Famous (4 page)

Dionne
October 18@10:43 a.m.| Mood: Cautious

The
air was definitely getting cooler and Dionne was glad to have on her new Burberry puffer coat as she walked out of the high-rise building into the fall chill.

“Have a good day, Miss Hunt,” Jodfrey, the doorman, said to her, as he held open the rear door of the Town Car waiting for her.

Dionne smiled at him. “Keep it light, J,” she said playfully before climbing into the rear of the car.

The older gentleman, who resembled a rosy-cheeked Santa Claus, winked and closed the door securely. She gave him one final wave through the window before the car pulled away from the upscale high-rise apartment building and into the busy Manhattan traffic.

“Good afternoon, Miss Hunt,” the driver said.

“Hello.”

Dionne recognized the driver but didn't know his name. He wasn't Yuri, the chauffeur who usually shuttled her back and forth from Pace in Saddle River to Newark every day. Her father's assistant, Mindy, would usually take her home
to Newark once her weekend visit with her father was over. But her father and his entourage had left that morning for a twelve-city tour overseas. Dionne would have loved to go along, but her mom vetoed
that
idea quickly. School trumped everything as far as Risha Hunt was concerned.

Dionne settled back and flipped through the latest issue of one of the hip-hop magazines. Her dad was on the cover and there was a nice three-page interview with him. She'd found it on the edge of her bed when she got up this morning with a note that said: “Check out ya boy!”

She really was proud of her dad going from hustling a crappy nine-to-five by day and working on his music at night, to being one of the most respected rappers in the game.
Can I live up to that?
she wondered, settling back in the leather seat and crossing the Coach ankle boots she wore.

They'd spent the whole night at Starr's playing the track and working on dance moves, and then she'd spent the day with her dad shopping so she hadn't even had time to try to write a rhyme yet.

Dionne dug the BlackBerry her dad had gotten her yesterday out of her oversize handbag. He'd told her that Side-kicks had been
side-kicked
to the curb. She unlocked the screen and scrolled the tracking ball to the Word to Go app.
If Drake can write rhymes on his BlackBerry, so can I,
she thought.

By the time they'd made the thirty-minute drive to Newark, Dionne's screen was still blank. Sighing, she gathered up her Coach saddlebag as the car pulled to a stop in front of the three-family house where she lived. Feeling
very Starr-like, she waited for her driver to open her door before she exited.

“Thanks,” she said as he removed her carry-on travel bag and set it down in front of her.

Dionne rushed up the stairs and inside the apartment building. She was anxious to talk to her mom and see if she'd made a decision about the house. “Hey, Ma,” she said, closing the front door behind her as she rushed over to hug her mother, who was sitting on the sofa.

“There's my mini-me,” Risha said, using the remote to turn the TV volume down.

“Lifetime?”
Dionne asked, taking off her coat and sitting down to unzip her boots.

“You know it.”

Her mom loved, loved, loved those woe-is-me movies that the cable channel played. Dionne thought they were depressing. They were always, “I'm on the run from my—fill in the blank—abusive husband, alcoholic husband, secret-life-having husband, Mafioso husband.”

“Sooo, did you decide on a house?” Dionne asked as nonchalantly as she could.

“Not yet,” Risha replied, not bothering to take her eyes off the twenty-inch television. Dionne had offered to trade her forty-inch flat screen, but her mom wasn't hearing it.

Dionne knew not to push. She was already anxious thinking Miss Independent would flip and decide not to pick a house at all. “You cook?” she asked, rising to her feet and grabbing her boots, coat, keys and rolling carry-on bag.

“Barbecue chicken, cabbage and macaroni and cheese,” she said as Dionne was walking down the short hallway
to her room. “Oh, and Hassan just left. I'm surprised you didn't see him. I think he and his little boo broke up.”

Dionne came to an abrupt halt. She slammed into her wall. “Okay,” she said casually, like she didn't really care.

Whateva.

She had thought she was over her crush on Hassan, since she didn't want to bring him into her now-fabulous world and have him expose her life as less than fabulous before her father made it big.

