Authors: Simone Bryant
Marisol
October 3 @ 10:45 p.m. | Mood: Bummed
Marisol
eased out of her theater seat.
“Marisol, where are you going?” Starr whispered to her in the darkness as she lightly grabbed her hand.
“I’ll be right back,” she whispered, bending down some so that she didn’t block the movie screen as she hightailed it out of there.
Marisol tripped.
“Ow!” someone hollered out.
“Sorry,” Marisol said over her shoulder before she finally stepped out into the hall.
She felt like a bird freed from its cage.
In truth the media room reminded her too much of the night her view of her parents’ relationship changed forever—and that was something she wanted to forget.
She didn’t even watch the broadcast of the documentary when it aired on ESPN.
Flipping her phone open, Marisol dialed her mom.
“
Hola,
Marisol,” her mother answered speaking in Spanish.
She smiled at the happiness she heard in her mother’s voice. Too bad it was as fake as fifty-dollar Gucci bags (like, who really believed
those
were real?). “I was just checking up on you.”
“Marisol, I am the mother. I do the worrying, not you.”
Marisol walked outside the Lesters’ mini-movie theater that included a well-lit marquee, a robotic ticket taker and a concession stand. “Where’s Papi?” she asked.
“In his office.”
Marisol crossed her arms over her chest as she hopped on the elevator and rode it up to the first floor.
“Something wrong, Marisol?” Yasmine asked in fluent and rapid Spanish. “Why aren’t you enjoying Starr’s party?”
“I just missed you, that’s all,” Marisol said, stepping off the elevator into a small hallway off the recreation room.
Yasmine laughed.
It sounded pleasant and that made Marisol feel better.
“I’ve noticed that you’ve been a little down lately, Marisol. And I just want you to be a teenager and enjoy yourself. Please.”
Marisol nodded even though her mother couldn’t see her.
“Sí, Mami.”
“Now, tell Starr and Dionne I said hello and have fun, little girl.”
Marisol said goodbye and flipped her phone closed. She walked across the rec room and out onto the lighted stone patio. The October air was chilly at night and Marisol was grateful for her oversize flannel pajamas and cow-shaped slippers—both of which Starr promised to burn the first chance she got. She inhaled a deep breath of the night air and immediately felt refreshed.
She paused in the doorway and looked up at the sight of the moon in the sky. It was beautiful and serene.
Marisol walked out onto the patio. Bright colors flashed in her corner vision. She was surprised to see Mrs. Lester stretched out on a lounge chair with a fur blanket across her legs and a fuzzy neon-green sweater on. Her eyes were closed.
Marisol turned to go back through the door.
“Just the little girl I wanted to see,” Sasha said.
Marisol froze before she turned to face her.
Sasha sat up and patted the empty lounge chair next to her. “Come on and tell me ’bout this strike you’re on,” she prompted.
Marisol shrugged as she dropped down onto the chair. “I just think there are more important things—like family and loyalty and trust and friendship—that’s more important than what designer I’m wearing or if I got a spa treatment this week.”
“You know I’ve known you a long time, Marisol. You and my baby have been friends since first grade at Pace
Academy.” Sasha smiled. “And I can’t ever remember you not just
being
fabulous and feisty and all of that, but also not
enjoying
it. It’s a part of what makes you who you are. I think you’ve been wearing lip gloss since you were in third grade.”
Marisol laughed at the memory. “My mami was so mad at me when I came home with those red lips.”
“Humph. I don’t blame her.”
They fell silent.
“Don’t be mad but Starr told me a little bit about your parents having some problems.”
Marisol nodded as her stupid tears filled her eyes.
“So make the connection between that and you trying to be something you’re not, Marisol.”
Marisol wrung her hands together as she looked down at her nails painted with clear polish.
“I feel like all of it—the money, our lifestyle, all the nice things—is what caused the problems for my parents,” Marisol admitted. “Having my family together is more important to me than stupid clothes, cars and money.”
Marisol swiped at the tears that fell from her eyes.
