Holly Hearts Hollywood (8 page)

Serena looked up from her iPhone. “The what?”

“The salon? For the mani-pedis,” I said slowly.

“Oh, we don’t have an appointment, but we can get them if you want. My heels are so dry,” Serena said, slowing down to examine an Yves Saint-Laurent dress in a window. “Would I look fat in that?”

“You’re nuts,” I said, giving her curvy frame a hard stare. “Why’d you lie about that? I could’ve hung out with Keller more.”

“Exactly,” she said, her hands on her hips in concentration. “You don’t want him to get sick of you; you have to keep him wanting more. Plus, now you seem desirable and popular.” She looked seriously at the dress. “I’m going to try it on! It’d be great for the party.”

I didn’t see the big deal with the dress. It was a shapeless black thing with a weird hemline and a gigantic price tag. Seriously, I could buy two used cars for the same amount of money. The YSL boutique was seriously fancy—I was afraid to touch anything. All of the salespeople seemed more like poorly-fed models instead of retail employees. I like food too much to sell clothes, either in stores or in print ads. But, of course, Serena looked like a superstar in the dress.

The sales associate, Poppy, who’s apparently a good friend of Serena, kept fussing over her. “You look amazing, Serena! Maybe you could convince Grayson to sign with the label at the party! Especially if you wear those strappy Louboutin sandals you bought last month.”

Serena laughed. “It’s doubtful, he’s so not into brunettes, and I’ve tried before.”

“I’m sorry,” I interrupted, “but what party is this?”

“My dad didn’t tell you? When the album’s finished, he’s hosting a big party at our house, mainly for Grayson Frost’s benefit so he’ll leave Golden Chord. Shell Shocked really wants Grayson. It’s unlikely he’ll sign, though; Grayson loves Nashville. Oh, and you’re invited to the party, of course.”

I felt sick, but the memories of Keller and our sexy cupcake exchange were enough to keep me from vomiting all over the malnourished sales associates.

THINGS FOUND TODAY:

1.
Twelve-pack of vintage Pepsi bottles

2.
A retro pillbox hat

3.
Novelty x-ray glasses

February 15
^th
, 11:30am—Shell Shocked Records

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. I’m in a sound booth right now. There’s a giant, scary microphone and a music stand with the songs ready to go on it. The walls are padded. I’m not sure if this is a place where you record music or bang your head against the wall because the voices won’t stop.

I have to record the music I’ve barely had a week to practice, and I only have a few days to do it. Usually, you can spend as much as a year making an album, but the studio wants to get this CD on the market as soon as possible. On top of that, Lacey seems to be under the impression that I’m her personal assistant, ever since I took care of those yellow Mike and Ikes for her.

She came parading in a few minutes ago with a full-on entourage in tow. They sounded like a flock of birds as they entered. First came a girl with mouse-brown hair, typing frantically on an iPad, then a tall dark-haired woman on her cell phone, and then a bleach-blonde in a hot pink Juicy Couture tracksuit. Lastly, Lacey came gliding in, looking glamorous as per usual.

“Have you started yet?” she demanded, examining her cuticles.

“Um, no? Is there something I can help you with? Who are they?” I asked, looking cautiously at the three rather busy-looking people.

“Hello, I’m Kayla Whitney, I’m Lacey’s personal assistant,” the one with the iPad said. I liked Kayla right away. She seemed the most down-to-earth out of all of them.

The one on the cell phone was a bit distracted, so Kayla said, “That’s Sabrina Thomas, Lacey’s publicist, and this is Kimberly.” She gestured to the tracksuit woman who looked like a
Toddlers and Tiaras
mom. “She’s Lacey’s mom and manager.”

“Hiya, honey,” Kimberly said with an obvious Texas drawl. “You’ll take care of my baby now, won’t you?”

“Um, sure?”

“Mom, stop it; you’re embarrassing me,” Lacey said in a bored tone.

“I’m trying to be a good manager, honey.”

Lacey rolled her lips. “Yeah, well, you’re terrible at it so far.” She put down her phone and looked at me. “So you’re coming to the party next week, right? I’m wearing Versace, and I’ll need all of the help I can get.”

