“I got my mom and dad to agree that I should go in for a meeting,” Holly elaborated, turning away from Alexa to pluck her A-line khaki skirt off a hanger. “But my mom flat-out refused to call the school and throw her weight around.” Holly frowned as she noticed her prom dress dangling from a hanger in her closet—its shimmery skirt was wrinkled from being folded up in her duffel. Fortunately Holly had spotted an iron in the bathroom’s linen closet earlier.
“Gosh, that sucks,” Alexa said, glancing down at her Vogue to hide her expression from her friend. Last night, during their poolside heart-to-heart, Alexa had supported Holly’s UCLA switch; now, in the light of day, she was secretly hoping that Holly would still end up back on the East Coast. Alexa felt as if the girls had only just cemented their friendship; it seemed a shame to let that bond go to waste.
“Yeah, but then I talked to Kenya this morning, while you were out,” Holly was saying, carrying the khaki skirt to the bed and laying it out beside Alexa. “And it turns out that she worked part-time at the admissions office last semester, so she was able to set something up for me. Amazing, no?” Holly’s pulse spiked at the thought of her UCLA future, which now seemed truly within reach.
As long as she didn’t screw up the interview.
“Holly, you do realize it’s not every day that colleges let people change their minds at the last minute?” Alexa asked, opening her Vogue to a Catherine Malandrino ad. “I mean, you’re not guaranteed a spot in the freshman class, are you?” She shot a long, level look up at Holly.
“Thank you, O Voice of Doom,” Holly replied, lightly jabbing Alexa’s shoulder. “I thought you were rooting for me to live in Cali full-time.” As Holly set her iced drink down on her bedside table and reached for her comb, she heard the cacophony of raised voices and ringing cell phones outside her window. The paparazzi may not have been pawing through the trash last night, but they’d sure made up for it this morning. Holly wondered, then, if this was what life in California would be like—until she reminded herself that she wouldn’t be spending her college years on an estate in Malibu. Which was actually kind of disappointing.
“I changed my mind,” Alexa said simply, then sipped at her drink. “I want you close at hand in case I have any romantic crises at Columbia. Don’t you know by now that I’m a selfish bitch?” she added, her eyes glinting as she grinned up at her friend.
“Listen,” Holly said, combing out her damp hair. “Can you please do something non-selfish today and figure out what we should get Margaux as a wedding present? And we need to leave a gift for Jonah, too,” she added as she scooped her gold hoop earrings out of her makeup bag. Holly knew her parents would never let her live it down if she forgot to give a token of thanks to her host.
“I guess,” Alexa sighed, How was she supposed to shop for a guy whom she’d just rejected? Her favorite things to buy for boys—flannel boxers, crisp buttondowns, designer aftershave—would feel way too loaded for Jonah, and besides, what was there that the actor couldn’t already get for himself? “How about we divide and conquer?” Alexa offered. “I’ll take care of Margaux, you get the goods for Jonah?”
“I don’t think I’ll have time,” Holly protested as she pushed one of the hoops through her ear, and Alexa rolled her eyes. “I still need to ask Esperanza if there’s a fax machine in the main house that I can use—I’m supposed to bring my latest report card to the interview. And then Kenya’s coming to pick me up, and then I need to iron my dress before the wedding—” Holly paused as she felt her earring bang against the ring on her finger.
Her Claddagh ring.
Oh, yeah.
Her throat tightening, Holly reached down and tugged lightly on the ring. It slipped off her finger with little resistance. She held it in the warmth of her palm for a moment, sending it a silent good-bye, before she slipped it deep into her makeup bag. As she zipped up the bag, she found herself blinking back tears.
Now she really was ready for her interview. Ready to start anew.
“Hol?” Alexa said softly, feeling a pang of regret as she noticed how upset her friend was. Alexa reminded herself that, whenever she’d been distraught over a boy, Holly had dropped everything to comfort her. Alexa knew she could be ridiculously selfish, but maybe there was a way to alter that somehow. “Good luck with the interview and don’t worry about the presents,” Alexa added firmly as she reached up to squeeze Holly’s arm. “I’ll take care of everything. I promise.”
