“It’s this city,” Kenya said with a confident grin, leading Holly over to two burgundy bar stools. “It changes everyone. Anyway,” she said, clapping her hands as the girls sat down. “Before you tell me all about Jonah, fill me in on stuff back home. How are Meghan and Jess? Is Coach Graham still insane? Are you and Tyler still together? Are you actually friends with Alexa St. Laurent again? And where did you decide to go to college?” She let out a big breath and pretended to wipe her brow.
Holly laughed; Kenya’s warm sense of humor had always bubbled beneath the surface in high school, but she’d been too busy being team captain to let it burst out. “Okay, here goes,” Holly answered, sitting up straight. “Great, not as bad as before, most definitely, I am indeed, and Rutgers.” Holly, too, paused for a breath; she knew Kenya would want more details, especially involving track team gossip, but Holly couldn’t help feeling like her life back home was a little bland compared to Kenya’s here. “Did I cover everything?” she asked, resting her arms on the polished wooden bar.
“Not even close,” Kenya said, then turned to the portly, white-haired bartender. “Two cosmopolitans, please,” she requested.
“Kenya!” Holly exclaimed, shocked. She would bet anything that, in high school, Kenya hadn’t even known what a Cosmo was (and neither had Holly, until she’d reconnected with Alexa).
“Holly, relax.” Kenya squeezed her arm. “They’re virgin,” she explained with a smile as the bartender chuckled, busying himself with the glasses.
“Virgin?” Holly echoed, feeling momentarily self-conscious. Then she chided herself; she knew Kenya was simply referring to a nonalcoholic drink. For a second, Holly wondered if Kenya was a virgin—she’d been too reserved to date much in high school, but maybe she’d found a boy worthy of her in California. With a twinge of anticipation, Holly realized that boys were a topic she and Kenya could discuss later.
“Naturally,” Kenya was saying, crossing her toned runner’s legs and dangling one glittery flip-flop off her toe. “I have to drive back to campus later, and I was planning on getting up early tomorrow to run. Plus, that bartender knows me—my American Culture professor brought our class here last week.”
“Your professor brought you to a bar?” Holly asked, feeling like a giant prude. God. California was laid-back.
“Well, obviously we didn’t drink or anything,” Kenya laughed. “But yeah, we were talking about the myth of the American West in class that day, and she wanted to show us a slice of Hollywood history. This is the oldest restaurant in town,” Kenya explained, gesturing to the maroon booths behind them.
“That is pretty cool,” Holly admitted, thinking of all the huge-name stars who had frequented the same bar she now sat at. “Do you ever see modern-day celebrities here?” she added, glancing over her shoulder as if Margaux or Jonah or one of their pals might be strolling in.
Kenya shrugged. “The whole celeb-spotting game isn’t really my scene. Sometimes my friends will drag me to places like the Hyde Lounge, or the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel—which can be fun,” Kenya said thoughtfully. “But I feel like those dyed-blonde, toothpick girls, and those chiseled, empty-headed boys all kind of look the same, you know? No offense to your buddy Jonah,” she added with a wicked grin.
“I’m not really friends with Jonah, you know,” Holly protested, smiling. “Alexa’s the one who’s going out with him.” Holly wondered what her friend was doing on her date—something ridiculously romantic, she was sure.
“Alexa St. Laurent.” Kenya tipped her head to one side as the bartender returned with their chilled cosmos. “She was always the type to have a Hollywood lover.”
Holly laughed in agreement and reached for her glass. “So what is your scene, if not this?” She couldn’t imagine that all of LA revolved around old Hollywood glamour and star-stalkers; there had to be more indie options for broke-but-trendy college kids.
“There are these cute, funky little cafés in Westwood, near campus,” Kenya explained, lifting her glass. “And the neighborhoods Silver Lake and Los Feliz have the coolest nightlife, in my opinion. But tonight I wanted to take you to all the touristy spots. Cheers,” she added, touching her glass to Holly’s.
“Wait, spots?” Holly asked as she sipped at the tangy drink. “What else did you have in mind besides this?”