She seemed like she needed
mental
help more than a stylist or an assistant.

“What do you want me to do, hold your train?”

Lacey wrinkled her nose, which did nothing to harm her beauty—it simply made her look adorable. “No, this isn’t a wedding! I need someone to have breath mints for me and to make sure my lip-gloss doesn’t smear.”

“Isn’t that Kayla’s job?”

Kayla didn’t look up from the glow of her iPad. “I have the night off, and my family is in town. Also, I’m not her slave.”

Lacey sighed dramatically, “I can’t take her anywhere.”

Sabrina pulled her phone away from her ear. “Lace,” she said, “how do you feel about doing
Saturday Night Live
sometime next month? Rihanna canceled.”

Lacey tossed her hair over one shoulder, as if she got offers to be on television shows all the time. “Sure, sounds cool.”

Cool?
Cool?
Her album isn’t even out yet, it’s not even
recorded
yet, and she’s already landing gigs like
SNL
. Does the sun orbit around Lacey or what?

“So, you’re coming? I like, totally need you,” Lacey prompted.

“Um, sure?” I said, completely confused about what to say.

Lacey flashed me her million-dollar smile. Honestly, that smile could’ve
cost
her a million dollars; I’ve never seen teeth that straight and white before. “Great. Kayla will call you later with the details.” She turned to her mom. “Manuel said that Grayson should arrive at eight; that gives me just enough time to make my move.”

Kimberley pulled her sweatpants up. “You go get him, honey. You can do it.”

Really? Can you believe it? Her mom was
encouraging
her daughter to chase after him? How messed up is that? They left right after I said I’d come along. By that point, my panic started to rise as I realized I’d promised Lacey I’d go to a celebrity-filled party, and I knew Grayson would be there. This is a disaster waiting to happen.

Oh no, the producers are here. It’s time.

Later, 7:00pm—Pink Palm Motel

I was so nervous about recording; but when we got started, the soundproof booth made me feel like I was alone and not like big-shot executives were only a few feet away. When push came to shove, my love for singing helped me get over my fears. Granted, I never want to get on stage at Madison Square Garden, but this will do for now.

Mr. Salazar was thrilled about how the tracks came out today. He came into the sound booth after we finished and thanked me for all my hard work. I was feeling good about myself, until Lacey came into the booth after he left and leaned against the doorframe.

“Hi, Lacey,” I said cautiously.

She snapped her gum loudly. “Do you always wear your hair like that?”

I looked at my reflection in the polished glass. My hair refuses to have any kind of volume or body and hangs around my face like drapes.

“Um, yes? Is it supposed to look different?”

Lacey blew a bubble and somehow managed to not let it pop all over her face. “You can’t be seen around me with hair like that.”

“I’m sorry?” I spat the words out. I wasn’t sure what to say, but I’m pretty sure that apologizing about my personal appearance is painfully passive-aggressive. How do I expect to be self-confident when I can’t even stand up for my hair?

“Come on,” Lacey waved me toward her. “Wendell will probably let me squeeze you in.”

“Squeeze me into what?” I said dumbly as I scampered after her.

Lacey didn’t respond—she already had her iPhone to her ear, barking orders into it. “I
know
I need an appointment. I have long-standing appointments every two weeks. You can make an exception; I’m a loyal customer.”

I was
REALLY
confused, but for whatever reason, I followed her through Shell Shocked.

“Great, that’s exactly what I like to hear,” Lacey said. She hung up without even saying goodbye. I thought only people in movies did that. Apparently, if you look like Lacey, you can do it too.

“Um, Lacey?” I asked, slightly out of breath since Lacey has long legs, and it was hard for me to keep up. “Where are we going?”

“To Wendell’s. You need highlights,” she said briskly. We stepped outside into the Shell Shocked parking lot and the beautiful, California weather. I could barely believe it was winter. If we were in Iowa, I’d probably have to shovel snow out of the driveway right now.

“Couldn’t I get a trim instead?” I protested. Lacey unlocked the door of her pearl-white Range Rover and hopped into the driver’s seat.

She looked at me sternly. “No, you can’t get a trim instead. You need a wash, cut, highlights, the whole works.” She blinked. “Well, get in the car, already.”

