Alexa—who had stepped in for no other reason than, in that moment, wanting to—turned around, the cold water covering her feet, her soles flat against the slick marble bottom. She felt like the blonde girl who waded through the fountain in La Dolce Vita, a stylish 1960s Italian movie Alexa’s dad was obsessed with. She felt airy and free and, for the time being, not focused on her heartache. She knew the pain would return later that night, or tomorrow, but she’d worry about it then.
“I’m fine,” she promised Holly, smiling at her friend’s concerned expression. It was so like Holly to always look out for her, even when they’d just been discussing Holly’s problems. Alexa realized their whole trip had been about that: Holly selflessly putting aside her own issues—boy- or sports-related or otherwise—to help Alexa with hers. Alexa choked up; she couldn’t think of a single other friend who would have done that for her. Definitely not Portia and Maeve, her supposed bests.
Alexa’s eyes welled with fresh tears as she studied her generous friend, who was still motioning for her to get out of the fountain. “Hey, Hol?” Alexa said softly, remaining where she was.
“Yeah?” Holly asked, taking a step closer to the fountain, putting her hands out for Alexa to take.
“I know we aren’t as close as we used to be, back in the day, but…” Alexa swallowed her tears and put her hands in Holly’s. “You know you’re my best friend, don’t you?” In that moment, Alexa understood both the full weight of those words, and how true they were. Holly was the best—the best friend Alexa could have had at her side throughout her various crises. The best friend to make Alexa laugh after having her heart broken. And the only friend with whom Alexa would have wanted to spend her last spring break of high school. Right then, Alexa could think of no other way to express her immense gratitude than telling Holly that plain, simple truth.
“I am?” Holly asked, holding on to Alexa’s hands. Hearing the once-familiar title filled Holly with a warm glow, but she also was a little wary. Been there, done that, Holly wanted to say, remembering how close the girls had been in grade school—and how much it had hurt when Alexa had decided to ditch her in junior high. “But, Alexa,” Holly argued pragmatically. “We hardly even spend time together back home—and our other friends—”
“I know,” Alexa sighed in disappointment. “But we can change that—like, we should sit together at lunch if we want to.” That wouldn’t be too hard, Alexa thought, considering she no longer planned to sit with Portia and Maeve every day, anyway. “And I promise to be better about calling you to make plans on the weekends,” Alexa swore, once again feeling a small—and utterly random—stab of pleasure at the thought of returning to Oakridge. “Besides,” she added, as she finally stepped up on the rim of the fountain, letting Holly help her down onto the pavement, “I think there’s more to our friendship than how often we hang out, don’t you?”
Holly nodded, knowing how right Alexa was. She and Alexa did have a rare bond—one that ran far deeper than how much time they spent together at the mall. And though Holly didn’t doubt she’d maintain her closeness with Meghan and Jess (providing the girls were still speaking to her after the stress she’d put them through this week), it was comforting to know she could turn to Alexa whenever she needed to discuss serious boy matters.
Leaving wet footprints on the pavement, Alexa retrieved her bag and shoes, and Holly followed suit, both girls laughing quietly over Alexa’s fountain escapade. As Holly was straightening the heel of her crushed velvet flat, she caught sight of the time on her silver wristwatch—it was after midnight. “I should go to bed soon,” she told Alexa. “I can’t oversleep again.”
“So it’s England tomorrow?” Alexa asked as the two girls circled around the fountain and began wending their way home through the silent, moonlit streets. “For real now?”
“I have no choice,” Holly replied as they crossed the rue St-Gilles. “The whole team flies back together on Sunday morning.” Holly knew she could no longer hide from Wimbledon. Whatever fate awaited her there, she simply had to face it. And, more important, Holly finally felt like she could return to England: She even wondered if she’d been destined to miss her train that morning, just for the purpose of being at Alexa’s side in the gallery. After the encounter with Xavier—and seeing Alexa much more subdued now—Holly could safely know that she’d come to Paris for a valid reason. Her work here was done.
“I just hope Ms. Graham isn’t too harsh when she explains to my parents that I’ve been expelled,” Holly added blithely, linking her arm through Alexa’s as they walked.
Alexa laughed, bumping Holly’s hip with hers. “Listen, don’t worry—I bet it’s actually going to work out okay.”