As soon as she walked into her room, which could fit inside Starr's closet, Dionne dumped all her stuff on the bed, rummaging through it to find her BlackBerry. “Sugar honey is tasty,” she said, stomping her foot at the missed call.

Hassan was #1 on her Hot Boys List and she knew there was no way that the cute football player would stay a free agent for long. And then what? Sit back and think of him kissing another girl the way he'd kissed her? All soft and sweet with just enough pressure to leave a tingling sensation on her lips, but not so much to make Dionne feel like they needed to get a room. Dionne was so out of her lane and headed toward losing her virginity, and Hassan's kiss made her believe he understood that.

Call him back, Dionne!
She slid across the floor and closed her door before she hit Hassan back on his cell.

“Whaddup, Di?” he said, his voice slightly raspy.

She held the BlackBerry away from her face as she pursed her lips and breathed in and out.
Calm down, Dionne. Get your ish together.

“Hey, Has. My moms said you came by looking for me?”

“I feel like some pancakes. Wanna go with me to IHOP?”

Dionne paced in the small area beside her bed. “What about Jalisha?” she asked, her entire body on edge, her heart beating, her pulse racing. She was all nerves, straight crushing.

“We're not together no more.”

Good. Perfect. Fab-u-lous.

“Aww… What happened? You know what, never mind. We can talk about it over a stack,” she said, already opening her closet to find something extracute to wear.

“I'll be there in about fifteen minutes. Cool?”

“Yeah, uh-huh,” Dionne said, distracted as she hung up the phone and tossed her BlackBerry on top of the pile on her bed.

She pulled out a black sheer ruffle shirt, a tailored blazer and dark denims with patent leather flats and a ton of long silver and pearl chains and necklaces. She wanted to be cas', but ever so cute. Ultra-feminine cute. “Ma!” Dionne yelled.

“What?!”

“Come here!” Dionne reached in her closet again and pulled out an off-the-shoulder, striped sweater in bright colors, with a white tank, another pair of dark denims and hot-pink knee-high rainboots. Laid-back cute.

Her moms stuck her head in the door. “What do you want?” she asked, the cordless phone in her hand.

“Who you on the phone with?” Dionne asked, her eyes shifting back to her two outfits.

“Can you give me back my business?”

Dionne looked at her mother. Her brows lowered at the twinkle in her mother's eye and the happy look on her face—that plus the secrecy? “Why do you have that goofy face?” she asked.

“No reason.”

Dionne eyed her mother long and hard.

Her mom had had boyfriends before, but mostly it had always been just the two of them. No creepy dude pretending to be nice to show off for her mother, or chilling with his Timbs on their end table, or at their dinner table, or ordering her around, or moving in and making their small but stylish and
clean
apartment smell like feet and farts. Ew.

“Dionne, what did you call me for?” Risha asked, holding the phone to her chest.

“Hassan and I are going to IHOP. Which outfit?” she asked.

“I like the colorful one,” she said, turning to head back to the living room.

“Tell whoever it is that your daughter says hello,” Dionne called out after her mother.

“What-ev-er,” Risha said, mocking Dionne.

Dionne eyed the outfits again. It was IHOP, but she really wanted to do a little extra to let Hassan know she cared what he thought.

Ultra-feminine cute it is,
she thought, hurrying to get out of her clothes.

Dionne took the quickest shower ever, mostly to refresh her body since she'd showered at her dad's before she left. She wasted a few precious, but oh so important, moments putting on moisturizer, blush and her favorite shade of Pretty in Pink lip gloss. It definitely was Beauty-on-the-Go 101.

Back in her room, Dionne was just sliding her foot into a pair of Vuitton loafers when their doorbell rang. She emptied the contents of her Coach bag into a black patent leather Hobo bag and flew out the room. “I'll be back,” Dionne said to her mother over her shoulder before she pulled the front door closed behind her and then jogged down the stairs of the dimly lit hall.

“Wow. You look really good,” Hassan said, nodding his head as he licked his lips and reached out for her hand to twirl her on the porch.

Success!
“Thanks,” she said shyly, wishing she completely understood the way Hassan made her feel so excited and numb all at once. “You look good, too.”

