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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)
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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.
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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-
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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.
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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
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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
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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-
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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.
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“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...”
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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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