Fabulous (7 page)

Dionne
September 14 @ 11:45 a.m. | Mood: Confused

Dionne
hated
Sundays with a passion.

Sundays meant another weekend of fabulousness was over.

She snuggled deeper under the covers of her four-poster bed in her bedroom at her daddy’s posh duplex apartment. The last thing she wanted to do was face the start of this day, but her stomach was growling like crazy and she was ready to see her daddy. He wasn’t home when she got in from Starr’s yesterday afternoon. She’d thought she heard him come in late last night, but she hadn’t bothered to get up and check…especially since the last time she went running in her dad’s room she saw way more of him and his latest girlfriend than she
ever
cared to see.

Her new Keyshia Cole ringtone filled the quiet of her
room. Dionne sat up straight in the middle of the bed causing the colorful pillows to fly over the edge onto the floor.

She flipped the Sidekick open.

Hassan.

Dionne knew she couldn’t avoid him forever and truthfully she didn’t really want to. She really liked Hassan’s swagger. She really liked Hassan. Period.

Still she sent his call straight to voice mail.

Hassan didn’t fit into her world anymore. For now memories of their flirting game was all she had left to hold on to.

Dionne rolled out of bed and made her way into her bathroom to squash any morning breath, leaving any thoughts of Hassan and his serious swagger behind
with
the phone. Once she made sure she was minty fresh and not funky fresh, Dionne left her bedroom and walked down to the end of the hall to the master suite.

Knowing her daddy had a late night she hated to wake him so early, but if he was home they
always
had Sunday-morning breakfast together before her driver took her home to Newark.

“Rise and shine, Pops,” Dionne called through the solid mahogany door that was as black as hair dye. She knocked two times.

Female giggles mixed with her daddy’s deep laughter filtered through the door.
Hoochie in the house.
Dionne rolled her eyes heavenward before she crossed her thin arms over her chest, pouting with major attitude on her face.

Seconds later the black door opened and the thick haze of marijuana smoke escaped the room and surrounded her head like her own personal rain cloud. Dionne fanned it away with her hand, her bracelets clinking as she did. Her daddy and his whole crew loved the sticky-icky.

She stepped inside the room, instantly ignoring the blond-haired, dark-skinned, big-butt woman walking her bare-naked, cottage-cheese dimpled behind into the bathroom.
Eew!

And there lying in the middle of his bed in all his splendor is platinum-selling rap artist, used-to-be TRL mainstay (before it went off the air), hip-hop magazine cover model,
106 & Park
video count champ Lahron the Don. And all of the accoutrements of his hip-hop swagger were already in place—platinum and diamond chains, sagging True Religion jeans, fresh fade and a mouthful of grills. Downstairs were two expensive rides waiting in his spots in the underground garage. His fancy apartment was a long way from his days growing up in the Bricks.

“Really, Daddy, you need to open a window, big-time,” Dionne complained as she eyed him flipping through channels on his flat-screen television on the opposite wall.

“For what?” he asked, pretending to be innocent with a big, bleach-whitened toothy grin.

Dionne arched an eyebrow as she wove her fingers through the disarray of her hair. “Puh-
leeze
, Daddy,” she drawled, way past the days of faking like she didn’t know the smell of weed.

Lahron stood up and stretched his slender six-foot-five frame before using one hand to yank up his sagging jeans. “You better not let me catch you smokin’, ya heard me?” he ordered more than asked in that gravelly voice his fans loved.

“Weed leads to other drugs. And I’ve lived around enough fiends and ’heads to know I’m not gone be one, Daddy,” she told him truthfully, wondering when he got the newest tattoo of her baby picture on his shoulder. It added to the dozen other tats all over his frame.

Yet, she couldn’t get a tiny, itsy-bitsy rose tattoo on her wrist. Yet another example of his “do as I say and not as I do” parenting.
Bet Starr could get a tattoo if she wanted to,
Dionne thought even though Starr was deathly afraid of needles so there was no chance of her even asking. Plus they were too young for any legit tat artist, but in the hood
anything
was possible…

“What’s for breakfast?” Dionne asked, ignoring the
huge
black-and-white sketch of the naked and squatting woman over his bed as she looked around his room.

Lahron walked over to his ebony wood nightstand and grabbed a wad of cash. “Order something in, go wash, and let me handle June Bug,” he told her, reaching out to affectionately tweak her nose as he did.

Handle
meant send her on her way.

Deuces,
Dionne thought. That was more than fine with her as she reached up to kiss his cheek before she left the room.

It was daddy-daughter time. Period.

The ride from New York to Newark didn’t really reveal that much difference. Just more tall buildings, more people walking the streets and more cars making traffic crazy. Still, Dionne felt the change as she sat in the rear of the car headed back to reality.

She wished her daddy could have driven her himself. But instead Mindy, his personal assistant, who was white and seemed more like a librarian than part of a rapper’s entourage, drove her home looking like she thought they were about to get carjacked at any moment.