“My swag on ten?” he asked, smiling and smoothing his hands over his face in the long-sleeved dark blue and white plaid shirt he wore with the darkest blue denims and crisp blue and white Jordans that looked straight out of the box.

No hoodie. Thank God!
“Most def,” she told him, enjoying the feel of his shoulder and arm lightly touching hers as the cab jostled them every time they hit a pothole or bump in the road.

“What happened with Jalisha?” she asked, ever so grateful she sounded straight even though her heart was beating mad crazy.

“She wasn't you.”

Dionne's glossy mouth opened with a light gasp as a shiver went across her body.

In that moment she thought of this short-lived group called Fatty Koo who had a show on BET a few years ago. She had loved their slow jam “Chills” but until that exact moment she hadn't even begun to understand it.

You give me chills…up and down my spine.

“Oh, yeah?” Dionne said, not even hiding her grin. “That's what's up.”

“Nah, nah, you what's up,” he said, bumping his shoulder against hers.

“You flirting hard, Has,” she said, turning her head to look into his eyes.

“Thanks for finally noticing,” he joked, as the taxi pulled up in front of the International House of Pancakes.

“I haven't been to IHOP in sooo long,” she admitted, thinking of how even a casual spot like Cooley's was upscale with its design and menu of celebrity-named dishes.

“You haven't been around a lot of things for sooo long,” Hassan said, looking down at her as he held the door open for her.

Dionne looked up at him as she walked past. “Stop complaining. I'm here. You're here.”

“Whaddup, Has. You made it.”

Dionne's eyes widened at the ten pairs of eyes focused on them as Has stepped forward to slap hands with Nicolas, a short and pudgy dude she remembered from their elementary school.

“You know I was coming through,” Has said, white teeth flashing against his chocolate skin.

They're all here,
she thought with big-time disappointment, looking at the large group of teenagers lounging in the small waiting area.

Some she recognized. Some she didn't.

Some seemed okay with her presence, waving and smiling. Some didn't, shooting her daggers and glancing sideways—mostly the girls.

Dionne felt big-time overdressed.

It definitely wasn't the cozy, oohsome-twosome she was expecting with just her and Has. The hostess led them to the back where they pushed several tables together to accommodate all twelve of them.

“You a'ight?” Hassan asked, leaning close to her ear.

Chills. Up and down my spine.

She swallowed hard, nodding. “I'm good. I'm just really hungry.”

A couple of the girls at the other end of the table giggled. When Dionne looked up they were all looking down the length of the table at her.

“Sound like a dang-on white girl,” one of them whispered loud enough for her to hear.

“Miss Oreo,” another one said.

“O-kay.”

She heard their exaggerated whispers. Dionne's heart pounded. They
were
talking about her.

“Can we say overdressed?”

“Got on my grandmama's going-to-church pearls.”

“O-kay.”

Hassan was so busy cutting up and cracking jokes with his friends that he didn't even notice how quiet she was. In that moment, the difference in her two worlds seemed larger than ever.

Marisol
October 19@3:45 p.m.| Mood: Happy

“This
is our table from now on.”

Marisol paused before taking another spoonful of yogurt to look over at Percy, who was getting ready to devour a Diddy dog with a side of Chilli fries. “So we're a couple now?” she asked, crossing her ankles underneath the circular all-white table as she tilted her head and angled her eyes up to look at him—full-on flirt mode, straight from the pages of Seventeen.com.

“Oh, I didn't do it all official. I got you. I got you,” he said, smiling hard.

Marisol waited for him to do or say something but minutes later she realized his focus was on his food. “Is it true you live in your parents' guesthouse—by yourself? With a separate entrance?” she asked him in disbelief.

There were plenty of students at Pace living lives most teenagers would only dream about, but turning a teenage boy loose with his own house where anyone could come and go and his parents had
no
clue? That had to be urban legend from the halls of Pace Academy.

Percy nodded like it was nothing.

Marisol's mouth dropped open, but she recovered quickly, filling it with her plastic spoon. Her mother would never go for that, never. Yasmine Rivera believed kids should be closely supervised to help prevent them from turning out like the Heathers of the world.

