by Ni-Ni Simone
And right about now, I felt like I’d been tossed into its bottomless pit, standing knee-deep in hellfire, trying to claw my way up from out of the flames. My reputation of being fine, fly, and eternally fabulous was forlornly being burned to ashes, thanks to the recent filth the gossip rags and those trashy bloggers were spewing about me in the headlines.
LONDON PHILLIPS FALLING DOWN. TEEN MODEL SLICES HER WAY INTO A STRAITJACKET . . .
LONDON PHILLIPS FLIES OVER THE PROVERBIAL CUCKOO’S NEST . . .
LONDON PHILLIPS CRACKS FACE; FALLS FROM GRACE . . .
LONDON PHILLIPS GOES NUTZ . . . !
AMERICA’S NEXT TOP FLOP: LONDON PHILLIPS . . .
I opened the four-hundred-and-two-dollar bottle of desalinated seawater, collected thousands of feet below the ocean’s surface off the island of Hawaii, and took a slow, deliberate sip.
Lord God, give me strength...
In a teary-eyed haze, I glared at the front page of the latest edition of Glamdalous, the magazine for the glamorous and scandalous—staring at the headline burning into my retinas: LOUNGE SINGER AND HEARTTHROB SENSATION JB WOOS HIP-HOP ROYALTY’S DARLING PRINCESS.
Mmmph.
Bastard!
Darling princess my—!
I took another sip of water, then pulled my cell from out of my handbag and sent my therapist, Dr. Ashmina Kickaloo, a quick text. I NEED 2 C U!!! The closer my driver got to campus, the more anxious I was starting to feel.
Yes. Forgiveness. That was it. That’s what my two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar-an-hour shrink said I should be working on. To forgive those who’d effed me over—my words, not hers.
Still, the message was clear: Turn the other cheek while the enemy ran off with my fairy tale and lived out my happily-ever-after.
I took a deep breath. Then another. Concentrated on breathing through my nose, taking slow, steady breaths, before I had a full-blown panic attack.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
I mean, really. Forgiveness? Mmph. That ole powder-puff quack, with her overplucked, painted-in eyebrows, that my parents paid good money for me to see expected me to forgive those who’d trespassed against me.
My ex-boyfriend.
Justice!
My ex-friend.
Rich!
That thieving beeeeeyatch! What that lecherous, two-faced thot-whore did to me bordered on treason. Stealing my man! So what if she didn’t actually know Justice Banks had been mine because I’d kept our relationship a secret (because my parents would never approve of him)? The fact was, she still spread open her buffalo thighs and let him roam in her swampland. And so what if he dumped me and left me broken-spirited . . . for her.
It was bad enough that Rich had flat-out admitted one afternoon over cocktails down at Club Tantrum, during my brief return from Milan a week before Italy’s fashion week, that she had slept with Justice.
“. . . I gave him a lil taste of goodness, a lil slice of heaven on earth, and he couldn’t even handle the heat. Four minutes and twenty-seven seconds of riding cowgirl, his toes curled... that boy was dead to the bed! A bore . . . !”
I ended up slinging my apple martini in her face, and she jumped up and snatched her pitcher of beer, tossing suds of beer into my face. Then we started swinging fists at each other, going at it like two street hookers, tearing the club up.
Our so-called friendship ended that night with broken heels, fistfuls of hair, and multiple slaps upside each other’s head, before we were both tossed out by the club’s security team.
I took another deep breath and glared at the magazine. Although I was slowly getting over the likes of Justice Banks, and finally learning—thanks to my therapist—that having a boyfriend wasn’t the cure-all for my insecurities and fears, it still hurt like hell seeing him all cozied up with the enemy. Seeing him all smiles and looking all in love with the likes of Rich Montgomery made my skin crawl.
Screw him! And screw her!
They deserved each other.
I shifted my body in my seat as my driver made his way through Beverly Hills, running a hand through my hair—what was left of it, that is. Thanks to that treacherous Spencer Ellington, I’d been forced to cut my thick, luscious, shoulder-length hair into a funky asymmetrical hairdo after she attacked me with a handful of hair-removal cream.