As Mindy’s little yellow Volkswagen Bug made a right onto Sixteenth Avenue, Dionne looked out at Westside Park. There was a baseball game being played and the bleachers were packed with onlookers.
Humph,
she thought.
They make it seem like people in the hood only robbed and got high, or ran from people who robbed and got high. Stereotypes. Whateva.

Dionne thought about her own lies to her friends about where she lived, but she pushed any feelings of guilt away. It wasn’t the same. It just wasn’t.

Mindy had brought her home plenty of times so she knew exactly where she was going and you would think by now she would ease up and realize the whole city of Newark wasn’t waiting around a corner to rob her. As the car neared the three-family apartment building where Dionne lived, she noticed her friends Joshia and Kim walking up the street from the corner store with chips and sodas in their hands.

Dionne smiled at the sight of them as she lowered the window. She stuck her head out as she ignored Mindy glancing over at her like she was worried the boogeyman was about to jump through the window. “Hey, divas!” she hollered, reaching behind her to wave her hand for Mindy to slow the car down. Mindy didn’t.

Joshia and Kim both looked over at her and then made a point of looking away. Dionne’s face fell. She had been dissed and dismissed. She knew she didn’t spend as much time with her girls since she started at Pace, but was it really all of that? She frowned as she sat back in the passenger seat, cutting her eyes to watch them in the rearview mirror. They were laughing and having fun.
Without me,
she thought as Mindy’s car pulled to a stop.

As she gathered her Gucci duffel and pocketbook and climbed out of the car, Dionne looked up and noticed Hassan sitting on her stoop with his earphones on listening to his iPod. Her heart beat faster as she turned and bent down to look inside the car. “Thanks, Mindy.”

Mindy’s eyes shifted from Hassan to Dionne. “He’s totally hot,” she said, with an overly dramatic wink.

Dionne’s face became pained. She had to make herself not frown. There was nothing worse than an adult trying so hard to be cool. “All right. Bye,” she said with emphasis, stepping back to firmly close the door and send Mindy on her way.

As she stepped up to the brick step, Dionne let herself enjoy the sight that was Hassan Ali. Tall, dark as chocolate, fade shining and freshly cut, cubic zirconia bling
shining from his ear and a brightly colored hoodie that perfectly matched his Nikes. There wasn’t a boy at Pace who could touch Hassan.

“What’s up, stranger?” he asked as he jogged down the stairs to pull her close for a hug.

“Nothing much, what’s up with you?” Dionne asked as she stepped back out of his embrace.

Hassan leaned back and looked at her before he shrugged and slid his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “Just thought I’d come and check on you since—”

Just then Dionne’s Sidekick began to vibrate on her hip.

His eyes dropped down to it. “So your phone do work.”

Dionne licked her glossy lips. “Hassan, I—”

“Uhm, uhm, uhm. How
you
doin’, Hassan?”

Dionne looked over her shoulder at Joshia and Kim walking up to them. Joshia ignored Dionne as she reached up to stroke his square cheek. “Still fine as always,” she said in a soft and flirtatious voice.

Dionne went from being hurt that they were ignoring her, like Starr ignored out-of-season clothes, to being mad. Unlike Marisol and Starr, they knew she liked Hassan. So one of them stepping to Hassan in such a bold way was like a dare for her to say something. Dionne wasn’t even going to get punked by nobody. “And he’s busy, so bounce,” Dionne snapped, ready to swing out at one or both of them if necessary.

Joshia was short, thick and curvy but she knew Dionne could and would spank that butt if necessary. Still she turned and stepped in Dionne’s face anyway.

Dionne dropped her book bag.

Hassan held up his hands and jumped in between them. “Dang, man, ain’t y’all friends?” he asked in surprise.

“Humph,” Joshia said with plenty of attitude as she eyed Dionne from head to toe with attitude. “Forget that bourgie chick.”

“Forget that jealous chick,” Dionne threw back at her over Hassan’s broad shoulder.

“Jealous?” Both Joshia and Kim screeched as if in shock.

“Don’t hate…CON-GRA-TU-LATE,” Dionne screeched back.

Hassan bent down to snatch up her book bag before he guided her up the stairs of the porch by her shoulders. “Come on, Didi,” he urged.

Dionne glared at her old friends/new enemies over her shoulder until she walked into the dimly lit entry hall of the building. “I can’t believe them,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest as she paced in front of the mailboxes in the wall.

Hassan handed over her book bag and shook his head sadly. “I can’t believe you either,” he told her.

Dionne paused and turned to look up at him. “Huh?”

Hassan reached out and stroked her cheek, before he turned and opened the door. “I’m not callin’ you no more, Dionne. And if you take too long to call me I’m not gonna answer.”

With that he walked out the door leaving Dionne feeling big-time crushed.

Starr
September 19 @ 10:45 a.m. | Mood: Pissed!

Starr
paced the length of the sitting room of the bathroom as she waited for her friends. They needed each other now more than ever.