Setting down her boxy shopping bags, Alexa sank into a free chair in the elegant Peach Grove salon. It was more than ninety outside, and hazy—not exactly prime weather for an outdoor celebration. Even in her strapless floral-print sundress, Alexa’s collarbone was damp with sweat, and her thick hair was sticking to her back. Not for much longer, Alexa thought as she reached for an issue of Variety. She felt a beat of hesitation; did she really want to be doing this? Alexa wondered if Holly, at UCLA, was feeling similarly—looking forward to the change, but scared of it, too.
Alexa was rarely scared. But if this haircut got messed up, she’d have to deal with looking less than drop-dead beautiful in front of most of Hollywood—and, if E! turned their cameras on her, the world. Maybe this is stupid, Alexa thought, biting her lip. She remembered that crucial rule of facials—-always leave three weeks between an avocado skin peel and an event. Who in their right minds scheduled a haircut on the day of the biggest wedding to hit LA in ages? To calm her nerves, Alexa opened Variety and flipped past an article on weekend box office predictions. Then she noticed a small blurb on Oren Samuels, who she remembered was Jonah’s agent, accompanied by a photograph. Alexa was reading his client list—apparently, he represented Margaux and Paul as well—when she heard a voice above her.
“Alissa Sant Lauren?”
Alexa glanced up from Variety to see a tall, stunning guy with mocha-colored skin and close-cropped, dyed-blond hair, wearing the salon’s distinctive peachcolored apron over a black shirt and slacks. Besides Jonah, he was probably the hottest guy Alexa had seen yet in Hollywood, which made her forgive his name slipup.
Only she’d bet anything that he wasn’t into girls.
“C’est moi,” she announced, standing up. “Alexa.”
“Aramis,” he replied, flashing a wide smile. “Come this way, sweetheart.”
Scooping up her bags, Alexa followed Aramis through the salon, passing framed snapshots of Chloë Sevigny, Camilla Belle, and Margaux Eklundstrom herself. In between flowy peach drapes, pouty-lipped models slouched in black swivel chairs. Waifish stylists with Chinese-symbol tattoos on their midsections blow-dried and snipped and sprayed over a thumping soundtrack of Franz Ferdinand. Alexa settled down in one such swivel chair, and Aramis ceremoniously draped a gauzy peach cape over her. There was no going back now.
“Well?” Aramis asked, pouring a dab of scented oil into his palm and then lightly massaging Alexa’s scalp. “What would you like to do with these gorgeous golden locks?”
Alexa gulped, watching her reflection in the tall mirror. Beneath the mirror lay an array of scissors, clips, and combs—all weapons that would tear into her most prized possession. Feeling like she was breaking up with a beloved boy, Alexa let her eyes drift shut and remembered some of the best times she’d shared with her hair: all the high, sleek ponytails, the better to show off big dangly earrings; all the tossings over shoulders, the better to finish off a point she was making; all the sneaking into boys’ mouths and hands during wild kissing sessions.
Then Alexa opened her eyes. It was time to let go of the past.
“I thought maybe…a change,” she ventured, indicating with her hand the length she’d been envisioning. “Though not too big a change,” she added hurriedly, meeting Aramis’s sparkling eyes in the mirror. “And…”
“Yes, honey belle?” Aramis asked, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“I’m going to Margaux Eklundstrom’s wedding this afternoon,” Alexa blurted, her face growing warm. “So…” she trailed off, wo
ndering if Aramis would even believe her.
“Say no more,” Aramis said, running his fingers through her hair. “I understand the need for extreme fabulosity. You know,” Aramis went on. “I used to do Margaux’s hair way back in the day, when she and her brother were two little runty kids growing up in La Brea. They still pop in here now and then.”
“Really?” Alexa asked, intrigued by this slice of Eklundstrom family history. “What else do you know about them?”
“Oh, everything,” Aramis sighed. “Including the fact that Paul DeMille’s family is loaded, so he probably is marrying Margaux for love. And,” he added, holding up a strand of Alexa’s hair. “Aren’t you the lucky one? I know for a fact that Baby Bear Jonah has a thing for blondes.”
