“You guys?” Holly said—Alexa guessed she was addressing Meghan and Jess—“I’ll meet you back at the hostel. Tell Ms. Graham I had to—oh, forget it. I’ll just deal with her when I get there.” There was a pause, and then Alexa distinctly heard Holly say, “No, it’s not Tyler.” She sounded uncharacteristically brusque, and Alexa couldn’t help but grin through her tears. A second later, Holly was back. “Okay, tell me exactly what happened,” she said calmly.
Alexa started to, but the line kept crackling noisily, and Holly had to constantly interrupt her with “Alexa, I can’t hear you!”
“This is ridiculous,” Alexa moaned. Suddenly, she didn’t want to be on the phone with Holly. She wanted to be sitting across from her in a café, watching her friend’s green-gray eyes widen at Alexa’s tales of woe. With a rush of nostalgia, Alexa remembered all the insane fiascos she and Holly had survived—together—in South Beach. Maybe it was because Holly was a childhood friend, but Alexa found her presence unfailingly comforting. Alexa knew that the two of them weren’t the best of buddies anymore, but somehow she sensed that having Holly Jacobson with her in Paris would make everything better.
Besides, she was only a Chunnel ride away.
“Hol, just come to Paris,” Alexa blurted, gripping the phone. “Please? I’m so alone here.” Normally, Alexa never admitted to being helpless, but around Holly, she’d mostly learned to swallow her pride. “You don’t need to stay the whole week—maybe, like, a day or two?” She wiped her streaming eyes with the heel of her hand, hoping Holly would agree to the last-minute plan.
“Paris? Now?” Holly cried. “Alexa, are you nuts? I can’t! I’m in the middle of my track meet and my coach will kill me if I leave and what if my parents found out and—”
“All right, all right,” Alexa cut off her friend’s rambling. She should have known responsible Holly wouldn’t take off on an impromptu trip. “Don’t worry about it. Honest.”
There was a moment of staticky silence, and then Holly whispered, “Should I try to get there tonight, or is tomorrow morning okay?”
CHAPTER SIX
On the Run
It was somewhere under the English Channel, on the thundering Eurostar train, that Holly realized the enormity of what she’d just pulled off.
Holy shit, she thought, scrunching down in her seat and pulling the hood of her sweatshirt up over her head. Holly glanced at the passenger beside her—a silver-haired woman in a massive mink stole who’d been shooting Holly suspicious looks the whole ride—and her heart started hammering wildly. I’m a fugitive.
Trying not to hyperventilate, Holly hugged her knees to her chest, gazed out at the dark tunnel, and replayed the insane chain of events that had led her to where she was that Tuesday morning.
The night before, after talking to Alexa, Holly had made curfew by a hair and, nervous but exhilarated, went up to her room to confer with Meghan and Jess. At first, Holly hadn’t wanted to let her friends in on the news, but she knew this stunt would be far too risky to carry off alone. And she didn’t want them thinking she’d been kidnapped or something if she suddenly disappeared.
“Why are you letting Alexa boss you around?” Meghan had exclaimed as Holly jammed socks and underwear into her duffel bag. Neither Meghan nor Jess ever bothered to disguise their disdain for Alexa, who they considered snotty and superficial. Holly’s newfound closeness with her had been a sore point among the girls all year.
Holly refolded her sea-green Forever 21 halter top, which she’d packed in the vain hope that Wimbledon might have some fun dance clubs. She remained silent for a minute. It would be impossible to tell her friends that there’d been no bossing involved: Holly was eager to escape England and, more important, primed to indulge in serious boy analysis with Alexa—and not them.
So instead, she explained, truthfully, that Alexa was in dire straits and needed Holly’s help, at least for a couple of days. Holly figured she’d only stay in Paris until Alexa was back on her stilettos and return to England in time for the final meet on Friday.
“It won’t be too awful,” she assured the girls, trying to convince herself as well. “I mean, I can’t even practice or compete with you guys, right? And Wednesday’s supposed to be the team’s free day in London. Coach Graham won’t even notice I’m missing then!”
Jess groaned, flopping back on her pillow. “But Holly, we need you here for moral support. And Coach Graham expects you to be at the meets. You’re our freaking captain!”