Sasha reached over and squeezed Marisol’s wrist comfortingly. “Marisol, please believe me when I tell you that one thing about problems is that they are universal, baby—White, Black, Hispanic, rich, middle-class or poor. It doesn’t matter if you dress it up or not. It’s all the same and pain hurts the same no matter how much money you got in the bank.”
Marisol nodded at the wisdom of her words.
“Plus, Marisol, whatever is happening with your parents is not your cross to bear. You are taking way too much on your shoulders, Marisol. Way too much.”
Marisol wiped her tears as she looked over at Mrs. Lester. “It’s hard, you know, Mrs. Lester?”
“So why make it worse by not being who you are meant to be, Marisol? And you, Miss Thang, are definitely fabulous.”
Marisol smiled. “I am, right?” she stated more than asked as she snapped her fingers in a round circle in the air before she winked saucily.
“Now
there’s
Marisol,” Sasha assured her. “Welcome back.”
FIERCE FASHIONISTA 15?
Posted in Uncategorized on October 4 @ 6:00 a.m. by thedivaofdish
So today is the supposed big day for all you Pace Academy students. Starr Lester’s Fierce and Fabulous Fashionista 15 party is tonight. If you didn’t get an invite don’t kill yourself…because I know someone who did. And I will bring you all the juicy details as they text them to me…right here…all night long.
Smooches,
Pace Academy’s Diva of Dish
210 comments
Starr
October 4 @ 8:00 p.m. | Mood: Excited
Starr
was nervous, more nervous than she had ever been in her whole life.
Still, with one camera in her face 24/7 she maintained a cool facade, ignoring the sounds of preparations from the models, makeup and hair people hustling and bustling around her.
Thankfully she was like a bride on her wedding day—ready to turn it all over to her event planner, Kyra Stone. She had done all her planning, running, ducking and dodging—even handled posing with her parents and a bunch of celebrities on the hot-pink carpet outside the mansion. All she wanted to do was enjoy herself and party…well, like it was her birthday party. LOL.
So calm down, Starr,
she reminded herself as she fanned herself with her hands behind the curtain at the rear of the
stage. The last thing she wanted to do was ruin her makeup by Sam Fine and her hair by Kimberly Kimble. Starr walked on her four-inch Louis V gladiator sandals to inspect her dramatic makeup and new do. She loved them both—especially the longer tracks of hair added to her bangs to give her an edgier flipped-up do that was so Rihanna.
Her black-sequin one-shoulder Gucci dress was perfect. The addition of a wide belt and sequined leggings gave it just the edge she wanted. Her mother’s stylist was the ish for real.
Starr danced a little to the music thumping through the walls as she waited to make her grand entrance.
At the fashion-show dress rehearsal, Starr finally saw the decor of the private mansion they’d rented in New York. It was just what she wanted: pretty and festive all at once in bright vibrant colors with images of the fashionista flashing against the walls along with her name in lights.
Starr cracked the curtain open a bit and looked dead in the face of her parents standing at the end of the long runway. That made her feel way better than the four hundred people in attendance at the standing-room-only party.
“You okay, boo?” Kyra asked, coming up to stand beside her with her clipboard and walkie-talkie in hand.
“I’m ready,” Starr said.
“You look beautiful,” Kyra said. “Remember you have
like four wardrobe changes so be mindful of your time and don’t wander too far.”
“Got it.” Starr gave the camera her winning Starr smile.
“The dancers should be finishing up now.” Kyra walked down the steps. “Models, line up. Remember as soon as Starr makes her entrance and the music changes it’s a go.”
Beep-beep.
The walkie-talkie sounded.
“White screen lowering.”
Kyra gave her a reassuring smile as Starr struck her pose knowing the shadow of her image would be visible on the white screen at the end of the stage.
Beep-beep.
“Images of Starr playing.”
Beep-beep.
“Starr’s a go in five, four, three, two…”
The curtains opened.
Beep-beep.
Play voiceover.
Starr strutted down the runway, aware of the shadow she made, as her voice played over the loudspeakers and sound system to an original beat just for her by one of her father’s best producers.
