GHETTO SUPERSTAR Read Online Free PDF Page A

breath, because you know he will. I don't want to have to go out and buy anything and deal with that Halloween crowd. But don't worry, Fab, we'll make it work. I just wish that muthafucka wasn't so unprofessional,” Adora said.
    “You know what? I just try to soak up his madness and think of it as preparation for the major leagues. Putting up with his bullshit keeps me quick on my feet. It'll only make me a better performer in the end, and it'll be that much easier to work with any choreographer, manager, or producer that comes my way—even if they are crazy.”
    “You right, sis. I'm glad you can look at it like that,” Adora said. “That's what makes you special. Not only are you a remarkable singer, you were born to be in this entertainment industry. Because had it been me, that motherfucker would have long been cussed the hell out.”
    Fabiola smiled at her sister, as she turned up the speed on the treadmill. “Girl, I am about to take my frustrations out on Ricky and put in these two miles.”
    Two miles later the phone rang. Fabiola reached for it, hoping it was Ricky.
    “Hello?” she said, as she gasped for air.
    “I'm going to make it easy for you tonight,” Ricky said. “Redand white. No exceptions or you will be fined. And don't forget to be on time. Six o'clock on the dot.”
    “How could I not?”
    “It's not like you've never been tardy before. I'm just giving you fair warning: Anybody not on time gets left.”
    “I heard you the first couple of times, Ricky,” she said to him as she grabbed a small towel to wipe the sweat from her face. But she knew good and well that he wasn't going to leave until she got there. How could he leave the
real
star of the show behind?
    Fabiola showed up at the meeting spot with her bags packed at eleven minutes past six. Four hours and forty-five minutes later the band was in the deep sticks of North Carolina. Ricky put the van in park and scratched his head while double-checking his papers, and said, “This is it?”
    “What the fuck, Ricky? Damn, maaann.” Keys, the keyboard player, shook his head and asked, “This is where we're performing? You couldn't do no better than this here shit?”
    “Yeah, this the right spot. They supposed to have the best chicken in all of North Kakilaki, and they say we can eat all the chicken we want.” Ricky tried to assure his fellow band members that this place was official.
    “I can buy my own guyd-damn chicken,” Keys said, “as long as that muthafuckin' paper is right at the end of the night.”
    The Chicken Shack looked just like the name boasted; a wooden barn that probably should've been torn down a long time ago. But if the parking lot was any indication, the place was jam-packed.
    “It looks like they may have a decent-size crowd in the good ole Chicken Shack,” Fabiola said, hopping out of the van. She was in a hurry to clear her head of all that stinky cigar smoke she was forced to inhale while Ricky chain-smoked down the highway. The clean country air felt soothing as it worked its way throughher lungs, but then she was assaulted by the smell of chicken grease. “Wheeew.” Fabiola fanned her nose. “That chicken smell is strong.”
    “This place sho lives up to its name,” Boonie, the drummer, said.
    They got all their equipment on the dolly and headed in. The venue wasn't much. The stage was in the front and the kitchen was toward the back. There was a dance floor in the middle of the space, and tables covered with chicken-printed tablecloths were lined up throughout. There was enough seating to handle a crowd of three hundred or more. The barmaids wore all black, except for the aprons tied around their waists, which were the same print as the tablecloths. They hustled back and forth from two fully stocked bars making sure everyone's glasses stayed full to the brim. To the left, on the opposite side of the restrooms, was a set of stairs that led to a balcony. The sign read VIP .
    Fabiola laughed and