Rumor Central
Page 21
This has to be a mistake.
I marched over toward them, then stood and stared at the group of chicks who had foolishly parked their behinds and taken up space at our table. These preemies had our table covered with a fuchsia tablecloth. And they had the nerve to have the table set with fine china and a candelabra in the center of the table, as if they were preparing for some kind of holiday feast. And they sat pretty as they pleased, as if they owned the room.
They all wore their hair pulled back into sleek, shiny ponytails with colorful jeweled clips. I ice-grilled them, expecting them to scatter like frightened roaches. Not! They didn’t budge. Didn’t even blink an eyelash. Nope, those munchkin critters defiantly stayed planted in their seats and continued on with their chatter as if I didn’t exist. And at that very moment, I felt like the whole cafeteria had zoomed in on me. I quickly glanced around the room to assess the situation. They had. And it was turning into a nightmare. All eyes were clearly on me! Cameras clicked.
I cleared my throat.
They continued talking and laughing.
Did they come here to bring it?
If I wasn’t so peeved at their disrespect, I would have been impressed. And truth is, they were adorable. But that was not the time, nor the place, to give props to a bunch of bratty Beanie Babies trying to serve me drama. I had enough of that with my own clique, so I sure wasn’t going to tolerate it from a bunch of ninth-grade peons in navy blazers, green-and-blue plaid pleated skirts, and black Nine West pumps.
I picked up a fork from off the table and tapped one of the glasses with it. “Umm, excuse you. Excuse you, excuse you.”
The chick sitting at the far end of the table craned her neck in my direction and stared me down. She had beautiful skin and an oversized forehead. “The name’s Harlow. H-A-R-L-O-W. And whaaat? You want my autograph? ’Cause I don’t do groupies.”
Oh no, now I knew that them being at our table was not a mistake. Those tricklets had strutted over to this side of the campus purposely to bring it. All in the name of getting it crunked.
Now, along with the media, we had teenybopper freshmen trying to bring it to us!
They really don’t want it. Apparently they don’t know what they’re asking for.
I took a deep breath. Determined to keep it cute, calm, and collected. I couldn’t afford to dish out another hundred grand for tearing up the café, again. Daddy would kill me for sure. “Sweetie, I don’t know who misplaced your lunch period, and I’m sure this is your nap time. But this right here”—I patted the table—“is not for you.”
She smirked. “And you are?”
I tilted my head. “About to become your worst nightmare in a minute if you-all don’t get up from this table.”
The four of them stared at each other, then looked around as if they were searching for something. “Umm, excuse me, Starlets,” the Harlow chick said to her little Cheerios crew. “Do any of you see a name tag with the name Buffalo Hips on it?”
“Creature from the wild . . .” the three others sang out.
“Is looking for someplace to sit,” a golden-brown chick sitting next to Harlow added.
Stay calm.
Just relax.
Let me try this again.
“Umm, where’s your babysitter? Because apparently there’s been an escape from the nursery; toddlers gone wild . . .”
“Umm, excuse me, Miss London,” one of the white-gloved servers said, coming to the table with two trays. I blinked. He set a platter of burgers and milk shakes in the center of the table, then walked off, eyeing me.
Then those little disrespectful chicks had the nerve to snap open their napkins and lay them neatly on their laps.
Oh, this had gone too far!
I placed a hand up on my hip and tossed my Fendi hobo bag in the center of the table, disrupting everything on it. They jumped.
“Eww . . .”
“Ohmygod . . .”
“Did someone dump their garbage here? How gross is that.”
“Isn’t that last year’s bag?”
“Exaaaactly, Arabia,” Miss Forehead said, tossing her ponytail. “Old head’s tryna serve us. Now get your fashion right.”
Wait. Did Forehead just call me an old head?
They waved their arms up in the air and snapped. “Mmmph, exaaaaactly.”
The other two sitting across from Harlow and the Arabia chick snickered, like two cackling backup singers. They really didn’t understand. I was trying to spare them from a beatdown. Truth is they reminded me of me, and my old clique back in New York when we were their age. But that was then. And this was now! Still, they had heart. And they were sassy. Their diamonds sparkled. And one of them I knew for sure had money. I could smell it all over her. But that had nothing to do with all four of them being totally out of line.
