Rumor Central (22 page)

I
took a deep breath as I walked into the conference room. I knew the producing team at WSVV was expecting me to deliver. I had Valerie's photo and the video tape in a manila envelope. I'd thought long and hard about revealing Glenda Matthews's daughter's identity, but this story was too good to pass up. Yeah, I know what I'd said, but at the end of the day, I had to do what I had to do.

“Come on in,” Tamara said when she spotted me at the door. She waved me in excitedly, then pointed at the chair at the end of the conference room table. “I've been telling them all how psyched you are about this blockbuster story so we know it has to be good.”

“Is it about Erin Anderson, the actress? Because I heard some rumors that she got into a brawl last week downtown after using a racial slur against a waitress. Apparently, she paid the waitress off,” Ken said.

“Please tell me it's about Glenda Matthews. You got some more dirt on her,” Dexter interjected. He turned to Tamara. “That show got the network the highest rating ever so we need to keep the momentum going.”

My stomach churned as I sat down. I could definitely get the ratings with this Lifetime movie that unfolded yesterday.

“Oh, yes, please let it be about Glenda,” Ken added. “Erin can wait!”

“Would you guys be quiet and let her tell us,” Tamara playfully snapped.

Valerie's face flashed before my eyes and for the first time, I wondered what it must've felt like for her. How did it feel growing up in Sheridan's shadow? What must it have felt like to know that your mother had chosen a movie over you? And how could she carry that secret?

I still couldn't believe Valerie was behind everything. The notes, the emails, even paying the two thugs to rough me up. Apparently, she'd had a lapse in judgment in sharing her secret with me and truly regretted it. Then, she'd been willing to go to any lengths to shut me up.

“So, come on, Maya, spill it,” Dexter said, interrupting my thoughts.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the manila envelope and pushed it toward them. All three of them reached for it at the same time. Tamara grabbed it first and tore it open. She frowned, then turned the picture around to me.

“Wh-what in the world is this?” she asked.

“What does it look like?”

“It looks like a man dressed up in a woman's mini-skirt and heels,” she replied.

“That man is the vice-principal of a local high school.”

“Is he a celebrity?” Ken asked, leaning in and frowning as he looked at the photo.

I shrugged. “No, but that's all I have.”

“
This
was your blockbuster story?” Tamara asked in disbelief.

“You don't think that's a big story?” I replied, trying to act offended.

“Maybe for a mainstream news station,” Dexter said, taking the photo from Tamara. He also stared at it like he couldn't believe this was it.

“Yeah, he's not a celebrity,” Ken said. “So why do we care?”

“Our motto is ‘where we dish the dirt on your favorite celebrities,' ” Dexter said. “Nobody cares about some high school vice principal.”

I acted like I was disappointed. “Sorry, that's all I got.”

Tamara inhaled. “Maya, this is not going to work.”

“Look,” I said, before she could even get started. I was tired of playing games and wanted to just tell them what I really felt. “I like this job. I really do, but if I'm going to keep doing it, I'm going to have to go digging for dirt in someone else's backyard. All of this I've been doing just hits too close to home.”

Dexter groaned. “Here we go again. Maybe we should call Sheridan after all.”

“Maybe you should,” I replied. That hurt my heart, but I refused to let them see it. All three of them looked at me in shock.

As much as I wanted this job, I'd seen what my actions had done to Valerie and I actually kinda liked the nerd. And I felt bad. Not bad enough to quit, but bad enough to stop spilling the goods on my friends.

“I'm sure this is disappointing to you,” I said, standing. My dad had taught me the art of bluffing and yeah, I might have only been seventeen, but I was mastering it well.

“So, you talk among yourselves and let me know what you want to do. I'm cool either way.” I flashed a forced smile and said a silent prayer that they didn't call my bluff because honestly, I loved my job.

I gathered my purse, made sure the photo of Valerie was tucked safely inside, and left the building.

I had just made my way into the parking lot when I noticed Sheridan across the street leaned up against her silver Mercedes. Instead of going to my car, I walked across the street. She was standing there, her arms folded, tears in her eyes.

“So, I guess you're going to get your blockbuster ratings?” she said, sadly.

“I already have blockbuster ratings,” I said. I opened my purse, reached in, and handed her Valerie's envelope. “I don't need to try and build them anymore.”

She was apprehensive as she took the envelope. “What is this?”

“Open it.”

She slowly did so as I continued. “That's the video I had rolling at the cabin.”