I paused, but she was looking at me with so much intensity that I obliged. Lacey slipped off her stilettos and chucked them into the backseat.

“Are you driving barefoot?” I asked as she reversed out of her parking spot.

“I wear heels and flip-flops a lot. It’s so much easier to drive barefoot.”

She flipped on the radio and sang off-key to every song as we drove to Wendell’s salon, which is, apparently,
the
salon in LA. It’s no wonder they needed to find someone to sing for Lacey; that girl couldn’t sing her way out of a paper bag.

Wendell’s salon, Outer Beauty, was a super-posh, modern place that’s so exclusive it only has three stylists. I was expecting a tall, thin man with a handlebar moustache in all black, looking like he’d walked off the streets of Hemingway-era Paris. Instead, Wendell was a large German man who apparently recently outgrew all of his shirts and hasn’t been able to buy any more.

“Lacey!” He kissed her on both cheeks, which was something I’d never actually seen anyone do in real life. “What is this emergency? Did you find a split end?” His accent was thick, and he smelled like sauerkraut and hair spray.

“I brought you a whole head of split ends,” Lacey said, gesturing to me as if I were on display.

“Hey!” I protested. “Lacey, I can’t afford something like this,” I whispered even though Wendell was only three feet away.

Lacey glanced at her phone. “I’d be surprised if you could. Besides, it’s on me.”

“Oh no, don’t worry about me. I’ll buy some hair dye or something at Wal-Mart.”

Wendell actually
hissed
at me. “You will not buy any such product from the Wal-Mart,” he growled. “Wendell will take care of you,” he insisted. I’ve never actually heard anyone speak in third person before, and it wasn’t the Yoda-like experience I’d hoped for.

He snapped his sausage-like fingers, and before I knew it, I was in a salon chair with chunks of my hair wrapped up in foil and goop that was apparently hair color.

“Now, this will give her a nice honey-blonde, won’t it?” Lacey asked as she popped a new piece of gum into her mouth.

“
Ja,
will be blonde like good German beer.”

I don’t know much about beer, but I couldn’t help but think that my hair shouldn’t resemble it. But who was I to talk? My hair looks like a wet haystack. Well, it
did
look like a wet haystack until Wendell got his hands on it. Now I actually have highlights.
HIGHLIGHTS
! My hair is glossy with dimension and layers. I didn’t know what anyone meant when they talked about hair framing the face, but now I totally get it. My face doesn’t look as fat as it used to.

My heart nearly exploded when Wendell told Lacey how much it cost. It cost the same amount as my Homecoming dress, and that dress was
not
on sale. But Lacey handed over her credit card like it was no big deal.

“That brings out the shape of your face,” Lacey said as she waited for Wendell to bring her receipt.

“Thanks so much, Lacey. I appreciate it.”

She waved her hand in the air dismissively; only she was on her phone, so she didn’t realize she was waving her hand
in
my face. I had to lean away to avoid her long fingernails. “It’s no big deal,” she said.

But it is a big deal. Lacey paid for me to get my hair done by a celebrity stylist. Who does that for someone who’s practically a stranger? Does this mean that Lacey and I are friends now?

Later, 8:30pm—Pink Palm Motel

Mom was a little miffed when she saw my hair. She doesn’t approve of hair dye because of the chemicals and the general belief that you should embrace the way you naturally look. But what does she know? She looks like Demi Moore without even trying.

February 17
^th
, 1:30pm—Pink Palm Motel

I was slammed this morning. I had history with Jennifer, and then Mr. Salazar wanted me to re-record the bridge to “Get Outta Town,” my least favorite song on the album. When I finally got home, I found my mom panicking, something I only remember her doing one other time in my life.

She had stacks of papers on the table, and her dark hair was held on top her head with chopsticks, presumably from her dinner from Mr. Chow’s Super Chinese Takeout. Chinese food in LA is much better than the Chinese place in Cedar Junction. I don’t even think Mrs. Summer, the owner, has ever even been to China.

Anyway, Mom was punching in numbers on a calculator with a scary amount of anger for someone who talks to plants every day.