I leaned in and spoke real tight-lipped. “I don’t know if you four little bimbos are trying to be cute, or intentionally trying to work me over, or if you simply banged your oversized foreheads on the monkey bars during recess, but obviously you all missed the memo on which clique reigned supreme here.”
They burst out laughing all hard and crazy, then stopped abruptly.“Hmmm”—they snapped their fingers—“Not!”
The Harlow chick turned to me and said, “No, ma’am, we didn’t miss the memo. We didn’t miss the blogs either. Let’s see. If we’re not mistaken, they all say”—she glanced over at her posse—“drum roll, please . . .”
“Losers!” they shouted in unison.
The cafeteria erupted in laughter.
My face was cracked. I couldn’t believe that a pack of toddlers in cheesy uniforms were trying to set it off and disrespect me to my face. Cute girls or not, this was a problem!
Cameras continued clicking.
The Harlow chick was clearly Miss Mouth Almighty—and the appointed ringleader. “Page twenty-seven in Hot or Not magazine”—she started flipping through the tabloid—“says that the Pampered Princesses have fallen apart.” She eyed me, putting a hand up to her chest. “Oooh, look at Heather . . .”
“Junkie,” they sang out.
Another said, “Aaah, Wu-Wu’s in the house.”
“Not!” they all said, snapping their fingers again.
Harlow continued. “Black beauties, baby . . .”
“Crushed and ready to go . . .” the backup singers sang out. “Got it on lock . . .”
The Arabia chick said. “Oooh-oooh . . . don’t forget about the fakest of ’ em all.”
“Who, Rich?” Harlow smirked.
“Boom bop, make it drop,” they all said in unison. “Pop pop, get it, get it . . .”
“Yeah, a baby,” Harlow sneered.
“Clutching pearls, clutching pearls,” her three cheerleaders mocked, placing a hand up to their necks.
The café went wild.
It was clear that these girls had been watching us hard. Mmmph, even the young broads trying to jock our spots.
Harlow rolled her eyes. “Oh, puhleeeeze. How tired is that? Clutching pearls. Who says that?”
“Has-beens,” one of her giggling sidekicks snorted.
“Mmmm, exaaaaactly!” Harlow and the Arabia chick snapped.
“Oh, wait,” Harlow stated excitedly, clapping her hands together. “Let’s not forget Spencer . . .”
“The dizzy chick,” they said. “Smells like cat pee . . . smells like cat pee . . .”
“Somewhere . . .”
“Down on her knees. Down on her knees,” they all chimed in.
“Mopping the floor and making videos,” Arabia added.
“Nine-one-one, this is an emergency . . . this is an emergency . . .”
I was hot! Rich was somewhere knocked up, Heather was somewhere drugged up or going through withdrawals, and Spencer was probably somewhere neck bobbing. And, once again, I was the one getting dragged—alone!
Harlow eyed me up and down, curling her lips up into a dirty sneer. “And you, London . . .”
O
hhhhkay, here we go!
“Freak!” they all yelled out in unison. “Caught up in the matrix . . . Caught up in the matrix . . .”
I blinked.
And before I could catch myself, before she could get the rest of her sentence finished, I backhanded her so hard she fell backward. And spit slung from her mouth. They all screamed as I swung that little Gerber baby around the café and gave her the beatdown of her life. Then, in the midst of all the cameras clicking and tables being tossed up, the other three Romper Room hookers jumped up on my back and tackled me to the floor. And the only thing I could think about was being stomped down by a bunch of Crenshaw Crippettes in cheap, pleather pumps. This was a state of emergency!
I was clearly behind enemy lines. And it was all Rich’s, Spencer’s, and Heather’s fault because they didn’t know how to handle their scandal.
DAFINA KTEEN BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2013 by ReShonda Tate Billingsley
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
KTeen logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.
Sunburst logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-8951-3
eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-8952-0
eISBN-10: 0-7582-8952-9
First Electronic Edition: May 2013