“So I’ve heard,” Alexa sighed, rolling her eyes, and Artemis laughed.
“Alexa,” he said decisively. “We are going to have fun today.”
Alexa grinned in agreement, settling deeper into her chair. This was going to be the most entertaining haircut of her life.
Over in Westwood, Holly settled into the stiff chair outside the UCLA dean of admissions’ office, her sweaty palms clutching the transcript her high school guidance counselor had faxed to El Sueño that morning. Holly had had just enough time to pick up the fax from Esperanza’s office in the main house, before fighting her way through the reporters swarming outside and making it into Kenya’s car.
“Gee,” Kenya had deadpanned as she’d peeled away from the estate. “You’d think there was a wedding or something happening today.”
Kenya had been such a soothing, funny presence on the drive to Westwood that Holly had wished her friend could accompany her to the interview, but Kenya had to attend a philosophy study session. Still, she’d assured Holly that she’d drive her back to Malibu, since Kenya had planned to spend her afternoon on Zuma Beach anyway. The notion that an afternoon in college could be whiled away on the beach had only reaffirmed Holly’s decision. So had driving across campus observing the crowds on Bruin Walk, admiring the rolling green of the athletics fields. Holly had once again been enchanted by the spirit of the school.
Now came the tricky part.
Holly was a disaster at interviews. She got fidgety, blushed, suddenly had to pee, and forgot all the reasons as to why she was interviewing in the first place. In her opinion, phrases like “Tell me about yourself ” had been invented by the devil; how was a girl supposed to sum up her entire existence in a few half-stammered sentences? Holly had managed to avoid having interviews with most of the colleges she’d applied to, but her parents had cajoled her into interviewing at Rutgers. In a suit, of course. Holly could still recall the choky feeling of the high-necked tweed jacket, the itchiness of the skirt, and her completely immature stuttering when the patient alum asked her why she’d chosen Rutgers. Because my parents made me, Holly had almost said—cursed, as always, by the honesty bug. Of course, she’d held back and mumbled something about a good academic curriculum, which was probably why she’d received that acceptance letter in April.
Taking a deep breath, Holly crossed her legs, studying the beaded gold flats she’d slipped on before leaving the guesthouse. She hoped they wouldn’t come off as too flighty for such a serious interview. The rest of the outfit she’d cobbled together—the khaki skirt and a button-down blue shirt with short, puffed sleeves—wasn’t quite the suit her mom would have recommended, either. When she’d first stepped off the elevator into the admissions office’s elegant foyer, Holly had wished she’d bought something more formal back on Rodeo Drive. Especially when the department secretary had raised an eyebrow at Holly, and murmured, “Oh, yes, Jacobson. You’re the one with the unique situation.”
Holly hoped that “unique situation” wasn’t code for “you’ve got no chance in hell, baby.”
To distract herself, she picked up a copy of UCLA’s alumni magazine and was skimming an article about how many movies had been filmed on the campus, when she heard footsteps behind the closed office door. Nervousness raced through her, and Holly instinctively reached down to twist her Claddagh ring—but there was nothing on her finger. Right. With a pang, Holly realized she had no one to rely on in that moment but herself.
And it was time to face the present.
The door to the office opened and an elderly man with a shock of white hair—Dean Brown, Holly knew—poked his head out and, to Holly’s relief, gave her a warm smile.
“Come on in, Ms. Jacobson,” he said in a deep, rumbly voice, pushing the door open all the way to reveal a sun-filled office hung with bright watercolors. “We’ve been expecting you.”
We? Holly thought in confusion, until she walked into the office and saw the young, trim, auburn-haired woman seated at the dean’s desk. She, too, gave Holly a broad smile as she stood and held her hand out.
“Holly, such a pleasure,” the woman said. “I’m Olivia Farber, the coach of the—”
“Women’s track team,” Holly filled in, smiling herself now. “We spoke in January. You tried to recruit me?”
“That I did,” Coach Farber said with a nod.
“With good reason,” Dean Brown thundered, striding back to his desk as he motioned for Holly to take a seat. “We looked through your file again and saw a stellar letter of recommendation from your current coach, Ms. Graham. And your high school’s assistant principal spoke very highly of you this morning.”
