Fabulous (17 page)

Marisol
October 6 @ 6:00 a.m. | Mood: Rejuvenated

“Good
morning, Marisol. Rise and shine. Today is the first day of the rest of your fabulous life.”

Marisol grunted softly as she rolled over on the Egyptian cotton sheets on her bed. With a long stretch and a yawn she reached over to her nightstand and turned her alarm clock off.

She flipped the covers back before she hopped to her bare feet. She was getting up extra early. She had a lot of catching up to do.

Marisol headed straight to her adjoining bathroom and began going through her prestrike morning ritual. When she emerged forty-five minutes later, she felt more like herself than ever.

Hair: freshly shampooed, conditioned, dried and then
straightened with a ceramic flat iron in a glossy side ponytail.

Face: a minifacial left her feeling tingly beneath the light moisturizer she wore with just very light mascara, a light dusting of blush and sheer lip gloss.

Body: soaked and scrubbed in a milk bath that left her light brown skin soft.

Marisol turned on her iPod docking station and the sounds of Beyoncé filled the air. With nothing but a plush towel wrapped around her, she danced over to her walk-in closet.

“‘Standing in the light of your halo, I got my angel now…’” Marisol said as she tried to mimick the lyrics. She was Beyoncé’s off-key backup singer. She rushed to get dressed in her perfectly coordinated Ralph Lauren outfit.

Once she was dressed, Marisol stepped onto the pedestal in front of the three-way mirror. She smiled and posed.

Mrs. Lester was right. The real Marisol was all about the hair, the makeup and the clothes. Always had been, always would be.

The cream silk blouse opened just enough to show a hint of the gold chains she wore—a perfect complement to the stiff cotton gaucho pants she wore with a braided leather belt and the “it” accessory of the season, the Louis V Spicy sandal. Beyoncé, Christina Milian and Ciara all rocked them—which made them a must-have.

She walked to her round dressing table and opened the suede jewelry box to pull out a huge turquoise ring to wear on her index finger and her diamond Rolex.

Right or wrong, Marisol felt like some of her power was back.

Why deny herself?

She would just have to find another way to come to grips with her family drama.

Grabbing her olive-colored alligator leather jacket and her classic Gucci tote, Marisol left her room more than ready for the start of a brand-new fabulous day.

Marisol strutted down the hall, but she backed up a few paces at the sight of her brother’s room through his open door.

“You’re gross,” she told him, holding her nose to block the offending smell of feet, dirty boxers…and…food?
What the…?

She never could wrap her mind around her parents allowing him to keep his room like that.

Carlos eyed her as he dug in his nose with his index finger and pulled out a huge booger. “Hungry?” he said, as he stood up with his loaded finger pointed dead at her.

Marisol’s eyes widened. “You better not,” she warned him in rapid Spanish.

He ran at her.

Marisol shrieked and ran. When she almost slid down the length of the hall in her heels, she froze and whirled on him. He pulled up short in surprise. Marisol pointed a manicured finger at him. “If you put that thing on me I will order the maids to clean your room and to throw away all of that creepy, gross crap you keep in that closet,” she warned him with the evil eye.

Carlos took a step forward.

“And I’ll tell Papi you were the one who used his suede Bruno Maglis as boats for your stupid turtles.”

Carlos frowned in thought.

“Or that you gave Mama’s new bracelet to that teacher you had a crush on. You know the teacher who kept the bracelet.”

Carlos stomped his foot in frustration before he promptly sucked the booger on his finger.

Marisol’s stomach went in reverse as she gagged.

He turned and walked back into his room.

Marisol straightened her outfit and smoothed her hair before she turned and continued down the hall. She actually felt herself smile. At least things were starting to feel like normal.

Steadying herself in the heels that were testing her ankles, Marisol held the banister as she made her way down the stairs and into the dining room. She paused in the doorway to see her parents sitting at the table together. Her mother buttered a piece of toast before sitting it on her father’s plate. He used the silver decanter to fill his cup with coffee before leaning forward a bit to fill her mother’s cup.

No words were said but something in the way they did those small things for each other made Marisol breathe a little bit easier. Like maybe they were going to be okay as a family.

“Hola, mi familia,”
she said, taking her seat next to her mother at the round table.

“Marisol, you look very pretty. I see you’re back to
your old self,” Yasmine said, before signaling the maid to bring in the breakfast.

“Just a little something I threw on,” she joked before taking a sip of her freshly squeezed orange juice.

She felt her father’s eyes on her but he said nothing. The distance between them remained.

“Marisol, where is Carlos? He’s going to miss breakfast.”

“He’s already eaten,” Marisol drawled sarcastically as the maid set a plate of bacon, scrambled eggs and French toast before her. She removed the bacon. Now that she was back to being fine and fabulous she had to make sure her bottom half didn’t outrace her top half too much.

“Well, I have some good news,” Alex said as he cut into his French toast. “My publicist called and
Latina
magazine wants to do an article on your mother.”