Spencer had been coming to my home practically every grueling day—while I was confined to my bed on an IV drip, under doctors’ orders—toting get-well gifts and fake concern, pretending to be my friend. I’d already been home for almost a week from the hospital in Milan, severely depressed and withering away. I was withdrawn. Wouldn’t eat. And had no will to fight.
But that skank had no regard for my misery. She simply bum-rushed her way into my crumbling world, forcing herself on me.
“. . . Send in the fat gods! Where is the rest of your body? What are you trying to do now? Slicing your wrists didn’t work, so now you want to starve yourself to death . . . ? You want to hang up your big panties, then throw your hands up in defeat! You sore loser . . . ! You quitter . . . !
“I want you to get it together, London. Get up and fight! I want you back at Hollywood High so I can annihilate you. So whatever demons you got eating up your insides, go get you a flush, a deep cleanse, or whatever, and let it go. Move on . . . I want you out of this bed, London. And back at school. I mean it. I’ll be back tomorrow, and the day after and the day after. So if you want me out of your face, then you had better get your life back. And stop all this tomfoolery! Trying to like you and be nice to you is too much hotdang work . . .”
Those were Spencer’s haunting words to me, several days before she leapt up on my bed and attacked me from out of nowhere, swiping the cream over one of my eyebrows and through my hair, leaving me with one missing eyebrow and clumps of my thick luscious hair falling out around me.
It was awful.
Yeah, Spencer had me looking like Mrs. Potato Head with one missing eyebrow. I had to remove my other eyebrow and draw them in until my own were able to grow back in. What a mess!
I swiped my bangs from my eye, flipping through the magazine. I stopped at a caption: FAST, CHEAP & EASY. TEEN STAR HEATHER CUMMINGS CAUGHT ON TAPE TURNIN’ UP! I grunted in disgust. There she was, looking like the poor-trash hooker she was, wearing some god-awful zebra-print body suit and gladiator-type sandals with a bottle of Cirôc turned up to her mouth and what appeared to be a burning blunt in her other hand.
I dared not read what I already knew. Heather was still the junkie she’d always been. Now she’d be able to add alcoholic to her dossier, just like her mother, Camille.
Mmmph. Like mother, like daughter, I thought, flipping through the pages again. Heather and her mother were two peas in the same booze-soaked pod.
Drunks.
I kept flipping through the magazine, stopping on page seventeen. I choked back a scream. There were several photos of Rich and Justice holding hands, her gazing up into his eyes, like she was staging for a spot on The Bachelorette.
Filthy whore!
I took another deep breath, closing the magazine.
Learning how to pardon the likes of Rich Montgomery was the last thing I needed to do. No, no, what I needed was the freedom to peel that five-foot-six weave-wearing troll doll’s edges back and stomp her chestnut-brown face inside out. I clenched my fists. Oh, how I still wanted to rip her scalp off. And fight her to the death. That slore didn’t deserve my mercy. No. She deserved her big, brown eyeballs clawed out for what she’d done to me.
I took another deep breath and stared out the limo’s tinted window at the crowd of paparazzi lurking, like rabid wolves waiting to claw apart their next roadkill as my driver turned into the entrance to the campus.
My stomach knotted, and I watched with a mixture of disgust and angst as the first few gossip-rag whores noticed my arrival and bolted over, with the others shortly in tow, swarming around the limo, tapping on the windows.
It’d been weeks since my in
cident.
My horrible suicide attempt.
Subconsciously, I rubbed the area of my arm where I’d sliced into my wrist during Fashion Week in Milan, Italy, where I’d been modeling.
Truth was, I was at my lowest, at the darkest point of my life. I thought my whole world revolved around a boy, one who didn’t give a goddamn about me, a boy who never ever really loved me.
Justice.
Yet when he’d dumped me and I’d felt abandoned by him, I felt like my life was over, like I had nothing else to live for. I lived and breathed him. And, sadly, I thought taking my own life was the right thing to do.
It wasn’t.
And I felt so stupid for thinking so.
Suicide wasn’t the answer.
Living well was the best revenge. And I had to prove to the world—and myself—that I was no longer that miserable, sniveling girl strung out on the likes of Justice Banks.