“Can’t tell you,” Kenya said with a wink, taking a sip of her drink as well. “Sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” the icy blonde hostess of the whitewalled, super-chic restaurant A.O.C. drawled at Alexa. Wearing a tight black bustier and leather pants, the hostess spoke in a Valley Girl accent so stereotypical Alexa wondered if she was secretly auditioning for a role at that very moment. “Do you have a reservation?” she added snidely, motioning behind her to the bustling, candelit bar area, above which several glistening bottles of wine were displayed. Are you somebody important? was the unspoken question in her narrow gray eyes.
“I’m sure we do…” Alexa said, glancing over her shoulder to check with Jonah. But his back was turned; Mr. Polite Movie Star was holding the door open for another couple, and gamely agreeing to sign autographs for their twelve-year-old daughter back home.
Valley Girl raised one pierced eyebrow and looked Alexa up and down. “Well, what name is it under, sweetheart? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re a little busy tonight, and I can’t exactly seat you in Mr. Spielberg’s lap.”
Before Alexa could explode—she didn’t deal well with fake blondes, ever—Jonah finally turned around, placing his hand on Alexa’s lower back. “Is there a problem?” he asked, as he glanced between Alexa and the hostess. “Oh man, I probably should have had Esperanza call ahead. I don’t suppose you could find a table for us?”
Alexa felt a surge of triumph as she watched the hostess’s jaw flap open.
“Mr. Eklundstrom—forgive me—” the hostess stammered as her face went scarlet. “Of course we have a table for you.” She snapped her fingers at a pink-haired waiter, who shepherded Alexa and Jonah beneath swaying bamboo lamps, through the fashionable crowd, to an intimate table by the window. Alexa laughed lightly, linking her arm through Jonah’s. The power!
If that didn’t make her heart race, nothing could.
Practically bowing, the waiter seated them and placed bread sticks and a little pot of olive tapenade—Alexa’s favorite condiment—on their table. “Shall I get you started with a bottle of wine?” he asked.
Alexa had grown up sipping French wine at dinner with her dad, but still felt unbelievably adult ordering it in restaurants. “Well,” she said, glancing at the wine menu. “We could try the Pinot—” Suddenly, her stomach sinking, she remembered last night’s wheatgrass incident, and she looked up worriedly at Jonah.
But he was already smiling and nodding at her. “Please get a glass, Alexa,” he insisted. “I’ll have a mineral water,” he told the waiter, and Alexa sighed, feeling slightly guilty regardless.
When Jonah excused himself to go wash his hands, Alexa glanced around, letting herself revel in her fancy-restaurant euphoria. A.O.C. was all shimmery, elegant, and Mediterranean: the exact kind of place in which Alexa loved to eat. And she could barely keep count of the familiar faces—including, yes, Steven Spielberg’s—she spied at all the low-lit tables. As Alexa opened the menu and scanned the yummy options—small plates of cheese, artfully prepared salmon, gourmet Italian salami—she couldn’t help thinking that it would have been fun to come here with Holly. The whole point of tapas was sharing them, and since Jonah was vegan, he wouldn’t be able to indulge in all the foods Alexa was craving.
“Jonah, this place is to die for, but why did you pick it?” Alexa asked with genuine curiosity after Jonah had returned and was seated across from her again. “You can’t eat—”
“I know.” Jonah leaned forward, his expression serious. “But I chose A.O.C. on purpose. I wanted you to have an amazing LA night.”
“Oh.” Alexa felt herself melt. She reached out to caress Jonah’s
hand, and his bright blue eyes held only promise and commitment. Emotion welled up in Alexa; all her life she’d waited for a boy as savagely beautiful as Jonah, who would also be as kind and caring—someone who’d manage to pull off the lost art of being a cute non-asshole. Suddenly Alexa remembered the dream she’d had on the way from Vegas, about a boy who’d filled her with warmth. Maybe, unlikely as it seemed, she’d found that boy here, in Hollywood, in Jonah Eklundstrom. “Thank you,” she told him, her voice husky.
“The chef knows me anyway—he’ll prepare me some vegan plates,” Jonah said, flashing her a smile. “And, I can eat at any of my usual places whenever. You’re only here for a short time.” A sadness flickered in his eyes, and Alexa knew he was thinking, as she was, of their inevitable good-bye kiss after the wedding. Alexa felt the familiar pang of regret she always got when falling for boys on whirlwind trips.