Yasmine dropped her fork in surprise. “Me?” she said.

“It’s up to you, of course,” he said with a smile.

“¡Dios mío! ¡Dios mío! ¡Dios mío!”
Yasmine repeated.

That made Marisol smile.

Yasmine rose from her chair as if to hug Alex but then stopped and sat back down, pressing her hands into her lap and she just offered him a reserved smile. “I’ll have to think about it.”

That made Marisol’s smile fall a bit.

Just like that the tension returned.

Anxious to be on her way, Marisol finished her breakfast and rose to her feet. She bent down to press a kiss
to her mother’s high cheekbone…and then her father’s after a little pause.

He smiled up at her and Marisol had to admit that it felt good to know that something so simple from her could make him happy. Not money. Not the flashing bulbs of the paparazzi. Not the screams of his adoring fans.

Just a kiss from his little girl.

Marisol checked her appearance one last time in her mirror before she climbed out of the back of the Jaguar to join Dionne and Starr. “Whassup, ladies?”

“Nice accessories,” Starr said, circling her.

“Good color against your skin,” Dionne added.

“Those shoes
are
the bizness.”

“Just the right amount of makeup,” Dionne said. “Just enough to bring life to your face—”

“And not too much to make you look like a geisha,” Starr drawled.

Marisol struck a pose playfully before bursting into a fit of giggles. “Think everyone is ready for all this fabulousness?”

“I know I am,” Starr assured her, looking good herself in a black SoCal utility jacket, silk white tank, black skinny jeans and bright red booties.

Dionne was more laid-back in her orange V-neck silk sweaterdress with brown riding boots and a big chunky leather belt.

Marisol saw Jordan when he parked and hopped out of his Mercedes-Benz in all black. She bumped Starr.
“Jordan looks nice,” she said, cutting her eye at Dionne before they both cut their eye at Starr. “Did you two plan the whole color-coordination thing?”

“Maybe that’s what he whispered in her ear that made her faint?” Dionne teased.

Starr stiffened as she eyed Dionne like rain on a new pair of Louboutin suede shoes. “We swore never to mention that again,” she reminded them.

“The kiss on your neck or the fainting?” Marisol asked, biting her lip to keep from giggling.

“With friends like you two, who needs enemies?” Starr snapped, her eyes blazing as she flipped her longer bangs back behind her diamond-studded ear.

Dionne shrugged.

Marisol busied herself reapplying her Cotton Candy lip gloss—it looked and tasted good. As they made their way up the steps and into the building, Marisol could feel the Pace Academy students buzzing with her triumphant return to the spotlight. She felt like a model—no, a super-model—on the runway. Rihanna onstage. Miss America taking her victory walk with the crown secure on her head. Her father in the center of the baseball field after he’d pitched a no-hitter.

“All eyes on me.”

She liked it. She liked it a lot.

Eat that, Diva of Drama.

By the time lunch came around, Marisol had officially reclaimed her spot as a real Pacesetter.

Ding.

UR#1STARR: Hurry up 2 caf.

Marisol’s fingers flew off the keyboard.

MARIMARI: ON THE WAY. HEELS HIGHER THAN I THOUGHT.

Marisol closed her locker and locked it, fighting the urge to put on her Juicy Couture sneakers and completely ruin “the look.”

“Hi, Marisol.”

She paused and looked over her shoulder. She frowned at Percy Gambling standing there. His father was a quarterback with one of the NFL teams and he was completely dominating their division. Percy was a junior. Quite popular for a jock. And the girls all adored him. He was cute in that deep chocolate, dimpled sort of way.

They had done a page on him in their Hot Boyz playbook two summers ago:

What does he want?

“Hi, Percy,” she said, her stomach suddenly filled with nerves. Before she did or said something stupid, Marisol turned to continue her journey to the dining hall.

“Hey, hold up,” he hollered behind her.

Ohmygod, she thought as she nervously bit the Cotton Candy from her lips. She sighed as she turned again to face him jogging up to her in a preppy Tommy Hilfiger look that he made edgy with a rock-star-style belt and aviator shades.

Okay, can anyone say…yummy?

“I thought I could get your number and call you sometime?” he said, smiling down at her from his six-two frame towering over her barely five-seven self—in heels, mind you. She felt like a dwarf facing him.

Marisol smiled at him and twirled her ponytail around her finger. “Uhm…no. Thanks but no thanks,” she told him, before turning and hightailing it away, careful not to trip, slide or stumble as she pressed her heels against the shiny polished black floor.

She was not ready to reclaim her shine…especially with a cute athlete who had fast girls throwing their Fruit of the Looms at him left and right. That was way too close to her mother’s story. She wasn’t ready for the foolishness of boys who grew up to be even more foolish men.

