Hollywood High Page 4

  “Yeah,” she said. “I almost forgot you were taking pics.”

  “Yep and let’s not forget about the bonus.” I hit the video button and the entire café brawl unfolded.

  She sucked in a deep breath. Gave a nervous smile. “And what are you going to do with that?”

  “What else? We’re going to be the first to ensure that it gets all over the Internet.”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  I sucked my teeth and snapped my fingers. “London, I just broke it down to you, girlfriend. This is how we stay on people’s minds and have our names coming out of their mouths!” I attached the pictures and video to an e-mail I typed to my publicist. The e-mail read:

  Clair, you are to send this to everyone with the head-line that famous teen star Heather Cummings was attacked by crazed and jealous socialite Spencer Ellington, while London Phillips and Rich Montgomery were forced to save the day from psycho stalker, Co-Co Ming, son of the five-star Sushi King, Ying-Ming.

  I smiled and looked over at London. “Would you like to do the honors?” I pointed to the send button.

  She sniffed, thought for a moment, and said, “Why certainly.”

  “Now welcome to Hollywood High.” I smiled.

  After we secured our spot on the front page of every magazine, blog, and gossip site, we giggled at the thought of the video going viral. In the midst of us planning our shero speech for the public we heard Mr. Westwick’s heavy footsteps coming our way.

  We sat upright. Still. And watched Mr. Westwick walk in, release a burdened sigh, and hand his briefcase to his assistant, who stood behind him. I could already tell that they’d thought of a million ways to punish us: community service, breaking up our café table and forcing us to eat among the masses. Uniforms.

  I shuddered.

  “Young ladies—” Mr. Westwick said.

  Before he continued I screamed, “Oh God, Oh God, Oh God! Mr. Westwick, look at me, look at us!” I forced myself to cry and after a few seconds London caught on and joined me in falling apart.

  “That alien jumped us! Attacked us!” I sobbed. “He tried to drown London!”

  “I almost died!” London cried.

  “And we did nothing. Nothing!”

  “You beat him to a pulp!” Mr. Westwick said. “He’s in the hospital, suffering from a designer beat-down! This is Hollywood High Academy not the University of Gang Bangin’! Your parents pay a lot of money for you young ladies to attend this school and instead of learning, you all have torn up the café and are now sitting here looking as if you’ve survived a tsunami! This behavior is unacceptable.” He looked toward London. “And you, young lady, this is your first day and already you’re in my office. And you, Rich, have been here since your freshman year, so you know the proper decorum here at Hollywood High!”

  “Mr. Westwick, you’re right,” I agreed. “And you know that I’ve never had a brawl in school, so it had to be something critical.”

  He paused and cut his eyes over at London. “No, Rich, you’ve never been a discipline problem.”

  “She certainly hasn’t.” Mr. Sharp cut his eyes over at London as well.

  “I was minding my business!” London said. “And that cartoon puppy Co-Co Ming attacked me! What was I supposed to do? Where I come from we don’t stand for that.”

  “That is why we have security,” Mr. Westwick said. “We don’t take matters into our own hands and destroy the place!”

  Mr. Sharp added, “Someone has to pay for this!”

  “Do you take black card?” London asked.

  “Black card?” Mr. Westwick said, sounding borderline offended.

  “This way I could pay for the damages.”

  “And this could stay between us,” I said and arched one brow at a time. “No parents.”

  “And the café could be put back together by tomorrow.” London hunched her shoulders.

  “And if you don’t take American Express,” I interjected, “I have checks.”

  Mr. Westwick sat quietly. He stared at his assistant and then stared at us. Back to assistant. Back to us. “You young ladies have an image to uphold.” He scowled. “Hollywood High also has an image to uphold. Children here come from fine families. Not animal farms. We only educate the best, not the beast. And while I really don’t want to upset your parents, this behavior is unacceptable.”

  “Please, Mr. Westwick.” London folded her hands in a prayer position.