“Are you and Jordan friends?” she asked suddenly.

“Jordan Jackson?” Percy asked.

Marisol nodded as she reached up to twist her riot of ebony curls into a loose topknot. Her large hoops really swayed from her lobes after freeing them from her hair.

“We're not friends but he's a'ight. We're cool. Why?” Percy asked. “Y'all used to talk?”

Marisol rolled her eyes. “
No.
I just heard something about him. Thought you could confirm or deny.”

“Nah, I don't know him like that.”

They fell silent and Marisol looked out the window at the few cars passing by.

“You ever wonder what life would be like if your dad wasn't a big-time athlete and all that?” she asked, her eyes locking on a woman completely dressed in white passing by with her dog.

“Boring,” he said without question.

Marisol shifted her eyes to him. “But when you have to hear the press trying to knock him for stuff like a bad game or rumors or that dumb ish or the way being a celebrity affects having a normal life, boring doesn't seem so bad to me.”

Percy leaned in toward her across the table. “But I
wouldn't have shaken hands with Michael Jordan or talked to Tiger Woods or tossed a ball with Terrell Owens.”

It was true that being a celebrity opened a lot of doors and provided access to a lot of different worlds.

“So if you had the chance you wouldn't be famous?” Percy asked, pushing away his now-empty plate.

Marisol shrugged. “I don't know, but I do know that I love my family and nothing comes before that.”

Percy's eyes flittered over her face.

Oh my God, booger alert? I will just die!

“A lot of boys in school like you,” he said.

Marisol felt her shoulders relax. She still lightly and covertly brushed her finger across her nose just in case. “Not true,” she finally answered.

Percy nodded. “Boys are just scared to approach you and your little clique,” he said. “They don't want to be the talk of school for getting shot down by one of y'all.”

She could see that. They were a little over-the-top in everything they did. From the clothes they wore to the way they completely took over the first-floor girls' bathroom at their whim. “And what about you?”

He leaned back and began to brush his waves with a cocky look in his eye. “I ain't never scared,” he said, imitating Lil' Jon.

Marisol leaned back in her chair and nodded.

“O-kaaay,” they said in unison, and then burst out laughing, drawing the curious stares of other diners.

“I better get to practice,” he said, rising from his seat to pull his book bag onto his broad shoulders before he mo
tioned for their waitress. “If we're late, coach makes us run laps.”

She took her aviator shades from the hard protective case and slid them on before she rose to tie her scarf around her neck and slide on her Ralph Lauren peacock coat.

She didn't miss his eyes on her as he stuck a toothpick in his mouth.

Marisol played like she didn't see or feel his eyes on her. If there was one thing Marisol knew she had a lock on, it was knowing what looks, colors and style fit her best. She looked good and he knew it.

Percy paid their bill with a credit card and they left Cooley's together, walking side by side once they were out the door.

“You're coming to see me play Friday?” he asked, shifting to walk on the other side of her nearest the street.

A gentleman. Her mother would like that.

Marisol shifted her cinnamon eyes to him. Friday she had Go Gettas practice.

Hmm. Practice with my friends? Go and support my boo? Well, almost boo? Future boo? Whatevs.

Practice or the game?

Practice or the game?

“So I would be the Melanie to your Derwin?” Marisol asked, stalling as her head and her heart continued to debate.

Percy frowned. “Who?”

“From the TV show
The Game.
Derwin the football player and Melanie his fiancée?” she said, like “duh.”

Percy looked shocked. “You wanna get married?” he
asked, his eyes as big as two small cups of Pinkberries frozen yogurt.

Marisol eyed him curiously. “Umm, no, I do not want to get married. I was just saying… You know what, never mind.”

Percy just shrugged.

Marisol turned her attention back to her ongoing tug of war. Practice? Game?

Honestly, she was excited about being the choreographer for the group and even more pleased that Starr had faith in her and did not hire some choreographer to the stars to get the job done. She had already been working hard to come up with some of the moves she could teach them.