“You’d bet your shoes again?” Holly teased. “Or maybe one of your bags from Frou-Frou?” she offered, gesturing to Alexa’s paisley clutch. “St. Laurent, watch out—I’m going to end up with your whole wardrobe.”
“Well, I definitely owe you something, for, oh, I don’t know, asking you to jeopardize your entire future for me,” Alexa replied as the girls arrived at the rue de Sévigné. They walked toward the familiar shuttered house, and Alexa took out her key.
“You don’t owe me anything,” Holly assured Alexa as her friend unlocked the door. She leaned over and kissed Alexa on one cheek, non-Parisian style. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d never have come to Paris. And I’d never have had the best week of my life.” Right then—drunk off the emotional night—Holly did feel like her time in this incredible city would more than make up for any punishment she’d have to endure.
But she’d probably feel a little different tomorrow.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
New Jersey Kiss
I bet it’s actually going to work out okay.
Alexa’s words rang in Holly’s head, mocking her, as Holly climbed the steps of the Wimbledon hostel. Waking up before dawn in Paris, Holly had felt fairly calm, but during her Chunnel ride back to England, the first tendrils of dread began to take root. Now, as she unlocked the door to the room she shared with Meghan and Jess, Holly’s pulse skyrocketed. She was sure she’d walk in to find her friends tearing their hair out, rending their clothes, and wailing in agony.
But stepping into the quiet room, Holly found both girls fast asleep. Jess was sprawled across her top bunk, one arm hanging off the edge, while Meghan lay curled up on the bottom bunk, snoring softly. Holly felt a momentary flash of relief—maybe this was a good sign. As she shakily set her duffel on the single bed next to the bunk, Holly realized that it was only nine o’clock, and that today, Saturday, was supposed to be another free day for the team—since it would be their last in Wimbledon. So it made sense that Meghan and Jess were still in bed—though maybe the girls were sleeping off the effects of their hysterical sobbing from the night before.
Holly considered waking her friends, but then decided that she’d rather postpone hearing the bad news. First, she’d treat herself to a hot shower; she felt achy and grimy after the long train ride. Still, she figured she should let her friends know that she’d returned safely, in case they woke up and saw her bag. From her duffel, Holly pulled out a pen and the spiral-bound notepad her parents had given her before the trip—“You never know when you’ll need to write information down!” her mom had clucked—and scrawled Meghan and Jess a note that she was back and in one piece and fully understood if they never wanted to speak to her again.
Holly had had some practice writing notes that morning; before leaving Paris, she’d penned three separate ones for the sleeping St. Laurent cousins: A love-you-see-you-in-Oakridge note for Alexa; a thanks-for-the-hospitality-and-handbag message for Raphi, and, working up her nerve, a heartfelt I’ll-never-forget-you note for Pierre, which included Holly’s e-mail address. Regardless of what happened with Tyler, Holly did hope she and Pierre would stay in touch as friends.
Towel, flip-flops, and Herbal Essences shower gel in hand, Holly crept out of the room and headed for the hall bathroom. She was pushing op
en the door when a familiar voice behind her chilled Holly to the bone.
“Holly Jacobson.”
Her heart lodged in her throat, Holly turned around as slowly as possible. Coach Graham stood in the door frame of her room, wearing long-sleeved gray cotton pajamas printed with small sheep. Even though Holly’s parents were teachers, she always found it freaky to see any adult authority figure looking like, well, a normal person. And since Coach Graham had been particularly authoritative on this trip, seeing her in PJs was doubly weird—and, somehow, also made her a little less scary.
But only a little.
Holly tried to speak—Ms. Graham, please let me explain!—but her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth. Frozen in terror, Holly watched as Ms. Graham advanced toward her, one arm extended menacingly. Holly gulped, her knees buckling; was her coach actually going to hit her? Wasn’t that illegal or something? Instead of smacking Holly, though, Coach Graham rested one hand on Holly’s shoulder and stared right into her eyes.
“Holly,” Coach Graham said quietly, her voice full of concern. “Tell me. How are you?”
Huh?
“What—I’m—um—I’m all right, I guess,” Holly stammered, even though all right was the opposite of how she was feeling. What did Coach Graham expect her to say? Well, I’m about to have my life ruined, but other than that, I’m cool?