Holly sat gingerly on the edge of the chair, her heart hammering away. “My—my assistant principal?” she echoed, glancing from the dean to Coach Farber.
“Yes,” the dean boomed, accepting the transcript Holly handed him. “She called first thing today to ask that we make an exception for a student of your caliber.”
“I—she did?” Holly asked, overcome. Her mother? Holly felt a swell of emotion; she couldn’t believe her parents had actually come through for her.
“Yes,” the dean said again, giving Holly a piercing look. “Of course, we have to take into account that she is, after all, your mother and therefore highly biased. You’ll have to prove it to us yourself, Holly, that we should bend the rules and allow you into our freshman class.”
“Okay,” Holly said after a moment, pressing her hands together and sitting up straight. “I’ll try.”
Wearing boy shorts and a tank top that spelled out je t’aime in sequins, Alexa was sitting on the fake grass of the indoor golf course, painting her toenails Café Au Lait for the wedding. This feels so weird, she thought—not the do-it-yourself mani-pedi, of course, but the new sensation of cool air on her back.
When Aramis had unclipped Alexa’s cape and announced that he was done, Alexa’s heart had leaped in surprise at the sight of the shorter-haired blonde girl in the mirror. Was it really still her? But after driving back to El Sueño, walking past the stretch limo that was waiting outside to pick up Jonah for the wedding, dropping off her bags in her bedroom, and taking a long, hot shower, she was starting to suspect that this new haircut was very much her. The new Alexa—the college girl.
Alexa was blowing on her nails when she heard the front door open and slam. A moment later, Holly appeared, the expression on her face utterly unreadable and her hands behind her back as she crossed the green golf course toward Alexa.
“So?” Alexa cried, setting down her bottle of polish as suspense gripped her. “Are you in?”
“Oh my God, your hair!” Holly cried, marveling at her friend’s sideswept bangs and shiny, flaxen hair cut just to her shoulders. “I love it, Alexa. You look…you look like a girl who works at Vogue.” Suddenly Holly felt she was catching a glimpse of who her friend would really become: someone successful and savvy and so far beyond the shallow, self-centered Alexa of a few years ago. We’ve grown up, Holly realized, getting the slightest bit choked up. Both of us.
“Stop avoiding the subject,” Alexa chided as she carefully got to her feet. “Am I looking at a member of UCLA’s incoming freshman class or not?” She held her breath as she waited for Holly to
respond. So much rode on the answer—including both girls’ futures.
Her face still giving away nothing, Holly finally pulled her hands out from behind her back. She was holding up a thick manila envelope that was stamped with a bright blue-and-gold seal, and Alexa could make out the words THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA…She glanced from the envelope to Holly and noticed that her friend’s eyes were shining.
“Oh, Hol!” Alexa squealed, opening her arms to hug her friend. Despite all the hesitations she’d had about Holly going to UCLA, she felt a bubble of joy rising in her. She wasn’t sure how she’d survive without her best friend close by once college started, but this wasn’t about Alexa now. It was about Holly seeing her dream realized—and Alexa had to celebrate that, no matter what.
Holly began to laugh, shaking her head back and forth as she returned Alexa’s embrace. “It’s the most surreal thing ever, right?” She knew the events of the day would feel more believable once she called her parents, and once she sorted through the envelope of registration materials that the dean had given her. But all that could wait. For the moment, she was enjoying the vaguely blurry, dazed feeling of happiness.
“And the most terrific,” Alexa replied. “It’s too bad we finished that champagne on our first night. If this doesn’t demand a toast, I’m not sure what does.”
“Relax—there’ll be plenty of fancy drinks at Margaux’s,” Holly said, and she felt a surge of stress as she realized the wedding was a mere two hours away. “Well, what am I doing?” she gasped, taking a step back. “I need to shower—and paint my nails, right?—and my dress so needs ironing…” Holly wasn’t sure how she could cram everything in, unless she stripped right now and dashed straight into the waterfall shower, calling her parents and painting her nails as she ran.