On the other hand…

Marisol looked up at Percy with the fall winds swirling around them as they crossed the street to the dog park. She really wanted to see him play and cheer him on and even have him throw her a kiss or a wink after he scored a touchdown or two.

But she loved dancing and if Starr was able to get this thing rolling for real?

“I might have something to do this Friday,” Marisol told him, reaching down to lightly brush her hand across his.

“But I will be there next week. Promise. Cool?”

Percy looked disappointed but nodded. “Cool,” he said, turning his hand to capture hers tightly.

Marisol liked how it felt. She liked it a lot.

 

Between texting with Starr, Dionne and Percy, and responding to Facebook friends, Marisol barely got her
homework finished before dinner. It was a Rivera tradition that they ate dinner together every night at seven o'clock. No excuses.

Marisol took her seat at the long table across from her brother. She playfully stuck out her tongue at him. He proceeded to rise from his chair and fart. Marisol gagged and covered her nose as he laughed hysterically.

The two of them settled down as their mother strolled into the massive and elegantly decorated dining room looking beautiful in an all-white caftan. “There're my babies,” she said in Spanish, as the chef began bringing in steaming dishes of food.

“Where's Daddy?” Marisol asked, her stomach growling at the smell of the Spanish cuisine.

“He had a business meeting,” Yasmine said.

As a heaping bowl of stew heavy with chicken, pork and sausage was ladled into her bowl, Marisol's eyes shifted to her mother. After catching her father cheating, she wondered how her mother ever trusted him. How could she not wonder if he was where he said he was?

Sigh.

“The photographers from
Latina
magazine will be here next week to take pictures of the family and the house,” Yasmine said in Spanish, stirring her stew but never lifting the spoon to her mouth. “I want you all to make sure your rooms are spotless…especially you, Carlos.”

Marisol nodded. “And please open the windows and air out the fart fumes,” she drawled sarcastically.

“Marisol, that's not appropriate for the dinner table.”

“
Sí,
Mami.”

When Marisol saw her brother wiggle his brows at her, she knew another missile had been launched. She decided to ignore him and hopefully the smell. “Mami, I got an A on my dance solo,” she said.

Yasmine clapped proudly. “Congratulations. You are a natural dancer…from the Santos side of your family, of course,” she said.

“I beg to differ.”

They all looked to the door as her father strolled in looking ever so handsome in all black. Marisol's smile couldn't have been any wider as he kissed Yasmine softly on the corner of her mouth, removed Carlos's baseball cap and then tugged Marisol's curls as he moved to take his seat.

She glanced at her mother and could see that she was happy about her father's sudden appearance as well.

Yasmine rose and walked to the middle of the big table to fix her father the largest helping of the stew before placing it in front of him where he sat at the opposite end of the table. He rested his hand on her hip in a casual gesture that reminded Marisol of the innocent way Percy held her hand earlier today.

“Now, the dancing blood is from the Rivera side,” her father, Alex, said, his skin even more brown from the natural tan he acquired during baseball season.

“My bruised toes are evidence of your dancing ability, Alejandro,” Yasmine said teasingly, moving back to the other end of the table to take her seat.

“That sounds like a challenge. After dinner, you and I will have a dance-off.”

Marisol was ecstatic to see them finally getting back to
joking and teasing one another. She was happy because it meant that her father was coming out of his “We're out of the play-offs” funk, and her parents might just be able to enjoy being together again and not just coexisting.

Like Oprah says, there is a difference.

“I can dance, too!” Carlos said as he chewed a mouthful of meat.

That's why he couldn't make it at Pace,
Marisol thought, thanking God that her brother attended a different private school for boys after Headmaster Payne expelled him for dying the pond and his hair royal-blue in celebration of their father's team's World Series win two years ago.

Pace had been free of the
pequeño terror
(the little terror) ever since.

“I want in, too, Papi,” Marisol said in Spanish, which she rarely used unless at home.

“And for the winner?” Yasmine asked.

“Winner's choice,” her father said, his eyes locked on his wife.

“Okay. Ew!” Marisol said with a facial expression that made her parents laugh.

Truthfully, Marisol couldn't be any happier.