“You were taping it?”

I smiled. “I was hoping to catch you in the act of stalking me.”

Her mouth dropped opened in disbelief. “You thought
I
was the stalker? Like seriously?”

I nodded. “Yeah, especially after I saw you talking to Jennifer Graham.” I didn't want to admit to having taped them in the locker room. “Valerie had said Jenn's mom was how she found out everything. I thought you were working with her.”

Sheridan scrunched up her nose. “I was. On my research paper. She wrote my paper for history and I was trying to get her to do it for English, too. But you know she's all Dolly Do-Right and didn't want to do it. So, she told me I was on my own.”

I couldn't help but chuckle. They'd been talking about schoolwork? Yeah, good thing I didn't go to the cops.

Sheridan looked at the photo of Valerie and cupped the tape tightly. “Is this the only copy?”

I nodded. “It is.”

She finally laughed. It was more like a sigh of relief. “I can't believe you thought I was stalking you. Oh, I was mad at your janky behind, but I'm not going to waste my time stalking anyone. You of all people should know I don't roll like that. Yeah, I sent the pictures, and I'm sorry, but that was only because the opportunity fell in my lap. I'm not wasting time trying to terrorize you.”

I looked at the girl who had been my best friend for years. If I really thought about it, I guess I did know that about Sheridan. A lot of time, thought, and effort had gone into stalking me and I should've known Sheridan wasn't going to go to such extremes.

Sheridan sighed as her eyes watered. “Thank you,” she said, pulling the envelope close to her chest.

“So, Valerie's your half sister?” I asked. I'd been up all night processing that information. Bryce had immediately gotten me out of the beach house. I could only assume Sheridan had made sure she got home.

Sheridan nodded. “My mom told me right after your story,” she admitted. “But it wasn't until yesterday at the mall that her mom called me, concerned that she was going to do something drastic. Apparently, she'd left a message that she was going to take care of you and make it right.”

Take care of me.
That sent chills up my spine.

“Since I knew she was listening when Bryce told me you were going to the beach house, I knew that's where she was headed,” Sheridan said.

I stared at my former BFF. I was so grateful that she'd decided to come try and stop Valerie, because she could've gone on about her business. And there's no telling how things would've ended.

“So, what's gonna happen with Valerie?” I asked.

“My mom won't go see her,” Sheridan said sadly. “She said that part of her life is closed. She made a mistake, as she says, and doesn't want to revisit it. It's really jacked up.”

“Wow” was all I could say. “What about you? How are you taking the news?”

Sheridan shrugged and softly said, “I don't know, having a nerd for a sister. You know, I have to get used to that idea.”

“Maybe you can teach her a thing or two.”

“Maybe,” Sheridan said. “But I called this morning to check on her and she said something about her parents moving her away. So, I don't know what's going to happen.”

We stood in an awkward silence for a moment before Sheridan added, “Maya, maybe you can one day forgive me for being such a jerk. All the stuff that went down with Bryce. I don't even like him like that.” She lowered her head in shame. “I just wanted to hurt you. I'm sorry.”

I think in the entire time I'd known Sheridan, I could count on one hand the number of times she'd apologized to anyone so the fact that she'd apologized to me was major.

“Maybe” was all I could say. We stood in silence again, before she finally said, “So what's going to happen with your show?”

I shrugged. “I hope that I can keep doing it, but I will have to change a few things.”

“Like selling out your friends?”

I smiled. “Yeah, like selling out my friends.”This was all getting way too deep so I added, “Who knows, maybe I could bring you on as a sidekick.”

She raised one eyebrow. “Oh, don't get it twisted. Sheridan Matthews is nobody's sidekick.”

I laughed because that was such a Maya Morgan answer.

“Well, I have to get going.”

We said our good-byes and I headed back to the car. I couldn't see the station getting rid of me. And if they did, someone else would pick me up and give me a show. After all, I was Maya Morgan.

I climbed into my car, looked in the rearview mirror and blew a kiss at my reflection. “Yep, I'm still the bomb-dot-com. And these folks better recognize,” I mumbled, before popping on my Chanel glasses and heading home.

In stores now!

Hollywood High: Get Ready for War
by Ni-Ni Simone and Amir Abrams

 

Welcome to Hollywood High, where socialites rule
and popularity is more of a drug than designer digs
could ever be . . .

 

Turn the page for an excerpt from
Get Ready for War
. . . .