No, I was London Phillips.
A diva.
Born in London. Cultured in Paris. And molded in New York.
I was a trendsetter.
I was a shaker and mover.
Yes, I was perfectly flawed, obnoxiously rich, and fabulously beautiful.
And I wanted that dirty ho brought to justice—no pun intended, for what she’d done to me. I glanced at the front cover of the magazine one last time before tossing it to the floor and grinding my heel into it. He’s your headache now, tramp! Good luck and good riddance!
God had given me a second chance to come back and tell Rich, Spencer, and Heather that they could all kiss my . . .
“Miss London, you want me to run them down?” the driver asked, his voice booming through the intercom, stealing me from my thoughts.
I blinked the paparazzi back into view.
I swallowed, hard, feeling a kaleidoscope of emotions whirling inside me. I reached for a linen napkin and dabbed it under my eyes. I was torn. Being back in the spotlight and back on campus, having to face that messy whore, Rich, with all of her over-the-top theatrics and loudmouth trash talking, along with the rest of the so-called Pampered Princesses—it all made my stomach burn.
But, then, on the other hand, there was this renewed purpose fluttering inside of me, wanting to get my life back. It was a part of me that was ready to face these Hollywood hoes—head up, back straight, pelvis thrust forward, one diamond-heeled foot in front of the other—and reclaim my rightful spot back on the throne.
I’d been a recluse, holed up in my bedroom suite, for far too long. I’d been avoiding the media long enough, ducking aerial drones and dodging photos. It was time to face the music and dance the dance. Besides, no one ever said it was going to be easy being young, rich, and fabulous.
But someone had to reclaim the crown. So it might as well be moi.
“No. Pull over and stop the limo,” I said, pulling out my lip gloss, then spackling a coat over my lips. “These bottom feeders will just keep stalking me until I toss them a few crumbs.” I tossed my tube of gloss back into my purse, snapping it shut. “It’s time to feed the vultures,” I said as I slowly pressed the button and let my window down.
As paparazzi called out my name, shouting out questions and flashing their cameras, the only thing I could think of was, Welcome back to Hollywood High!
3
Rich
“All hail! Curves have stepped up on the scene. Bidding you a public service announcement,” my trumpeter declared, as I clicked my hot pink Louboutins against the red carpet and sauntered past the semicircle of hungry paps. All vying for my attention.
Click!
Flash!
I gave ’em a cat-walk glance and blessed ’em with a full serving of fleek.
A twist to the left.
To the right.
A twirl.
Hands on hips.
Chin up.
Back straight.
Pink-studded Hermès clutch tucked beneath right arm.
Crisp white Gucci shorts framing cocoalicious thighs.
Navy and white striped tank, under the dopest navy blue linen blazer—with the Gucci crest, of course.
And four ropes of soft pink pearls dangling from neck to navel.
Pure hotness.
Straight slayage.
A fly guise that simply stated, “Rich Montgomery is a damn lady. Now get your lil life to-ge-therrrrrr.”
Click!
Flash!
“Yaaaasss!” I swept my thirty-inch weave from my left shoulder over to my right. Then I braided my fingers together in a prayer position and continued, “I’ve come before you to correct a trashy Teen Trend Magazine travesty.”
“And what was that?” Someone from the crowd yelled.
“Okay, so there was a small article written about me waaaaaay in the back of the magazine, when Rich Montgomery should always be the cover story. And as if that wasn’t bad enough”—I pulled the magazine from my clutch and rattled the paper—“the vile reporter had the nerve to mislead these teens and say, ‘There were millions of girls striving to be me.’ Now, had he stopped there, his ethics wouldn’t be in question. But thennnnn he played himself.” I read on, “And perhaps one day with money and parents who can afford the world, they will be. After all, dreams do come true.”
I tossed the magazine at my feet and stepped on it. “Lies, honey. Lies. Gutter-rat trash. How about . . . umm no.”
“Rich! What makes you say that?” Shouted one of the reporters.
“See, here’s where he effed up at. There’s fantasy and there’s reality. Fantasy: Thots having a shot at being like me. Reality: They never will be. I am chocolate diamonds, honey. The goddess of curves. And thanks to my plastic surgeon, I woke up like this!”