“Hey, I meant to tell you,” Jonah exclaimed, his face lighting up. “I’m shooting some scenes for The Princess and the Slacker in New York later this summer—I’d love to see you…” He trailed off, his expression hopeful.
“That would be great!” Alexa replied. And she did feel excited, but for some reason her own words sounded a little wooden to her ears.
After the waiter had taken their orders, a silence fell over the table. Not an uncomfortable silence, but a lingering sort of quiet. Tracing a circle on her soup spoon with one finger, Alexa eavesdropped on the couple at the next table: “You’re not understanding my vision—it’s Kurosawa meets Woody Allen,” the goateed guy was arguing in an impassioned voice while his model-pretty girlfriend sighed and checked her artificially plump lips in her hand mirror. Alexa felt a wave of annoyance; was everyone in LA somehow involved in the movie business? It seemed that was the only thing to talk about here.
“What’s The Princess and the Slacker about?” she asked Jonah, glancing back at him. “I only heard that little piece of it…”
Jonah sat up straighter. “It’s a pretty incredible idea,” he told Alexa, his eyes full of intensity. “And it’s really been challenging my craft. I’d call it a classic romantic comedy about this guy, Roger, a stoner who’s been kicked out of college. He ends up moving in with Brianne, this sophisticated magazine editor, and of course they hate each other at first.”
“Of course.” Alexa smiled as the waiter set her full wineglass down on the table.
“But then,” Jonah said, leaning toward her with growing urgency. “They both eat some pot brownies that make them switch bodies, and you know…-hysterities ensue.”
Alexa took a big gulp of wine, swallowing down her laughter. She didn’t have the heart to tell Jonah that the expression was hilarities ensue, and that The Princess and the Slacker sounded like the worst idea in the history of film.
“My agent, Oren Samuels—you know him?” Jonah asked, cocking an eyebrow at Alexa, who shook her head. Agents weren’t really covered in Us Weekly. “Anyway, he’s the best in the business. He’s the one who found this script and told me I should do it. That way, I’ll have something a little lighthearted under my belt after, you know, the big award.”
“Well, this movie certainly fits the bill,” Alexa replied, patting her lips with a napkin, and hoping her tone wasn’t as sarcastic as it sounded to her. What she really wanted to talk about with Jonah was the experience of winning an Oscar—she secretly suspected that the actors knew they were going to win, and just played up all the hyperventilating and backflips and whatever. But Jonah seemed focused on The Princess and the Slacker.
“The thing is, it’s not lighthearted,” he was saying, gesturing with his elegant hands. “It’s really about the growth of this guy, and I connected to the character’s motivation the second I picked up the script. Even though he and I are totally different, in some ways all people are the same, you know? It’s like this role has helped me to discover that, and it’s kind of made me a more complete human being.” Jonah paused to take a drink of his mineral water, and then his eyes crinkled up at the sides when he smiled at Alexa. “Does that sound crazy?”
“No way,” Alexa lied, taking a deep breath. She wanted to say more, but Jonah’s devotion to his craft was so hilarious (hysterious?) that she knew she’d burst into giggles if she tried. She struggled to relate to what Jonah had said, and wondered if she could tell him how photography made her feel complete in a similar way. But as she gazed into Jonah’s big, earnest eyes, she suddenly knew—with the sharpest clarity—that he wouldn’t really understand. All at once, Alexa felt that there was a chasm between her and Jonah, and she wasn’t sure she knew how to bridge it.
As the waiter set their plates on the table, Alexa studied Jonah, marveling at how different he was from his sharp, witty sister. Remembering Margaux, Alexa felt a flush of relief as she hit upon the one topic she and Jonah could find common ground on.
“The wedding!” she exclaimed, reaching for her cheese plate with a grin. “Let’s talk about the wedding.”
Jonah chuckled. “You’re so wacky,” he told her affectionately, reaching out to stroke her cheek. Once again, wacky—like easygoing—was something Alexa was not accustomed to being called. Wacky girls collected cats and knitted baby booties and wore leg warmers over their jeans without trying to be trendy. Alexa decided not to mention her opinion on that matter.
“Are you all set for Margaux’s big day?” she asked instead. “What are you wearing?”