Starr
October 6 @ 11:00 a.m. | Mood: Powerful

Starr
still could not believe that her father’s PR team had so quickly and efficiently spun the truth. She was still embarrassed, but at least now people were offering her condolences and not just snickering behind her back. Of course, now everyone was wondering what her mystery illness was, but at least they were too sympathetic to post pictures of her Fruit of the Looms all over the Net. Even her unknown nemesis, the Diva of Drama, gave her a pass.

She still couldn’t believe that a simple kiss to the neck from Jordan had made her pass out.
What the…?

“We still need to out who the Diva of Dumb is,” Starr reminded both Dionne and herself.

Dionne shrugged. “She’s the one sitting around watching us, talking about us and truly hating us because she can’t be us. Haters are fuel. Gas me up. I don’t care.”

Starr laughed, wishing she had Dionne’s spunk all the time.

She fingered her new diamond Rolex watch as they waited in the hall outside the cafeteria for Marisol. “She’s on the way,” Starr told Dionne, who was now applying a fresh gooey layer of lip gloss.

“You still haven’t told us what all you got for your birthday,” Dionne said as she capped the tube and dropped it back into her Gucci tote.

“And you never told me about the status of you and Reggie,” Starr told her as a few students walked past them into the dining hall.

“You first.”

She pointed to her watch and the pink Ricky bag on her arm. “And the kids at school got me a bunch of cute stuff like T-shirts with crazy sayings, makeup and stuff. Most of it we’re donating to a couple children’s hospitals and group homes. And of course the Gucci outfits and jewelry you and Marisol got me were purrfect.”

Starr waited patiently as Dionne studied her nails. She cleared her throat.

“I’m not really feeling Reggie. But we’ll see where it goes,” Dionne admitted. “But he has stopped the pervert talk. Thank God. I had built a bridge and got way over
that
mess.”

Starr laughed as she spotted Marisol through the window. “Marisol looks so cute today. Definitely four stars.”

“Definitely,” Dionne agreed, rising from where she was seated in a large windowsill.

“Things better with her parents?” Starr asked, genuinely concerned.

Dionne shrugged. “She doesn’t talk about it.”

The click-clack of Marisol’s heels echoed down the length of the hall as she made her way to them. “Sorry I’m late, but I don’t know how Beyoncé does heels all day, every day. Three inches are my limit.”

“Fashion is pain,” Starr told her, something out the window catching her eye. Jordan and Heather in the middle of a heated discussion. Lovers’ spat? Whateva. Heather could have him because she was offering up something Starr couldn’t compete with.
S-E-X.
Plain and simple.

“When are they going to pull Heather in the office for that crap she wears?” Starr asked, her eyebrows drawing together as Jordan turned to walk away, but Heather grabbed his arm.

“You talking about that extra-tight, coochie-cutting jumpsuit she got on?” Dionne asked as she turned toward the windowsill where she sat and looked out the window, as well.

Marisol joined them at the window. “I see London. I see France. I see Heather with no underpants.”

Starr knew her friends were trying to help, but she kept her facial expression neutral…even though on the inside it really ticked her off to see them together.
What’s that about?

“Wonder what that’s all about?” Dionne asked, taking the words out of her mouth.

They both looked on as Jordan snatched away from Heather and walked into the main hall. Heather dropped her head in her hands and it was obvious she was crying.

“Trouble in paradise?” Dionne speculated.

They watched as Heather suddenly bent over and threw up on the front lawn.

The Pacesetters let out a little gasp of surprise…and curiosity.

“Is she…preggers?” Dionne asked in a whisper that really wasn’t a whisper at all.

“Oh. My. God.” Starr felt like her mouth couldn’t—wouldn’t—close.

D-R-A-M-A!
Times Ten.

“Oooooooh,” Marisol said, like she was about to go run and tell. She clasped her hand over her own mouth.

They all stood there and watched as Heather ran toward the parking lot—and not the main hall, where the nurse’s office was on the first floor.

At the scent of Gucci Rush cologne, Starr looked over her shoulder. Jordan stormed past them into the dining hall not even speaking to them, leaving the doors swaying back and forth in his wake.

The girls all looked at each other before they all spoke at once:

“Maybe it’s the flu.”

“Maybe she’s just sick.”

“Maybe she ate something bad.”

Starr was the first to recover. That was the job of a leader. “Listen, we have more important things on our calendar than wondering about Jordan and Heather,” she said, even though in her mind she was going to get to the bottom of it…and soon!

She plucked a piece of lint from Dionne’s sleek ponytail.

She tapped her lips to suggest a fresh coat of gloss to Marisol.

“It’s been a rough six weeks, girls. Plenty of people were waiting on us to fall, but we didn’t. In fact, we’re back bigger and better than ever,” she told them. “Let’s show them who runs this.”

It seemed silly, but Starr wanted them to walk into the dining hall together now that her party had been a success—thanks to her planning and her parents’ check-book—and Marisol was back to fab status. Starr wanted all of Pace to know that the Pacesetters weren’t going
anywhere.