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London

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, Im 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 Landthe capital of fakes, akes, 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 bestbe diva-licous, of course.

Ni-Ni Simone and Amir Abrams

So, I slowly pulled up to the entrance of Hollywood High, exactly three minutes and fty-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, thats how we do it. Write checks rst, ask questions later. I had to bring it! Had to serve it! Especially since I heard that RichHollywood Highs princess of ghetto fabulousnesswould be rolling up in the most expensive car on the planet. Ghetto bird or not, I really couldnt 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 fathers attorney. So there you have it. Oh, but dont get it twisted. From litigation to contract negotiations, with law ofces 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 dened you. So surrounding myself around the Whos Who of Hollywood was the only way to do it, boo. And right now, Rich, Spencer, and Heatherlike it or notwere Hollywoods 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 parafn-smooth hands blaring Nicki Minajs

Hollywood High

Moment 4 Life out of my Bang & Olufsen BeoSound stereo. I needed to make sure that everyone saw my personalized tags: LONDON. Yep, thats me! London Phillips ne, y and forever fabulous. Oh, and did I mention . . . drop-dead gorgeous? Thats 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 ash 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 MilanItaly, that is. For those who dont know. Yes, supermodel Jade Phillips was my mother. With her jet black hair and exotic features, shed graced the covers of Vogue, Marie Claire, LOfciela high-end fashion magazine in France and seventy other countries across the worldand she was also featured in TIMEs fashion magazine section for being one of the most sought-out models in the industry. And now shed made it her lifes 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

Ni-Ni Simone and Amir Abrams

rid me of my dangerous curves so that Id be runway ready, as she liked to call it. Translation: a protruding collarbone, at-chest, narrow hips, and pancake-at booty cheeksa walking campaign ad for Feed the Hungry. Ugh! I ipped 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 lled with my mothers 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, maam. Good. And I want my car washed and waxed by three. Yes, maam. 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 blingblinging in my ears. Twenty-thousand-dollar pink Herms 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!