Until now she had been having a good day—a great day, in fact. First, she woke up to the news that her dad had hired her her very own production crew to capture every moment of her party planning and the ultimate party night. Second, the tastings for her Sylvia Weinstock cake were divine. She couldn’t wait for the moment when the cake would rise up from the floor of the stage for all to stare in awe and envy. And last, all of the students who had not been invited to her birthday bash were falling at her feet begging for an invite. Of course, they could forget about it. Her guest list was set, but she loved all the extra attention anyway. And best of all?

Starr whipped out her cell phone and scrolled through her incoming texts.

JORDAN: NEED 2 TALK 2 U. CAN U MEET ME AT THE GYM DURING LUNCH?

UR#1STARR: K.

Starr had been floating on clouds one through nine since she’d gotten Jordan’s text. But all her joy faded when someone showed her the latest post on the Diva of Dish’s blog.

The door opened and Marisol walked in with her cell phone still in her hand, her brown face flushed.

“What’s the emergency? I was in my music class across campus.”

“Wait on Dionne,” Starr told her, as she continued to pace.

Seconds later the door opened and Dionne walked in. Her long straight hair was in a ponytail and she was still dressed in gym clothes. “What’s the emergency?” she asked, parroting Marisol.

“Outside of my party, we have one goal and one goal only, ladies,” Starr told them, turning on the heels of her new Fendi pumps.

Dionne and Marisol shared a long look before turning curious eyes back to their friend and leader, or was it leader and friend?

“The Diva of Dumb just posted ten reasons why everyone at Pace should hate the Pacesetters.”

“Ooh,” the girls said in unison with angry scowls on their faces.

Starr continued pacing. “It’s probably one of those losers, who didn’t get an invite to the party,” she pondered aloud as if plotting battle strategies. “But!”

Dionne and Marisol jumped back as Starr whirled around on them like a tornado.

“If I find out that someone I have invited to my Fierce and Fabulous Fashionista Fifteen party—”

“I thought it was just Fashionista Fifteen?” Marisol said, her Spanish accent more pronounced.

Dionne nodded. “Yeah, me, too. When did you change it, Starr?” she asked, turning to look up at her.

Starr clenched her fists and released a high-pitched scream at the top of her lungs. “WHO GIVES A FLIP ABOUT THAT RIGHT NOW?” she roared.

“Woooooooooooow,” Dionne and Marisol said, leaning away from her.

Starr immediately pulled herself together as she smoothed her hands over the stiff pleats of her uniform skirt. “Ladies, let’s just find out who’s the Diva of Dish.”

Starr stuck her hand out, her short manicured nails covered with Bad Girl Black.

Marisol placed her hand on top of Starr’s, her Back-to-the-’80s neon-green nails glowing brightly.

And then Dionne covered Marisol’s hand with her new pink-and-white French manicure.

“One…two…three…PACESETTERS!”

Starr didn’t tell her girls about her “meeting” with Jordan. If things turned out well—like Jordan dropping to one knee to shout out his love for her—then she would consider it. But for now—good or bad—it was her little secret. Plus, it didn’t matter because she had a dozen more.

She barely took in the well-manicured landscape of the campus as she made her way toward the sports complex. She had barely made her way through the automated revolving doors when she spotted Jordan sitting on the metal steps leading to the second floor. His head was down and she could tell he was lost in the music playing through the earphones of his iPod.

She paused when he lifted his head and sang:

“‘Don’t know how to tell you that I love ya…Can’t find the words to even explain…Whenever I’m near you I just want to touch ya…you’re the type of girl to make me lose my game.’”

Starr completely lost her breath. It wasn’t just the words, but Jordan’s voice. It was Jordan’s vocal arrangement. His emotions showed so clearly on his face. He was just simply being Jordan.

He opened his eyes and smiled sheepishly to find her standing there.

Starr took a breath to compose herself before her crush on him was written all over her face, not just deep in her heart. She clapped as she strolled over to him. “How
much do I owe you for the front-row seat to the concert?” she asked him, remembering all the rules of covert flirting.

Soft eyes. Soft smile. Softly spoken words.
Starr had it down pat.

“I’d sing for you anytime, Starr. Just ask,” he told her with a smile as he rose to his full height and walked down the stairs to come and stand before her. Somehow he made that stupid red blazer and stiff gray slacks look like Gucci.

Speak, Starr. Speak!

She just laughed kind of nervously, completely hating that she sounded like a big-time cornball.

Jordan reached out to lightly touch her hand. “Hey, I’m sorry about that stupid blog.”

Starr was amazed that standing there in front of Jordan, feeling his touch, smelling his cologne, she could care less about the blog or the Dumb Diva—at least for now anyway.

“Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?” she asked him softly.

Jordan glanced away for just a second. He opened his mouth to say something and then closed it. He glanced away again…for another second. “I wanted…I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Starr didn’t completely believe him, but she let it be because, she wasn’t quite ready to reveal her cards either.

So the flirting dance continued.