  “It won’t happen again,” I assured him.

  He paused. His eyes looked as if he were in deep thought. He went into his desk drawer and pulled out his personal credit card machine. “Just this once I will allow you to pay for the damages without your parents’ knowledge.”

  London handed him her card. He swiped it and charged a hundred thousand dollars. Small change.

  He looked at me. “You may make a check out for the same.”

  I smiled. “No problem.”

  Once we were done with our transactions Mr. Westwick said, “You young ladies may leave. No one wants to see you walk around here looking like Weapons of Mass Destruction! I will see you tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” London and I said simultaneously.

  We rose from the Queen Anne olive green leather chairs, picked up the pieces of our clothing and loose diamonds. We hobbled out of the lounge and once we were out of Mr. Westwick’s ear- and eyeshot, we looked at each other, leaned against the marble wall, and fell out laughing.

  7

  Heather

  Black.

  That’s all I remember seeing before I passed out.

  So how did I get here?

  Where everything was white.

  My heart raced as it dropped into my stomach. Sweat gathered in my palms. My breath was short. My skin was on fire. My eyes were swollen slits and everything moved in fast-forward motion as it danced before me.

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  I think I’m dead.

  No this was a dream...

  I squinted.

  Bright lights.

  Bright yellow lights, with shadows in the distance calling me . . .

  Oh . . . my . . . God . . . the light.

  This wasn’t a dream...

  Someone had killed me.

  I was dead.

  My body stiffened and all I could do was open my mouth and scream at the top of my lungs, “AHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHH!” Tears slipped from the corners of my eyes and burned their way down my face. “I didn’t want to die!” Snot oozed from my nose as I wailed.

  “Heather,” a gentle voice said, “calm down.”

  I hesitated. I felt like fire was lodged in my throat as I struggled to say, “Is that... Is that you, God?”

  “No. I’m Nurse James and this is Dr. Turner.”

  Angels. “Am I in purgatory?” I said too scared to open my eyes. Tears slid into the corners of my inflamed lips. I sniffed. “I know for the last few months I’ve been doing some dumb, dumb things. And I know I should’ve gone to church at least once a year for Easter. But, I was on the set all the time. And my mother was always too drunk to take me. Don’t hold it against me. Send my mother to hell. I’m just a child. And if you give me another chance at life I swear I’ll turn into a religious fanatic. What do you want me to be? Muslim? Buddhist? Baptist? Jewish? Catholic? Please,” I sobbed. “Please, Angels, put in a good word for me with God! I just need another chance. I don’t wanna go to hell! Oh God, Oh God,” I hyperventilated.

  “Heather, calm down, please,” the gentle voice said. “You’re not dead, honey. Open your eyes.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Look at me.”

  I took a deep breath and slowly opened my eyes. My vision was blurry but I could see a smiling brown face lean in next to me and from what I could decipher she wore a white nurse’s uniform.

  “You see.” She smiled. “I’m not an angel. I’m Nurse James. And you’re not dead. You’re in the hospital.”

  “Are you sure I’m not
dead?” I sniffed, ready to hyperventilate again.

  “Yes, dear. She’s sure. Of course you’re not dead.” That voice came from the foot of my bed. I opened my eyes wider and there was Satan.

  Now I really wished someone had killed me.

  “It’s your mother, darling,” Satan said as she crept over to the left side of my bed and kissed me on my forehead. “I’m so glad you’re awake.”

  I almost keeled over. The last time I heard Camille call me “darling” I was five and she was a torturing stage mom. A vision of her telling me to sit upright and smile for the camera flashed before me.

  I stiffened. Counted to three.

  “Why am I in the hospital?” I struggled to ask. “Why does my skin feel like it’s on fire and why are my eyes swollen?”

