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other as she walked over to her daughter. “Let me holla at you for a sec. Sit.”
    Dionne dropped down into one of the chairs surrounding the kitchen table. She wished her nails were long enough—or that she had acrylic tips—so that she could drum them against the table as she sat through what she anticipated was going to be another “Remember Where You Came From” lecture.
    “Look here, girl. I’m still young enough to remember being fifteen and tryin’ to be fly and all that. But don’t forget where you come from…because it might be a place you have to come back to. The last thing you wantwaitin’ for you on these here streets is haters and enemies.”
    Dionne began nervously twisting her bangles again as she looked dead in her mother’s eyes. “We’ve talked about this before.”
    “We sure have because I don’t want you to base your life on what your father has. If the money goes—and Lord knows that’s possible with the way he spending it—then the clothes and the thirty-grand-a-year private school and all the other bling-things you didn’t have a year ago will go, too.”
    Dionne had to fight not to roll her eyes. “Don’t be a hater, Ma.”
    Risha laughed and it wasn’t an angry laugh or a sad laugh or even a hater laugh. Just a knowing, amused laugh, like when she heard Martin Lawrence doing stand-up. A laugh like she thought her daughter was adorable. “Honey, I never thought I would be able to buy Cisco for a quarter.”
    Dionne frowned. “Who?”
    “Exactly,” Risha said, rising to her feet as she reached down to stroke Dionne’s cheek. “I wish your daddy the best. I really do, Didi. I just don’t want you to get hurt if his career doesn’t work out.”
    Dionne nodded but deep down she was scared. What her Moms said made sense. She excused herself and walked down the long and narrow hall filled with her baby pictures until she reached her bedroom. The dark denim decor with lime-green accents did nothing to comfort her.
    She opened her cramped closet and looked at the dozens of new outfits and school uniforms her father bought for her to start school with. Two years ago, her mom and dad had spent a couple hundred dollars on Macy’s, Old Navy and H&M to get her clothes for the start of the school year. Now her dad paid that for one pair of designer jeans or her Marc Jacobs tie-front pointelle blouse in that to-die-for shade of madras red or seven times that for her new “don’t touch it or you will pull back a nub” monogrammed Louis Vuitton Galliera tote. And that was just the tip of the iceberg when it came to her new wardrobe.
    She thought of their shopping spree two weeks ago and the huge wad of money her father kept pulling out of his pocket, peeling off…and off…and off hundred-dollar bills at every cash register. He denied her nothing. The fleeting thought of him winding up broke passed through her mind. She scrunched up her face like she’d smelled fresh dog poo when she imagined Lahron the Don going broke blasted all over Internet blog sites—just like the scandalous news that one of the hottest stars’ SUV got repo’ed a while back.
    That was bad. Big-time bad.

three
    Marisol
September 1 @ 9:33 p.m. | Mood: Energetic
    Marisol Rivera let out a deep breath through pursed lips as she used one slender finger to tap the button to increase her treadmill speed. With Rihanna blaring through the earphones of her iPod and MTV’s My Super Sweet 16 on the small flat-screen monitor attached to the handlebars of her treadmill, Marisol closed her eyes and made sure to breathe in and out through her lip-gloss-covered mouth. A lady should always wear makeup, she thought.
    She wanted to get in one last workout before school tomorrow. Unlike Starr and Dionne, Marisol felt like her butt was just one Twinkie away from being filled with dimples and bumps and lumps—okay maybe not that bad…but close. She knew Latinas—ahem, J-Lo—were well-known and envied for their