“I am Starr Lester…but you already know that. I am fierce. I am a fashionista. And today I’m celebrating turning fifteen. There’s nothing I would rather do than show my swag. I wear many designers, my fashion ideas are unlimited and my style game is infinite.”
Starr kicked through the thin white paper and posed again to thunderous applause as her heart beat like crazy.
She took that moment to look out at the sea of people before her all dressed in white. Everyone was here to celebrate with her. Right then she knew she lived up to her name.
Starr applauded along with the rest of the partygoers as the models all did their last walk. Her mother’s stylist had really hooked her up and whether they knew it or not, the four hundred people in attendance had just seen a show to rival those during Fashion Week.
The music changed and everyone started dancing, including Starr, Marisol and Dionne. Starr was glad her parents went off to their own VIP room upstairs.
“You two look so cute,” she leaned in close to yell to them.
And they did.
Starr was glad her parents talked her out of a date and told her to just enjoy her friends.
Dionne’s usually straight hair was a riot of curls and perfectly suited the white leather-and-suede strapless dress she wore with leggings and lots of chunky jewelry.
And Marisol, thank the heavens she had found her inner fabulousness again.
Her hair was pulled up into a loose topknot. The large diamond hoop earrings that she wore, Starr had no doubt were real. Her makeup was perfect with her
smoky eyes and nude lip gloss. An all-white halter jumpsuit fit her so perfectly.
DIVAS 4 sure. Ow!
Starr made a mental note to thank her mother for talking to Marisol. If any woman could make someone claim their fabulousness…it was Sasha Lester.
Starr grabbed the girls by the hand so they wouldn’t miss one detail of the over-the-top party: candy stations, an appetizer buffet and an ice sculpture of her name. Private rooms were set up with a cigar bar and alcohol for the adults at the party. A swag room filled with goodies for those designated as VIP. And another room was filled with nothing but her gifts. The works.
Starr loved every single minute of it.
Starr was antsy as her mother zipped her up into her fourth and final outfit of the night: a strapless white sequin dress with ostrich feathers around the base—her only white outfit. Her metallic Louboutin gladiator heels set it off perfectly. “Hurry, Ma, I don’t want to miss the performers,” Starr said excitedly as she held her face up for her makeup to be touched up for the gazillionth time.
“I got you, baby girl,” Sasha said, her hair now a glossy auburn and perfectly curled, looking brighter against the strapless jumpsuit she wore with a killer white alligator clutch. “Okay, go ahead.”
Dionne and Marisol grabbed her hands and the Pacesetters flew out of the dressing room and toward the
stage where Kyra immediately removed the rope to let them up. Starr walked carefully in her heels.
“Here’s the birthday girl,” her father shouted into the mic as he reached out and took her hand in his.
Starr smiled and pushed her bangs from her eyes.
“Just for you, baby,” Cole said. “Y’all ready for the concert?”
“Yeah!” the crowd roared back.
Cole laughed. “Okay, here we go. First up, party people, Lahron the Don!”
Starr whirled and looked at Dionne, who was just as shocked as she was as her father came onto the stage with all his swagger in full effect as his hit “Watch Me” filled the air.
And one after the other some of the top names in the R&B and hip-hop music industry took the stage to perform.
Starr lost count.
All she knew was that she was sweaty and she didn’t care.
“And our last performer for the night—with the most important song of all, y’all can help him out. New TopStarr artist, Jordan Jackson.”
The curtains opened and her cake rose from the center of the stage as Jordan walked onstage singing “Happy Birthday” and looking far too good to be someone she was mad at. She hardly noticed the pure perfection that was her cake in the shape of several designer handbags and shoes as Jordan stepped up to her and grabbed her hand, dropping to one knee.
Everyone sang along with him, but Starr only heard Jordan. She only saw Jordan.
“Happy Birthday to you-ooh.”
Jordan rose to his feet and bent down to press a kiss to her cheek. “Happy birthday, Starr,” he whispered into her ear, before sneaking a small kiss on her neck.
Wowzer!
Starr felt her knees give out beneath her as she swooned. She did the unthinkable, the unimaginable, the impossible.
She passed out onstage.