  Camille stroked my hair away from my face the way she used to do when I was little and she was sober. “Sweetness,” she said as tears filled her eyes and her voice trembled. “Those girls at your school are so cruel.” She wiped the lone tear that streaked her right cheek and I thought about the last movie she’d starred in—where the character she’d played hovered over her daughter’s body, with a lone tear making a trail from her eyes to her mouth, as she said the same exact line that Camille had just said to me.

  If Camille’s next words were, “You know I only want what’s best for you. So you have to leave those girls alone. They are not worthy of your friendship,” then I’d know for sure that she was reenacting her Golden Globe–nominated role.

  Camille cleared her throat and just as I thought, she said, “You know that I only want what’s best for you...” She rambled on, completed her line and it took everything in me not to banish her from my bedside while screaming, “Sick ass!”

  “Can you just tell me what happened to me?” I asked, annoyed.

  Camille continued to cry. “At your cheerleading competition one of the girls’ mother tried to kill you—”

  “What?!”

  “Oh, oh, that wasn’t you. Wrong girl,” she stammered, looking at the nurse and the doctor, who must’ve thought she was just as nuts as I knew she was. Camille continued, “Well umm, dear, when the school first called me I thought maybe a crazed fan had attacked you.”

  “So I was attacked?” My heart skipped a beat.

  “Yes, but not by a fan.”

  “Who attacked me?”

  “Heather, what do you remember?” the doctor asked.

  “I remember walking into my school’s café, signing a few autographs...I walked over to the table with my friends and that’s it. I don’t remember a thing after that.”

  “My poor child.” Camille held me to her bosom. “It hurts me so much when I think about what that girl did to you.”

  “Who did what to me?” I asked, baffled.

  Camille sniffed. “That Spencer Ellington maced you.”

  “What?!” I screeched. “What? When? Spencer? Spencer did this to me?”

  “Yes. But don’t worry I’ve already filed the lawsuit. And I’ve already arranged for us to have an interview on E! TV tomorrow. And you and I need to tell them everything.”

  “I’m not doing that!” I felt dizzy. Spencer did this to me?

  “Heather,” Camille leaned in and whispered, “You will sue her. And you will do that interview and you will not complain about it.”

  “Spencer is my friend!”

  “You have no friends.” Camille leaned back and stood up straight. “I’ve already told you that in Hollywood your friends are only as good as the last role you played!”

  “Ms. Cummings, that’s enough,” the nurse said.

  “I’m telling my child the truth,” Camille carried on. “You don’t know what it’s like to be America’s sweetheart one day and the next day be dashed away! I know what that’s like, so I have to look out for my daughter. Especially since that little trickster, Spencer, has this incident all over the Internet!”

  “What?” I said in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

  “It’s viral, Heather!” Camille smiled and then quickly erased the smile from her face and her thin lips took on a disappointed droop. “It’s viral! All over the world they are laughing at you and every news circuit is reporting the demise of Wu-Wu. So you have to do that interview. We have to emerge from this, so that our career stays on track—”

  “Ms. Cummings!” the doctor said sternly. “Enough.” He took a deep breath. “Heather, a little of what your mother said was correct, those girls you’re friendly with may not be your friends. You should take a look at how they treat you, because anyone who would mace you is questionable.”

  “How come I don’t remember that?” I asked.

  “Because,” the doctor said, “it seems that after you were maced you fell to the floor, hit your head, and suffered a slight concussion. Which may contribute to your not remembering the incident. But the good news is the concussion is slight, nothing too serious and you can go home today. We flushed your eyes when you arrived in the emergency room, and gave you a sedative to help you relax. You may feel groggy for a while, and your skin may feel a little inflamed. But, by the time you get home, you should feel much better and your vision should have cleared up as well.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” I said.

  “You’re welcome.” He turned to the nurse and said, “I’m going to prepare Heather’s discharge papers. Please have the orderlies bring the wheelchair around.”

  “I’ll call the driver to meet us out front,” Camille said as she waltzed out of the room and I wondered if I was the only one who noticed that she wore a mink shawl and a long-sleeved red ball gown. In California. In August.

