Free Fabulous by Simone Bryant Page B

on clouds one through nine since she’d gotten Jordan’s text. But all her joy faded when someone showed her the latest post on the Diva of Dish’s blog.
    The door opened and Marisol walked in with her cell phone still in her hand, her brown face flushed.
    “What’s the emergency? I was in my music class across campus.”
    “Wait on Dionne,” Starr told her, as she continued to pace.
    Seconds later the door opened and Dionne walked in. Her long straight hair was in a ponytail and she was still dressed in gym clothes. “What’s the emergency?” she asked, parroting Marisol.
    “Outside of my party, we have one goal and one goal only, ladies,” Starr told them, turning on the heels of her new Fendi pumps.
    Dionne and Marisol shared a long look before turning curious eyes back to their friend and leader, or was it leader and friend?
    “The Diva of Dumb just posted ten reasons why everyone at Pace should hate the Pacesetters.”
    “Ooh,” the girls said in unison with angry scowls on their faces.
    Starr continued pacing. “It’s probably one of those losers, who didn’t get an invite to the party,” she pondered aloud as if plotting battle strategies. “But!”
    Dionne and Marisol jumped back as Starr whirled around on them like a tornado.
    “If I find out that someone I have invited to my Fierce and Fabulous Fashionista Fifteen party—”
    “I thought it was just Fashionista Fifteen?” Marisol said, her Spanish accent more pronounced.
    Dionne nodded. “Yeah, me, too. When did you change it, Starr?” she asked, turning to look up at her.
    Starr clenched her fists and released a high-pitched scream at the top of her lungs. “WHO GIVES A FLIP ABOUT THAT RIGHT NOW?” she roared.
    “Woooooooooooow,” Dionne and Marisol said, leaning away from her.
    Starr immediately pulled herself together as she smoothed her hands over the stiff pleats of her uniform skirt. “Ladies, let’s just find out who’s the Diva of Dish.”
    Starr stuck her hand out, her short manicured nails covered with Bad Girl Black.
    Marisol placed her hand on top of Starr’s, her Back-to-the-’80s neon-green nails glowing brightly.
    And then Dionne covered Marisol’s hand with her new pink-and-white French manicure.
    “One…two…three…PACESETTERS!”
     
    Starr didn’t tell her girls about her “meeting” with Jordan. If things turned out well—like Jordan dropping to one knee to shout out his love for her—then she would consider it. But for now—good or bad—it was her little secret. Plus, it didn’t matter because she had a dozen more.
    She barely took in the well-manicured landscape of the campus as she made her way toward the sports complex. She had barely made her way through the automated revolving doors when she spotted Jordan sitting on the metal steps leading to the second floor. His head was down and she could tell he was lost in the music playing through the earphones of his iPod.
    She paused when he lifted his head and sang:
    “‘Don’t know how to tell you that I love ya…Can’t find the words to even explain…Whenever I’m near you I just want to touch ya…you’re the type of girl to make me lose my game.’”
    Starr completely lost her breath. It wasn’t just the words, but Jordan’s voice. It was Jordan’s vocal arrangement. His emotions showed so clearly on his face. He was just simply being Jordan.
    He opened his eyes and smiled sheepishly to find her standing there.
    Starr took a breath to compose herself before her crush on him was written all over her face, not just deep in her heart. She clapped as she strolled over to him. “Howmuch do I owe you for the front-row seat to the concert?” she asked him, remembering all the rules of covert flirting.
    Soft eyes. Soft smile. Softly spoken words. Starr had it down pat.
    “I’d sing for you anytime, Starr. Just ask,” he told her with a smile as he rose to his full height and walked down the stairs to come and stand before her. Somehow he