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Authors: Ni-Ni Simone

Hollywood High (3 page)

BOOK: Hollywood High
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4
Heather
M
y eyes were heavy.
Sinking.
And the more I struggled to keep them open the heavier they felt. I wasn't sure what time it was. I just knew that dull yellow rays had eased their way through the slits of my electronic blinds, so I guessed it was daylight.
Early morning, maybe?
Maybe . . .?
My head was splitting.
Pounding.
The room was spinning.
I tried to steady myself in bed, but I couldn't get my neck to hold up my head.
I needed to get it together.
I had something to do.
Think, think, think... what is it...
I don't know.
Damn.
I fell back against my pillow and a few small goose feathers floated into the air like dust mites.
I was messed up. Literally.
My mouth was dry. Chalky. And I could taste the stale Belvedere that had chased my way to space. No, no, it wasn't space. It was Heaven. It had chased my way to the side of Heaven that the crushed up street candy, Black Beauty, always took me to. A place where I loved to be ... where I didn't need to snort Adderall to feel better, happier, alive. A place where I was always a star and never had to come off the set of my hit show, or step out of the character I played—Wu-Wu Tanner. The pop-lock-and-droppin'-it, fun, loving, exciting, animal-print wearing, suburban teenager with a pain in the butt little sister, an old dog, and parents who loved Wu-Wu and her crazy antics.
A place where I was nothing like myself—Heather Cummings. I was better than Heather. I was Wu-Wu. A star. Every day. All day.
I lay back on my king-sized wrought iron bed and giggled at the thought that I was two crushed pills away from returning to Heaven.
I closed my eyes and just as I envisioned Wu-Wu throwing a wild and crazy neighborhood party, “You better get up!” sliced its way through my thoughts. “And I mean right now!”
I didn't have to open my eyes or turn toward the door to know that was Camille, my mother.
The official high blower.
“I don't know if you think you're Madame Butterfly, Raven-Simoné, or Halle Berry!” she announced as she moseyed her way into my room and her matted mink slippers slapped against the wood floor. “But I can tell you this, the cockamamie bull you're trying to pull this morning—”
So it was morning.
She continued, “—Will not work. So if you know what's best for you, you'll get up and make your way to school!”
OMG! That's what I have to do! It's the first day of school.
My eyes popped open and immediately landed on my wall clock: 10:30 A.M. It was already third period.
I sat up and Camille stood at the foot of my bed with her daily uniform on: a long and silky white, spaghetti-strap, see-through nightgown, matted mink slippers, and a drink in her hand—judging from the color it was either brandy or Scotch. I looked into her ice-chipped blue eyes. It was Scotch for sure. She shook her glass and the ice rattled. She flipped her honey blond hair over her blotchy red shoulders and peered at me.
I shook my head. God, I hated that we resembled each other. I had her thin upper lip, the same small mole on my left eyelid, her high cheekbones, her height (5'6” ), her shape (a busty 34DD), her narrow hips and small butt.
Our differences: I looked Latin although I wasn't. I was somewhere in between my white mother and mysterious black father. My skin was Mexican bronze, or more like a white girl baked by the Caribbean sun. My hair was Sicilian thick and full of sandy brown coils. My chocolate eyes were shaped like an ancient Egyptian's. Slanted. Set in almonds. I didn't really look white and I definitely didn't look black. I just looked... different. Biracial—whatever that was. All I knew is that I hated it.
Which is why, up until the age of ten, every year for my birthday I'd always blow out the candles with a wish that I could either look white like my mother or black like my father.
This in-between thing didn't work for me. I didn't want it. And I especially didn't like looking Spanish, when I wasn't Spanish when people asked me what was I? Where did I come from? Or someone would instantly speak Spanish to me! WTF! How about I only spoke English! And what was I? I was an American mutt who just wanted to belong somewhere, anywhere other than the lonely middle.
Damn.
“Heather Suzanne Cummings,” Camille spat as she rattled her drink and caused some of it to spill over the rim. “I'm asking you not to try me this morning, because I am in no mood. Therefore I advise you to get up and make your way to school—”
“What, are you running for PTA president or something?” I snapped as I tossed the covers off of me and stood to the floor. “Or is there a parent-teachers' meeting you're finally going to show up to?”
Camille let out a sarcastic laugh and then she stopped abruptly. “Don't be offensive. Now shut up.” She sipped her drink and tapped her foot. Her voice slurred a little. “I don't give a damn about those teachers' meetings or PETA, or PTTA, PTA or whatever it is. I care about my career, a career that you owe me.”
“I don't owe you anything!” I walked into my closet and she followed behind me.
“You owe me everything!” she screamed. “I know you don't think you're hot because you have your own show, do you?” She snorted. “Well let me blow your high, missy—”
You already have. . . .
She carried on. “You being the star of that show is only because of me. It's because of me and my career you were even offered the audition. I'm the star! Not you! Not Wu-Wu! But me, Camille Cummings, Oscar award-winning—”
“Drunk!” I spat. “You're the Oscar award-winning and washed up drunk! Whose career died three failed rehabs and a million bottles ago—!”
WHAP!!!!
Camille's hand crashed against my right cheek and forced my neck to whip to the left and get stuck there.
She downed the rest of her drink and took a step back. For a moment I thought she was preparing to assume a boxer's position. Instead she squinted her eyes and pointed at me. “If my career died, it's because I slept with the devil and gave birth to you! You ungrateful little witch. Now,” she said through clenched teeth as she lowered her brow, “I suggest you get to school, be seen with that snotty-nose clique. And if the paparazzi happens to show up you better mention my name every chance you get!”
“I'm not—”
“You
will
. And
you will
like it. And
you will
be nice to those girls and act as if you like each and every one of them, and especially that fat-pissy-princess Rich!” She reached into her glass, popped a piece of ice into her mouth, and crunched on it. “The driver will be waiting. So hurry up!” She stormed out of my room and slammed the door behind her.
I stood frozen. I couldn't believe that she'd put her hands on me. I started to run out of the room after her, but quickly changed my mind. She wasn't worth chipping a nail, let alone attacking her and giving her the satisfaction of having me arrested again. The last time I did that it took forever for that story to die down and besides, the creators of my show told me that another arrest would surely get me fired and Wu-Wu Tanner would be no more.
That was not an option.
So, I held my back straight, proceeded to the shower, snorted two crushed Black Beauties, and once I made my way to Heaven and felt like a star, I dressed in a leopard cat suit, hot pink feather belt tied around my waist, chandelier earrings that rested on my shoulders, five-inch leopard wedged heels, and a chinchilla boa tossed loosely around my neck. I walked over to my full-length mirror and posed. “Mirror, mirror on the wall who's the boom-boom-flyest of 'em all?” I did a Beyoncé booty bounce, swept the floor, and sprang back up.
The mirror didn't respond but I knew for sure that if it had, it would've said, “You doin' it, Wu-Wu. You boom-bop-bustin'-it-fly!”
 