Holly swallowed her guilt. She knew that bailing on her teammates during their big international meet was terrible. But Holly also felt like Alexa’s call had been a sign from the heavens. In a way, the choice was no longer hers; she simply had to get on that Chunnel train tomorrow morning—no matter what it took.
Swearing to walk dogs, babysit siblings, and do laundry, she begged Meghan and Jess to cover for her. As Holly packed, she and the girls invented a slew of excuses—from her ankle swelling up to food poisoning, from migraines to anxiety attacks—for when Coach Graham would ask where Holly was. The girls could whip out the classic “problems back home” sob story, but that might be dicey; Holly was worried Ms. Graham might decide to call the Jacobsons herself—there was no way in hell Holly was telling her parents about this little excursion to Paris.
“If Coach Graham finds out,” Jess warned, turning off the light a mere two hours before their 4:30 A.M. alarm, “you’re toast, Holly.” She took a deep breath. “We all are.”
Jess’s ominous words rang in Holly’s head all night and well into the morning. After Meghan and Jess headed off for practice, Holly, clammy-palmed, hurriedly changed into carpenter cords, a long-sleeved waffle shirt and her Kangol hoodie, holding her breath the whole time.
Then—consulting the Fodor’s guide to London her parents had given her before her trip—she crept outside (everyone was at the track by then, so the coast was more than clear) and caught the commuter rail, which took her into London proper, and Waterloo station. There, Alexa had told her, Holly could catch the Eurostar train into Paris.
For a second, as Holly entered the enormous station, every single particle of her being screamed at her to turn around and go back to Wimbledon, like the sane, levelheaded, good girl she was. But whether it was her trouble with Tyler (who still hadn’t called back, and thus had no clue about Paris) or the frustration she was feeling about her best friends (whom she was now indebted to for life), Holly was also sort of enjoying the thrill that came with breaking so many rules.
Holly Jacobson may have been a good girl, but she was always up for a challenge.
So, her ankle throbbing only slightly, she strode across the station and bought a round-trip ticket with her Amex. The charge on the credit card, Holly realized as she signed, would be yet another lie she’d have to cook up—this time for her parents, when she was back home and the bill came. But it didn’t matter: full steam ahead now.
In a daze, Holly boarded the train and sank into the first window seat she could find. When the fur-draped woman plunked down beside her—after shrieking at the conductor because, apparently, she was supposed to be in first class—Holly hardly glanced up. Her surreal, out-of-body sensation lasted during the aboveground ride through England, but when they entered the Chunnel, she started to seriously freak out about being on the lam.
Suddenly Holly’s cell phone rang, jerking her out of her worries. She noticed that the train had come up out of the tunnel and was now speeding through coastal France.
Oh, no, she thought, frantically pawing through her Vans tote for the ringing phone. What if it was Coach Graham calling? Or her parents?
Or…Tyler?
Once again, the screen on her T-Mobile showed an unfamiliar series of digits after a plus sign.
“Who—who is it?” Holly whispered into the phone, her entire body tensing up.
“Breathe, Hol,” Alexa said, laughing. “Where are you?”
Relief flooded through Holly. “On the train to Paris,” she whispere
d.
“Holly Rebecca Jacobson, you rock!” Alexa squealed, and Holly could hear the admiration in her voice. She felt herself start to relax; what she was doing was definitely crazy—but maybe kind of cool, too.
That is, if she didn’t get caught.
As the train hurtled on, Alexa filled Holly in on her status since last night; apparently, she’d finally reached her dad, who’d wired her money and put her in touch with her cousins, who had, thankfully, just returned from the long weekend with their parents. So Alexa was now staying with Pierre and Raphaëlle, as she’d planned to do anyway—only now it was sans Diego.
“Do you still want me to come?” Holly asked, nibbling on her thumbnail. She was starting to worry that her risky rescue mission might now be semi-pointless.
“Of course I do!” Alexa groaned. “I’m completely traumatized from everything that happened, and my cousins are, like, never around. I need to see you, Hol, so I can, I don’t know, be myself again.” She let out a long sigh.
Satisfied that she still had a purpose in Paris, Holly told Alexa that her train got in around three that afternoon, and they agreed that Alexa would meet her at the Gare du Nord.
