right now. But I’m sure she’ll make the headlines tomorrow.”
Just as the trumpets sounded to announce our arrival, another reporter yelled out, “Hey, Rich, London, and Spencer, what would you like to say to your fans who are watching?”
We smiled, and said as if our lines had been rehearsed, “Welcome to Hollywood High!”
Stay tuned for the next installment of Hollywood High!
A READING GROUP GUIDE
HOLLYWOOD HIGH
Ni-Ni Simone Amir Abrams
ABOUT THIS GUIDE
The following questions are intended to
enhance your group’s reading of
HOLLYWOOD HIGH.
Discussion Questions
1. Socialites live in an entirely different world than most. However, do you feel their problems are much different than the average teen’s? If so, then how?
2. Which girl did you identify with the most and why? Whom did you identify with the least?
3. How did you feel about Heather’s drug use? Do you know any teens using drugs? Have you ever tried drugs? If so, what was the outcome?
4. How much of an effect do you think Heather being a child star had on her drug use?
5. What did you think of London’s mother being obsessed with London’s weight? Do you know someone who has a mother like this?
6. What did you think of Justice? Do you think he loved London?
7. What did you think of Spencer’s mother never being home? Do you know someone who has a mother like this?
8. What did you think of Spencer sleeping with Rich’s boyfriend? Is it ever okay to date your friend’s boyfriend?
9. Are the Pampered Princesses friends or frenemies?
10. If you could change anything about the story, what would it be?
Up next from Hollywood High’s Amir Abrams:
Crazy Love
If you saw my boo Sincere, you’d totally understand why I’ve dropped everything—even my besties—to be with him 24/7. After all, what girl wouldn’t do whatever it takes to show her first-ever boyfriend she’s all he could ever want? I know I’m a prize, but relationships are tough enough when you’re just a high-school senior, so I’ve really had to up my game to keep a college freshman like Sincere interested. And if that means hacking his cell and following him everywhere, I’m down. Because I just know what we have is for always. And I’m going to prove it, no matter how far I have to go . . .
In stores in December 2012.
“Giiiiiiiiirrrrrrl, this party is fiiiiiiiyah,” Zahara shouted over the beats of a Rick Ross joint. Brittani’s sister, Briana, had the hookup for us since her boo of the month was one of the frat boys whose fraternity was hosting the party. So she invited us to get our party on. Brittani’s sister is mad cool like that. She’s always getting us into all the hot spots.
Anywaaayz, it was the weekend after Fourth of July and we were at an off-campus house party packed with mostly college heads. Mad cuties and thirsty chicks were everywhere sweating it out on the dance floor. Fraternities and sororities represented hard rocking their colors and emblems. Hot beats were blaring through the speakers as dudes danced and grinded up on chicks who were booty-popping it all up on them.
“Ooooh, I wanna dance,” Zahara said, snapping her fingers and bopping her head. She did a two-step, dropped down low, then popped it back up. She danced and twirled until she got the attention she wanted. Zahara loves attention!
Anywaaayz, we had just finished our dance-through—where we dance in a line through a party all sexy-like to peep what’s what and who’s who before we find a spot to post up. And be cute!—when I spotted him. He was standing over in a corner with three other guys. And they were all fine, but... not as fine as him. I acted like I didn’t see him. But the truth is. How could you not see him? All eyes were already on him. He was rocking a red and white Polo button-up with a pair of designer jeans and a pair of white, crispy Jordans and a red and white Yankees fitted. Tall and built with skin the color of milk-chocolate. Whew... he looked... delicious! Even in the dimly-lit room, I knew he was fine.
And
the minute I was certain he’d seen me, I stepped, making sure to throw an extra shake in my hips as we strutted off. The minute we made it to the other side of the room, these dudes came over to where we were standing and asked each of us to dance. Zahara, Brittani, and Ameerah said yes to the dudes who asked them and bounced their booties toward the dance floor, leaving me standing there with this tall, light-skinned guy with really big teeth and gums grinning at me and licking his lips. He reminded me of a big yellow crayon.
“You sure you don’t wanna dance?” he asked again, slowly looking me up and down, dragging his tongue across his lips. I blinked, blinked again, hoping I could erase him from my view. No luck. He was still there, staring down at me looking like a glow in the dark wand as he bobbed his head to the beats. Truth is I did want to dance. Just not with him. Not that he was busted or anything. He was just too bright and his teeth were too big for me to have to look in his face. I would either have to keep my eyes shut and zone out on the music, or keep my back to him. Lucky for me, I didn’t have to do either.
This brown-skinned chick with a long black weave, wearing a skin-tight pair of jeans and a teenie-weenie shirt was on the dance floor near us, dancing all fast and nasty by herself. That caught his attention and he bounced on over to her. Yuck, I thought, shifting my eyes around the room to see where my girls were.
I glanced around the party and peeped Briana walking toward the stairs with her boo in tow. Mmmph, I thought, curling my lips up as she climbed the stairs. Miss Hot-Box probably going upstairs to get her back blown out. I shook the thought from my head and shifted my attention toward the dance floor, watching my girls act a fool. Every so often, I glanced over in his direction and would see a buncha birds flocked around him and he’d lean into their ears and say something to them, then they’d start smiling or giggling like real dizzy chicks before walking off. I caught him staring over in my direction a few times, trying to make eye contact with me. But I kept it fly. And, when I finally let him catch my eye, he grinned. I wanted him. Knew I had to have him. And I was going to make it my business to bag him quick, fast, and in a hurry without making myself look like a straight-up bird. Fly girls never look thirsty. They keep it cute, okay! Well, umm, that’s until they reel their catch of the moment in. Then you can’t be too proud to beg, or too scared to beat a trick down, to keep him.