Click!
Flash!
“Yaaaaaass! And I stay settin’ the bar of beauty and big booty to new heights. Don’t let the haters mislead you. After me, there shall never be another me.” I looked at the reporters, scanned the admiration in their eyes, and blew them a kiss. “Now, let me announce the details of my upcoming royal and fabu birthday party, because after this I have to go.”
“Wait, Rich, may I ask you another question?” An unfamiliar reporter shouted.
I looked over at her. Wrinkled my nose.
Clutching pearls, who is that? I recklessly eyeballed her from her pale peach skin and auburn hair to her ran-over skippies.
Eww.
Clearly she had New York roots. And anyway, I was head of the Monday morning red carpet committee, and she was not on the list of paps I’d called to interview me.
I glanced at my red carpet VP and we had the same confused look. “And who are you?” I turned back to the reporter.
She spat out in one breath, “Kris Stanley from Page Seven of L.A. A source close to you called us this morning and told us you were quite a few things. I was hoping to share them with you.”
I blinked. Blinked again. Definitely, New York sewage. That East Coast accent poured nastily out of her throat. I popped my cherry red lips. “Proceed, ’cause I don’t have all day. This is a school. Or did you not graduate? I’m an honors student. A role model. And I need to be on time. Now what is it?” I shook my head. “So gossip greedy and disrespectful.”
She smiled. Phony. “Thank you, Rich. Well, the source reported that you and London—”
“London! London! Don’t tell me, you’ve fallen off of a unicorn and you can’t get up? ’Cause your stupidity level is on an embarrassing ultra high right now, and my time is precious. Er’body knows, you don’t everrrrr step to me and mention London! That evil hater, who attacked me for no reason. Talks about me like a dog. Pretended to be my friend just so she could be considered important. And to think I used to really love that girl.” I sniffed. “We used to be the best of besties! Always at each other’s estates. Scratch that; she would be at my estate, and on occasion I’d visit her ranch. Everyone should do a little community service. But you get the point, we chilled together.”
“What happened?”
“She turned on me. Turned into a jealous and low-budget slum slut, who tried to play me like Drake and go after every boyfriend I had, especially JB. But her attacking me in Club Tantrum was the final straw. I had to drag her. Bust her in the throat. It was a momentary requirement. And just so you know, I’m not really a fighter, I’m a lady. Which is why, being the good and kindhearted person that I am, when she wrecked her suicide attempt, I went to visit her. Wished her better luck the next time. And do you know what she did?”
I looked over at my red carpet committee and they fed the crowd the answer: “Tossed Rich out and into the street.”
“Like. I was. Nothing.” I continued. “Check out YouTube, World Star, and Instagram; there’s a video. Trust me. Anything London lying Phillips has to say is fiction. She made it up. Why? Because London’s sole mission in life is to ruin me. That’s why her suicide attempt was a fake.”
“A fake?” The reporter asked in amazement, as if she either didn’t hear or didn’t believe me.
“Clutching. Pearls! Oh. Em. Gee. Really, lady? Where are you from? The lowest of the Lower East Side, down by the subway or that lil dirty lake? Get it together, honey. You’re in L.A. now. And everyone knows that London Phillips’s failed drop-dead attempt was all about—” I looked over at my red carpet committee.
“Attention.”
“Exactly. Attention. Otherwise, she would’ve been ghost. Literally. Like, seriously, how hard is it to check out? London Phillips is an Epic. Fail.” I blinked and flicked invisible specks of dirt off of my shoulder. “Hopefully that answers your question. And now, my birth—”
“One more thing!” The reporter shouted. “Another source said you were a vengeful, spiteful, nasty ho of a trampazoid, who was addicted to hot wings, blue cheese, and beer. Is any of that true?”
Oh no, she didn’t. I clenched my jaw so tight it’s a wonder my veneers didn’t shatter. I arched my brow with each word. “Spencer. Ellington. That. Ball. Guzzling. Whore. Bucket. Who every time she opens her mouth is either saying something stupid or spitting an STD out. Fire drawls. I’m going to end her life. Tonight.”