 

Who needed enemies when you had hatin' media and bloggers maliciously tearing you up every chance they got and a bunch of selfish, backstabbers as friends.

Oh no. My enemies weren't the ones I needed to keep my mink-lashed eyes on. It was the Pampered Princesses of Hollywood High Academy who kept me dragged into their shenanigans, along with the paparazzi that lived and breathed to destroy me. Hence why I was wearing a floppy hat and hiding behind a pair of ostrich-leather Moss Lipow sunglasses.

I was a trendsetter.

A shaker 'n' mover.

A fashionista extraordinaire.

I was London Phillips.

Not a joke!

And my name had no business being caught up in any of the most recent scandals with Heather's (aka Wu-Wu) Skittles fest. If she wanted to overdose on her granny's heart medicine, then she needed to leave me out of it.

My reputation of being fine, fly, and eternally fabulous was etched on the pages of magazines and carved in the minds of many. And I was one of the most adored, envied, and hated for all of my divaliciousness. It came with the territory of being deliciously beautiful. And I embraced it.

But being on top didn't mean a thing if you didn't know how to stay there. Reputation was everything at Hollywood High. And up until three days ago, I was perched up on Mt. Everest in all of my fabulousness, looking down at any- and everyone who followed me or aspired to be me, but could (or would)
never
be me. Yeah, it had been a cold-blooded climb to the top. But so what? A diva did what she had to do to get what she wanted and needed. And I had made it.

But I wasn't in New York anymore, reigning alone. No. I was in Hollywood. And I had to share the mountaintop with three skanks who were supposed to be the “It Clique.” And they had been.
And we had been
. But now we were about to lose our crowns as the Pampered Princesses of Hollywood High if Heather, Spencer, and Rich didn't get it together—quick, fast, and in a hurry. Their antics were destroying my reputation. And theirs!

The media and bloggers were having a field day tearing us up in the headlines. Kicking us in our crowns and branding us last week's hot trash. Not respecting that we were the daughters of high-profiled celebrities. Naming us this week's flops. They really thought we had fallen off our white-horsed carriages. And from the looks of things, we had. Here I was, again, in the midst of Rich, Spencer, and Heather's bull. But enough was enough.

I was determined to handle Rich first. I had to get her focused. But this wench, who I thought was easy and gullible, wasn't playing along the way I thought. No, she was too busy chasing behind some boy whom she seemed obsessed with being with. And that was a problem—for
me!

As I walked through the school's café doors, pulling out my cell, it was eerily quiet, but I had no time to figure out why. I needed to get in touch with Rich. Where r you?

A string-bean-thin girl with a pink-and-black Mohawk, black eyeliner, and black lipstick stepped up to me and handed me a
FREE WU-WU
T-shirt being distributed by Wu-Wu's many stalkers, gawkers, and fanatics. I stared the walking toothpick down. “Beanpole, who told you you could get up in my space?” I snapped, tossing the shirt in her face. “Go hang yourself with it. And make sure you get it right.”

Her eyes popped open.

I was sooooo not in the mood. I needed to know where Rich and Spencer were. I already knew where Heather's wretched self was. But Rich and Spencer were both unaccounted for. This made the fifteenth time I had pulled out my phone today to check for any messages or missed calls from Rich because I had been calling her and texting her and leaving her messages since seven o'clock this morning. Sweating her; something I don't do. And still there was nothing from her.

Zilch.

Nada.

As I was walking and texting Rich another where-are-you message, I couldn't help but notice the noise level in the café. Normally it was full of chatter and laughter and all types of music.

Not today.

Dead silence.

All I heard was a bunch of clicking from cameras. And a few comments like “Uh-oh, it's about to go down now” as I made my way farther into the center of the café. Suddenly I knew what all of the silence was about. There was a group of girls sitting at our table. You know. The one that has, or had, the pink tablecloth and a humungous
RESERVED FOR THE PAMPERED PRINCESSES
sign up on it. Yeah, that table.

Screech!

Everyone knew on this side of campus that the Pampered Princesses were the ruling clique. And no one sat at our table. No one!

I pulled up the rim of my hat, inched my shades down to the tip of my nose, and peered at them.

I blinked.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing. The group of girls had on uniforms. And judging by the colors, I knew they absolutely did not belong on this side of the campus.

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.

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!

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.

“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.”

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 . . .”

“Freak!” they all yelled out in unison. “Caught up in the matrix . . . Caught up in the matrix . . .”

I blinked.