Clicking off, Holly leaned back against her seat with a sigh. For the first time that day, she forgot her fears and felt a tingle of anticipation; she suspected that, in addition to helping Alexa, she might also have a pretty good time in Paris. She was closing her eyes—she hadn’t slept at all last night—when the woman next to her tapped her shoulder.
“Excuse me,” she said snidely. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
Holly opened her eyes, seized by terror again. The woman had been watching her! Was she in cahoots with Coach Graham? “I—I don’t think so,” Holly stammered, trying to avoid her gaze.
“It’s been bothering me the entire trip,” the woman whined, toying with the flashy diamond choker around her neck. “I have an impeccable memory for faces, and I know I’ve seen yours before. Were you vacationing in Belize this past summer?”
Try sports camp in Massachusetts, Holly wanted to reply, but she bit her tongue.
“Then you were skiing in Whistler this winter,” the woman insisted.
Holly blinked at the woman and considered telling her that, despite the fact that she was Paris-bound, she wasn’t at all accustomed to visiting glamorous locales.
“Or…” The woman went on, tapping a finger to her chin. “Have you ever spent time in South Beach, Miami?”
Except for that one.
Holly’s stomach sank in recognition as she took in the woman’s haughty face. Oh…my…God, she thought. It’s Henrietta von Malhoffer!
Holly and Alexa had encountered the formidable Henrietta von Malhoffer exactly a year ago, when they’d pretended to be guests at a ritzy South Beach hotel. Overhearing the wealthy woman’s name and room number in the lobby, the girls had claimed she was their generous aunt in order to get served yummy drinks and nibbles—but had run away before their cover was blown. Back then, Holly remembered, Henrietta had kept her silver mane hidden by a silk head wrap—and apparently hadn’t had as many Botox injections—so she’d looked different.
But Holly hadn’t changed all that much since last year—which explained why the woman had been studying her so intently.
Holly shook her head. What were the chances? She only hoped that Henrietta wouldn’t put two and two together and ID Holly as one of the girls who’d charged food to her hotel room.
“Nope,” she lied. “I’ve never been to South Beach in my life.” Turning back to the window, Holly tried her best not to burst out laughing. She couldn’t wait to tell Alexa.
“Guess who was on my train!” Holly cried as soon as she spotted Alexa in the busy Gare du Nord. Alexa was pacing in front of a ticket window on her cork-wedge espadrilles, looking impatiently at her watch, but she glanced up at the sound of Holly’s voice. Holly grinned, feeling a burst of fondness toward her old friend; after the harrowing journey, seeing her was an instant comfort.
“You made it!” Alexa exclaimed, dashing toward Holly. Alexa may have been comfortably ensconced at her cousins’ place, but she was still shaky from her mugging, fuming over Diego, and dying to bitch and moan to her old friend. Watching Holly approach, a smile blooming on her freckled face, Alexa immediately felt her heart lighten. But she couldn’t help choking up a little, too; Holly had traveled all this way for her!
The girls reached each other, their arms outstretched, but in the moment before they embraced, there was a sudden awkwardness. After all, it wasn’t like Alexa and Holly spent all their time in Oakridge hugging. They hadn’t even really said good-bye before their respective trips abroad. Both girls had to admit that, despite their affection for each other, their friendship was still tinged with a bit of tension.
It was Alexa who dispelled any discomfort by throwing her arms around Holly. “Hol, thank you, thank you, thank you!” she gushed, wondering how she could ever repay her friend for this major favor. “I hope the trip wasn’t a complete pain in the ass,” she added.
The girls hugged tight, Holly’s duffel knocking against Alexa’s leg and Alexa’s wooden bangles getting tangled in Holly’s hair. They giggled as they separated.
“Well, it definitely wasn’t easy…” Holly began with a shrug.
“Wait, so who was on your train?” Alexa was asking at the exact same instant.
The girls broke into giggles again, and Holly thought about how acting silly with Alexa felt somehow acceptable—as opposed to how immature she felt around Meghan and Jess’s clowning.
Holly linked her arm through Alexa’s as they began walking. “Henrietta von Malhoffer,” she whispered, looking around to make sure the woman wasn’t behind them.
Alexa’s big blue eyes widened. “Get out!” she cried. “That bitch from the hotel last year?” As she and Holly started laughing, a wild thought occurred to Alexa. “Hol, listen!” she exclaimed, stopping in the middle of the station. “I think it’s a sign.”