  I was silent as we rode from the hospital to home. Camille stayed on the phone with our publicist demanding that she capture the moment and line up at least a month’s worth of interviews so that she could discuss my “life and death ordeal” and cry about how it felt to almost lose her only child.

  Strangle me.

  The driver pulled into the circular driveway and I was so anxious to get away from Camille that I didn’t wait for the driver to open the door, I let myself out.

  I slid my bumblebee sunglasses on and walked up the overgrown grassy path that led to our bungalow. I was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to chill and relax with a hit of Black Beauty. My eyes were still swollen and my vision remained a little foggy but there was no doubt in my mind that with one hit of Heaven I would be able to see clearly.

  Camille clicked her off-beat heels behind me and her laughter cackled through the sky like thunder as she raved to the publicist about how this incident would be the comeback that she needed.

  Pathetic.

  We walked into the house. I made a right and Camille made a left to the bar.

  Typical.

  I opened the double doors that led to my platinum and white vintage-Hollywood bedroom. I stepped into the room and for a moment I wondered if I were in the Twilight Zone.

  Yeah, that’s exactly where I am . . .

  I stepped backward across the threshold and pulled the doors closed. My eyes had to be playing tricks on me. Yeah, that had to be it. Especially since my bedroom, which I kept spotless—mostly because I didn’t want the maid going through my things—was in a catastrophic state.

  Jesus ...

  I took a deep breath and opened the doors slowly.

  Same shit. Different minute.

  Clothes were scattered everywhere: on my floor, hanging out of my closet door, strewn across my dresser. My all-glass high-boy drawers were hung open, with fingerprints smudged all over the glass, causing it to look smoky as opposed to its usual pristine.

  My queen-sized sleigh bed was rumpled. My scripts were ... scattered... everywhere. My signed and framed posters of Dorothy Dandridge and Josephine Baker were crooked, and my floor to ceiling all-glass bookcase was a total disaster.

  My heart dropped.

  Split in two.

  The aorta clogged my throat while the rest exploded in my chest.


  Sweat gathered on my forehead and ran down my temples.

  I couldn’t think. All I could do was react.

  I rushed over to my bookcase, climbed the attached ladder and frantically searched the top shelf.

  It’s not here...

  But this is where I keep it.

  Calm down. Maybe you moved it.

  But I never move it...

  Hysterically, I searched the next shelf, and the next, and the next. . . .

  Knocked everything off and by the time I reached the last shelf, all I’d done was add to the mess.

  I was queasy, seconds from throwing up or passing out, or both.

  “Camille!” I screamed, as I stood to the floor and whipped around, prepared to go to war. And there she was, leaning against the doorway, smiling wickedly, with a drink in one hand and my bag of Heaven in the other.

  “Would you happen to be looking for this?” She shook the ice in her glass and sipped.

  I was frozen. Watched my bag of pills swing back and forth in her hand like a pocket watch. I swallowed, wiped sweat from my forehead and said, “How dare you come into my room! Who gave you the right to go through my things?!”

  “This is my house!” she insisted.

  “Your house was foreclosed on! I pay rent here! Now give me my things and stay out of my room!”

  “I’m not giving you anything and I will come in here anytime I want to!”

  I sprinted toward Camille, fist balled, and right hook ready to lay her down. I had every intention of knocking her in the head and snatching my bag of Heaven from her hand. But suddenly, as if I were remote controlled, I stopped in my tracks.

  Camille smiled and took another sip. She narrowed her eyes on me and said, “Oh now, Wu-Wu’s turned into Billie Jean Badass? Well, isn’t this something? Instead of trying to attack me you should’ve handled Spencer. Because from what I saw on that video, after your little booty bags deflated, you were flat on your back and screaming for help. So don’t try and get tough with me, young lady. Now, collect yourself and mind your manners!” She stuffed my pills into her bra.