Hollywood High

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Authors: Ni-Ni Simone

BOOK: Hollywood High
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Also by Ni-Ni Simone
Shortie Like Mine
If I Was Your Girl
A Girl Like Me
Teenage Love Affair
Upgrade U
No Boyz Allowed
 
 
Also by Amir Abrams
Crazy Love
 
 
 
 
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Hollywood
HIGH
N
I
-N
I
S
IMONE
A
MIR
A
BRAMS
Dafina KTeen Books
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
To the Universe, for the gift of manifestation
A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, I thank my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Your word said we have not because we ask not. Well, I asked and here I am. I thank You, my Father, for your great and perfect gifts! I can only pray that I'm able to show at least one person that through You all things are possible!
To my husband, children, parents, aunties, uncles, cousins, and friends, thank you so much for all of your support! I love you dearly.
To Keisha and Korynn, I can never thank you enough for being my literary ride or die!
To my agent, Sara Camilli: thank you for all of your hard work. I know I say this in every book, but you are truly the best!
To Selena James and the Dafina family: thank you so much for your hard work. Your time, talent, and support means the world!
To Amir Abrams: there are no coincidences and in God's universe everything aligns and works together for the good. So seven years ago on the train, we may not have known then, but we certainly know now that this was the plan all along! So, my brotha, here's to that train ride and the twelve pages on Ni-Ni Girlz that got this party started!
To the fans, the bookstores, the blogs, schools, librarians, and anyone who has ever supported me in my career: thank you, thank you, thank you! Be sure to e-mail me and let me know your thoughts—[email protected].
 
One Love,
Ni-Ni Simone
www.ninisimone.com
Welcome to Hollywood High,
where socialites rule
and popularity is more of a drug
than designer digs could ever be.
1
London
L
isten up and weep. Let me tell you what sets me apart from the rest of these wannabe-fabulous broads.
I
am
fabulous.
From the beauty mole on the upper-left side of my pouty, seductive lips to my high cheekbones and big, brown sultry eyes, I'm that milk-chocolate dipped beauty with the slim waist, long sculpted legs, and triple-stacked booty that had all the cuties wishing their girl could be me. And somewhere in this world, there was a nation of gorilla-faced hood rats paying the price for all of this gorgeousness.
Boom,
thought you knew! Born in London—hint, hint. Cultured in Paris, and molded in New York, the big city of dreams. And now living here in La-La Land—the capital of fakes, flakes, and multiple plastic surgeries. Oh . . . and a bunch of smog!
Pampered, honey-waxed, and glowing from the UMO 24-karat gold facial I just had an hour ago, it was only right that I did what a diva does best—be diva-licous, of course. So, I slowly pulled up to the entrance of Hollywood High, exactly three minutes and fifty-four seconds before the bell rang, in my brand-new customized chocolate brown Aston Martin Vantage Roadster with the hot pink interior. I had to have every upgrade possible to make sure I stayed two steps ahead of the rest of these West Coast hoes. By the time I was done, Daddy dropped a check for over a hundred-and-sixty grand. Please, that's how we do it. Write checks first, ask questions later. I had to bring it! Had to serve it! Especially since I heard that Rich—Hollywood High's princess of ghetto fabulousness—would be rolling up in the most expensive car on the planet.
Ghetto bird or not, I really couldn't hate on her. Three reasons: a) her father had the whole music industry on lock with his record label; b) she was West Coast royalty; and c) my daddy, Turner Phillips, Esquire, was her father's attorney. So there you have it. Oh, but don't get it twisted. From litigation to contract negotiations, with law offices in London, Beverly Hills, and New York, Daddy was the powerhouse go-to attorney for all the entertainment elite across the globe. So my budding friendship with Rich was not just out of a long history of business dealings between my Daddy and hers, but out of necessity.
Image was everything here. Who you knew and what you owned and where you lived all defined you. So surrounding myself around the Who's Who of Hollywood was the only way to do it, boo. And right now, Rich, Spencer, and Heather—like it or not—were Hollywood's “It Girls.” And the minute I stepped through those glass doors, I was about to become the newest member.
Heads turned as I rolled up to valet with the world in the palm of my paraffin-smooth hands blaring Nicki Minaj's “Moment 4 Life” out of my Bang & Olufsen BeoSound stereo. I needed to make sure that everyone saw my personalized tags: LONDON. Yep, that's me! London Phillips—fine, fly and forever fabulous. Oh, and did I mention... drop-dead gorgeous? That's right. My moment to shine happened the day I was born. And the limelight had shone on me ever since. From magazine ads and television commercials to the catwalks of Milan and Rome, I may have been new to Hollywood High, but I was
not
new to the world of glitz and glamour, or the clicking of flash bulbs in my face.
Grab a pad and pen. And take notes. I was taking the fashion world by storm and being groomed by the best in the industry long before any of these Hollywood hoes knew what Dior, Chanel, or Yves St. Laurent stood for—class, style, and sophistication. None of them could serve me, okay. Not when I had an international supermodel for a mother who kept me laced in all of the hottest wears (or as they say in France,
haute couture
) from Paris and Milan—Italy, that is.
For those who don't know. Yes, supermodel Jade Phillips was my mother. With her jet black hair and exotic features, she'd graced the covers of
Vogue
,
Marie Claire
,
L'Officiel
—a high-end fashion magazine in France and seventy other countries across the world—and she was also featured in
TIME
's fashion magazine section for being one of the most sought-out models in the industry. And now she'd made it her life's mission to make sure I follow in her diamond-studded footsteps down the catwalk, no matter what. Hence the reason why I forced myself to drink down that god-awful seaweed smoothie, compliments of yet another one of her ridiculous diet plans to rid me of my dangerous curves so that I'd be runway ready, as she liked to call it. Translation: a protruding collarbone, flat-chest, narrow hips, and pancake-flat booty cheeks—a walking campaign ad for Feed the Hungry.
Ugh!
I flipped down my visor to check my face and hair to make sure everything was in place, then stepped out of my car, leaving the door open and the engine running for the valet attendant. I handed him my pink canister filled with my mother's green gook. “Here. Toss this mess, then clean out my cup.” He gave me a shocked look, clearly not used to being given orders. But he would learn today. “Umm, did I stutter?”
“No, ma'am.”
“Good. And I want my car washed and waxed by three.”
“Yes, ma'am. Welcome to Hollywood High.”
“Whatever.” I shook my naturally thick and wavy hair from side to side, pulled my Chanels down over my eyes to block the sparkling sun and the ungodly sight of a group of Chia Pets standing around gawking. Yeah, I knew they saw my work. Two-carat pink diamond studs bling-blinging in my ears. Twenty-thousand-dollar pink Hermès Birkin bag draped in the crook of my arm, six-inch Louis Vuitton stilettos on my feet, as I stood poised. Back straight. Hip forward. One foot in front of the other. Always ready for a photo shoot. Lights! Camera! High Fashion! Should I give you my autograph now or later?
Click, click!

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