“Good day, madam,” my driver said as he held the limo's door open for me.
“Good day, Charles.” I nodded as I walked up the red carpet toward Hollywood High's entrance. And just in case there were any paparazzi hiding in the bushes I threw my hips and silicone-filled booty pads in overdrive, rocking them from side to side.
I walked on cloud nine and the moment the doorman opened the double glass doors and I walked into the school's marble foyer, I felt like ordering someone to signal the trumpets and announce that I'd arrived.
I made a brief stop into the headmaster's office and smiled at him. Mr. Westwick shook his head and pointed to the clock: 12:30 P.M.
“I had to get dressed.” I smiled.
He didn't smile back; instead he simply nodded and said, “School begins at half past eight. But I will make an exception today.”
“Merci. I forgot my schedule. What class am I supposed to be in?”
He perched his thin lips. “Miss Cummings, it's lunch time. The juniors are all dining in the Déjeuner Café.”
I really was late.
“Bonjour.”
I threw my hips in motion and clicked my Manolo Blahniks toward the café, which could easily pass for any topnotch club in the city—white leather couches, reclining chairs, lava-topped tables, plasma TVs, white glove service. The glass doors slid back and I stepped into the room of the Who's Who.
Cliques were everywhere. And seated in the same exact place they'd be this time every day until the school year ended. And when the school year began again, they'd resume position.
There were the jocks, their cheerleaders, the glees, the wannabes, the newbies, who sat across from their rivals, the fogies, better known as old money. The foodies, who complained about weight all day, and the super skinnies—who complained about weight all day. The preppies who wouldn't be caught dead not wearing Polo. And the hip-hop crew who wouldn't be caught dead wearing Polo. The rock-star goth kids whose parents hoped would one day appreciate the sun, and the half-dead
Twilight
kids who wore pale white make-up on purpose and whose secret code words for cuties were “team Edward” and “team Jake.” And they all had one thing in common: they were all rich, filthy rich. But the one thing they didn't have was access to the clique of all cliques: The It clique. The Pampered Princesses.
The Pampered Princesses sat in the center of the room, surrounded by peons. And these princesses weren't rich. They were wealthy. Quite a difference. This clique had money that defined infinity. They could easily lunch in Paris, have dinner in Spain, and then hop on their parents' private planes and be home in time for a nightcap. They were not the “Who's Who,” they were the “Who.” The
who
you wanted to be, wanted to be seen with, wanted to be associated with, and would lay on a table and sell your kidney to be friends with. If you were with this clique then you'd made it.
Period.
And lucky for me, they decided that Wu-Wu Tanner, the hottest teen star ever, was worthy of their company—even if they didn't really like me and I absolutely couldn't stand them. Well, I could halfway tolerate Spencer. She wasn't as judgmental as that loud mouth and ever-ready, throw-the-rock-and-fold-her-manicured-hands drama trick, Rich, or that Upper East Side–oh-this-is-how-we-do-it-in-New-York Buffy-chick, London.
But whatever. None of that was important at the moment. What was important was my fan club president, Co-Co Ming, waving his tiny hand and dying to get my attention. I smiled and looked his way. “We love you, Wu-Wu!” he screamed.
I returned his smile and blew him and his clique, the Stalkers and the Gawkers, air-kisses. “Oh, doll, Wu-Wu loves you, too.”
Co-Co Ming and his table screamed.
After signing a few autographs, doing my signature catcall, “Ahh Wu-Wu!” and moonwalking across the room, I finally made my way over to the Pampered Princesses. I fought with everything in me not to allow my eyes to inch toward the ceiling. I could feel myself about to roll them, hard. But, I didn't. I leveled them and instead shot a wide smile, all teeth. Besides, out of all of them
I
was the only one who didn't need my parents for star status.
I
was the star.
I snapped my fingers and said, “Meow.” And don't ask me why but a heated rush came over me and I felt like breaking it down and busting it out! So I did. I moved my hips from side to side, snaked down to the floor, and did a booty pop, all while chanting, “Ahhh, Wu-Wu's in the house!” I popped up and repeated my routine. “I said, Ahhh, Wu-Wu's in the house! A pow-pow! I said, Ahhh, Wu-Wu—”
BAM! POP! DROP! “Ahhhhhhhh!” I screamed. Suddenly, my heels slipped from beneath me, and everything went black.
BOOK: Hollywood High
7.29Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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