“A sign?” Holly asked. Alexa was forever thinking everything was a sign or an omen. Growing up, she’d been the one who believed in ghosts, and Holly had been the cynic who’d scoffed at their Ouija board games.
“Yes,” Alexa said firmly. Now she knew for sure: Getting Holly to come to Paris had been the smartest thing she’d ever done. “The last time we saw her was in South Beach, right?” she explained. “So that means we’re going to have just as much—if not more—fun than we did last spring break.” Alexa grinned, leading Holly in the direction of the Métro. “Hol, it’s official—Paris is South Beach, part deux!”
The girls took the Métro to Le Marais, rehashing Holly’s great escape the whole ride. But when they emerged onto the sun-dappled street, Holly stopped her storytelling to gaze around in awe. Whoa. The red-and-gold Art Nouveau Métro sign, the elegant pedestrians trotting past, the corner violinist playing a version of “La Vie en Rose”…I am in Paris! she thought. All Holly knew of Paris she’d picked up from movies, books, or Alexa. It was breathtaking to see the mythical city brought to life, even more beautiful than she’d imagined it.
And then Holly wished that Tyler were there to share in the magic with her. He would lace his fingers through hers as they walked down one of the winding side streets and kiss her softly beneath one of the slender lampposts. Paris, Holly realized with a pang of sorrow, was best enjoyed with a boy.
But now that she was here, she still planned to have the time of her life—without Tyler Davis.
“Let’s celebrate your arrival over drinks,” Alexa declared, slipping an arm around Holly’s waist. “We can drop your stuff at my cousins’ later, but I thought you’d want to see the neighborhood first.” Even though Holly was staring all starry-eyed at the streets of Le Marais, her touristy enthusiasm didn’t irk Alexa as much as Diego’s had. Maybe, in part, it was because Alexa had expected Diego to be as sophisticated as she was, but she knew that sheltered Holly couldn’t help her naïveté.
The girls walked beneath the lovely stone arches of the place des Vosges and past a row of chichi art galleries until they arrived at a corner café that overlooked the trees and fountains of the Louis Treize park. The weather was unseasonably warm—“Hol, you brought the sunshine!” Alexa exclaimed as Holly wriggled out of her hoodie—so the girls sat outside. A dark-eyed waiter materialized with a nod and a low “Mesdemoiselles?” leaving both girls momentarily tongue-tied. But Alexa quickly recovered and ordered two kirs, and then they leaned back in their straw chairs, soaking up the afternoon sun and grinning at each other.
“I’m just loving having you in Paris,” Alexa said truthfully, giving her friend a grateful look across the small table. She noticed that while Holly also seemed psyched, a mysterious sadness darkened her gray-green eyes. She’s probably still stressed about ditching out on her team, Alexa reasoned, lazily twining her hair up on her head. A sparkling night on the town will perk her right up. Alexa already had plans for the two of them—along with her cousins—to check out some sizzling discothèques that evening.
Meanwhile, Holly was studying Alexa, who, of course, looked stunning in a white wrap top, a necklace of chunky wooden beads, and a low-slung apple-red peasant skirt. Holly shook her head in wonder; only raging clothes horse Alexa would have most of her luggage stolen and still have the perfect trendy outfit to wear the next day. But despite Alexa’s put-together exterior, Holly could sense that her normally composed friend was just a tad more vulnerable than usual.
“How are you feeling about, um, Diego?” Holly asked carefully as their drinks arrived, along with a sly wink from their waiter. Holly smiled back shyly. Diego, she recalled vividly, also knew how to turn on the charm. Though Diego was a hottie, Holly had eventually realized that he wasn’t the right guy for her. Now she was curious to hear how Alexa had come to realize the same thing.
“Pissed,” Alexa replied promptly, reaching for her kir. After a night away from Diego, Alexa’s simmering anger toward her ex had only boiled hotter. And when Alexa St. Laurent got pissed, she also got defiant. Alexa had already decided that, when she and Holly went clubbing that night, she would grab the most beautiful guy on the dance floor and indulge in the steamiest, sultriest, screw-you-Diego hookup she could possibly have, Mr. Princeton and his “opportunities” be damned. Her impending makeout session—or hey, maybe even more—wouldn’t be so much rebound, Alexa reasoned, as revenge.