Hollywood High: Get Ready For War

8/14/2019 Hollywood High: Get Ready For War

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1

London

W ho the hell needed enemies when you had hatin’

media hoes and bloggers maliciously tearing you up

every chance they got and a bunch of selfish, backstabbing

whores 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 Hol-

lywood High. And up until three days ago, I was perchedup 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 de-

stroying 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, andHeather’s bullshit. But enough was enough.

2 Ni-Ni Simone and Amir Abrams



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 and hell-bent on being with. And that was a

problem—for me!

Shoot. Can I get my life?

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

the hell 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.

Not a damn thing! As I was walking and texting Rich another where-the-

Get Ready For War 3



hell-are-you message, I couldn’t help but notice the noise

level in the café. Normally it was full of chatter and laugh-

ter 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. Sud-

denly I knew what all of the silence was about. There was

a group of girls sitting at our table. You know. The onethat has, or had, the pink tablecloth and a humungous RE-

SERVED FOR THE PAMPERED PRINCESSES sign up on it. Yeah, that

table.

Screech!

Everyone knew on this side of campus that the Pam-

pered 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.

This has to be a mistake.

I marched over toward them, then stood and stared at

the group of chicks who had foolishly parked their be-

hinds 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 prepar-

ing for some kind of holiday feast. And they sat pretty asthey 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, ex-

pecting 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.

Did they come here to bring it?

If I wasn’t so pissed 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 Baby sluts 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 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 beauti-

ful 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 wasnot a mistake. Those tricklets had strutted over to this side

Get Ready For War 5



of the campus purposely to bring it. All in the name of get-

ting it crunked.

Now, along with the media, we had teenybopper fresh-

men trying to bring it to us!

Oh, hell no! They really don’t want it. Apparently they

don’t know what they’re asking for.

I took a deep breath. Determined to keep it cute, calm,

and collected. I couldn’t afford to dish out another hun-

dred 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 night-

mare 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.

Stay calm.

Just relax.

Let me try this again.

“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.”

Wait. Did Forehead just call me an old head?

They waved their arms up in the air and snapped.

“Mmmph, exaaaaactly.”

The other two sitting across from Harlow and the Ara-

bia chick snickered, like two cackling backup singers.

They really didn’t understand. I was trying to spare them

from a beat-down. 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 intention-

Get Ready For War 7



ally 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 you gutter hoes 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 cheer-

leaders 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 piss. . .

smells like cat piss. . .”

“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 emer-

gency...”

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. . .”

Ohhhhkay, here we go!

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

Get Ready For War 9



I blinked.

And before I could catch myself, before she could get

the rest of her sentence finished, I backhanded her so

hard she fell backward. And spit slung from her mouth.

They all screamed as I swung that little Gerber baby around

the café and gave her the beatdown of her life. Then, in the

midst of all the cameras clicking and tables being tossed

up, the other three Romper Room hookers jumped up on

my back and tackled me to the floor. And the only thing I

could think about was being stomped down by a bunch of Crenshaw Crippettes in cheap, pleather pumps. This was

a state of emergency!

I was clearly behind enemy lines. And it was all Rich’s,

Spencer’s, and Heather’s fault because they didn’t know

how to handle their scandal.


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Hollywood High: Get Ready For War