But as Jonah began to describe the charcoal-gray suits and ties that had been designed for all the groomsmen by Oscar de la Renta himself, Alexa found her thoughts drifting. She gazed beyond Jonah’s beautiful face at the darkening LA street outside the window. What was her deal? She was with the most desired guy in all of Hollywood, the guy who’d gone out of his way to make her happy tonight. Yet here she was, spacing out. She’d definitely have to analyze the weirdness with Holly later tonight.
Holly. Alexa cupped her chin in her hand. Even though she knew Holly was potentially doing something dull with Kenya, Alexa couldn’t stop the bizarre thought that popped into her head: I wonder if she’s having a better time than I am.
“Look—Tom Cruise!” Holly cried, pointing.
“Judy Garland’s over here!” Kenya exclaimed.
“Who’s Carole Lombard?” Holly asked. “She’s right below me.”
“Beats me,” Kenya yelled back from down the boulevard. “But I’m dancing on Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire!”
Laughing, Holly glanced up to see Kenya twirling on the sidewalk. Over a big dinner at Musso & Frank, the girls had caught each other up, Holly filling Kenya in on the past year—“You ran away from a track meet to go to Paris?” Kenya had gasped while Holly shushed her—and Kenya opening up about her UCLA crushes, while admitting to not having found a serious boyfriend yet. “There are just too many options,” Kenya had explained with a mock dramatic sigh. “I don’t know if it’s something in the water, but the boys in this city are damn nice-looking.” Holly had nodded, remembering the sexy celebrities at The Standard and the cute surfers on the beach.
Now, with the sun setting behind them, the girls were strolling (and dancing) along the stretch of Hollywood Boulevard known as the Walk of Fame, where the sidewalk was covered in five-pointed stars, each imprinted with a different famous name in bronze.
“So is this the surprise destination you promised?” Holly called to Kenya, her mules planted firmly on Carole Lombard’s star.
“No way,” Kenya replied, crossing over several more stars to get to Holly. “We have yet to achieve tourist heaven. Allow me.” Linking her arm through Holly’s, Kenya led her along Hollywood Boulevard, passing the sprawling Kodak Theatre—“Home of the Oscars,” Kenya pointed out and Holly snapped a picture with her cell phone—before reaching a grand old movie palace designed to look like a red-and-gold Chinese pagoda. In front of the theater, celebrities’ foot- and handprints were preserved in sand-colored cement. “Grauman’s Chinese Theatre,” Kenya pronounced. “I came here on my first d
ay of freshman orientation at UCLA, and realized ‘Okay, yeah. I’m in Hollywood.’”
Thinking of her similar epiphany when seeing the Hollywood sign, Holly smiled and joined the other tourists who were vainly trying to cram their Nike sneakers into movie stars’ delicate footprints. With Kenya at her side, Holly glanced down and studied the inscription between Marilyn Monroe’s and Jane Russell’s prints: GENTLEMEN PREFER BLONDES!
“Bullshit,” Kenya declared. “Everyone knows brunettes have more fun.”
Holly glanced gratefully at Kenya. Tyler, Meghan, and Jess were all stay-in-and-watch-Grey’s-Anatomy-on-iTunes-types, so back home Holly had always relied on Alexa for nighttime escapades. But now, it was kind of refreshing and, well, fun to be out on the town with someone other than Alexa, someone who was older and different and no longer lived in Oakridge. “I’m so glad we got to meet up tonight,” she told Kenya truthfully.
“Same,” Kenya replied, bumping Holly with her hip. “You know, if Alexa is, like, having breakfast in bed with Jonah tomorrow morning, feel free to come meet me on campus if you want. I don’t have class until the afternoon.”
“I’d love to,” Holly replied, nodding enthusiastically. “I don’t know anyone in LA, so—” She was interrupted by her cell phone ringing in her clutch. Holly figured it had to be Tyler; she’d left him a rambling message about her ocean rescue before heading out to meet Kenya. But when she pulled out her cell phone, it wasn’t Tyler’s name flashing on the screen at all.
“Belle Runningwater?” Holly read aloud, and Kenya’s mouth fell open. “I met her at a party last night,” Holly explained hurriedly. She hadn’t thought the super-busy actress would actually call, and she felt excitement course through her.
“I watch Wild Land every week!” Kenya whispered, grinning, as Holly flipped open the phone. Clearly, Kenya made exceptions to her no-fawning-over-celebrities rule.