“Your ankle’s better?” Coach Graham went on, gesturing down to Holly’s left foot. “It must have healed more or less by now.”
“Uh—yeah, it’s actually fine,” Holly said, automatically rotating her ankle and realizing that Paris must have been good for it—there was not a hint of pain now. But why was Coach Graham even bothering to ask about her ankle when she was so furious at her?
Coach Graham nodded, and a look of—was it relief?—passed over her face. “It’s good to see you up and about,” she replied, giving Holly’s shoulder a quick squeeze while Holly gazed back at her, thoroughly bewildered. “Though you are a little pale,” Coach Graham added, frowning. “Is your stomach still bothering you?”
My stomach? Holly thought, shaking her head. What is she talking abou—
And then Holly got it.
In wild disbelief, she remembered what Meghan had said to her over the phone: So now Coach Graham thinks you’ve got food poisoning, chronic headaches…
No.
It couldn’t be.
“It—well, um, it still kind of hurts,” Holly managed to squeak out, putting a hand to her belly. None of this was making any sense, but Holly thought it best to attempt to play along for now.
Coach Graham nodded sympathetically. “But I hope at least your migraines are gone by now? Those were probably a side effect of the stomach problems.”
This is a trap, Holly realized, her mouth going dry. Coach Graham wanted Holly to fess up to her ludicious collection of illnesses, and then she’d have her cornered. Holly knew there was no conceivable way that four whole Holly-free days—including Friday’s big final meet—could have passed without Coach Graham figuring out the truth. After all, Holly didn’t see why her coach couldn’t have done something as simple as barge into the girls’ room to see for herself if Holly was really an invalid.
“I felt your pain, by the way,” Coach Graham was saying, now clutching her own stomach. “Just like you—bad shepherd’s pie. I had two portions at some London pub on Wednesday and was flat on my back—or over the toilet—for the rest of the week.” Coach Graham shuddered. “I’m only just starting to feel better today.”
Holly blinked, trying to wrap her mind around this startling development. Coach Graham had been…sick? For the first time since they’d started talking, Holly noticed that her coach did look sort of haggard; her face was drawn, her curly ash-blonde bob was matted, and there were shadowy circles under her eyes. With a burst of wonder, Holly realized that if Coach Graham had been out of commission for most of the week, she wouldn’t have been able to check up on Holly.
“God, I’m—um, really sorry,” Holly replied, a great wave of hope cresting in her. She’d never imagined she could feel so happy about someone’s food poisoning. “That must have been awful. I mean—um—I know exactly what you went through,” she added hastily, her cheeks warming up. “I’m surprised I didn’t run into you in the bathroom.” Easy there, Holly told herself. Maybe that’s pushing it.
Coach Graham rolled her eyes. “Can you believe it? The coach and the captain both sick at the same time? I had to ask Coach Saunders from the Canadian team to cover for me during the meets, and Meghan and Jess became acting captains.”
Holly felt a wash of pride and gratitude toward her friends, who, she was sure, had stepped up to the task nicely. They’d obviously carried off their other task—of covering for her—just brilliantly. How could Holly have ever doubted them? Between Alexa’s insight into Tyler last night, and Meghan and Jess standing strong for her this whole week, Holly vowed never to second-guess her friends again.
“My biggest regret was missing Friday’s final meet,” Coach Graham was musing, and Holly snapped back to attention.
“Wait—did we win?” she asked, realizing in the next second that if she had been at Wimbledon this whole time—even bedridden—she should have known the answer. Oops.
But to Holly’s boundless relief, Coach Graham was looking at her with sober understanding. “I see,” she said softly. “Meghan and Jess didn’t have the heart to tell you, did they?”
Holly bit her lip. “The German team?” she guessed.
Coach Graham shook her head. “Apparently the Bulgarian girls came out of nowhere at the last minute and swept the whole show.” She let out a heavy sigh. “We came in tenth.”
Holly hung her head, consumed by guilt, and she felt Coach Graham reach out and pat her shoulder again. “There, there,” Coach Graham said. “I know it’s a lot to take on top of everything else you’ve been going through”—she lowered her voice—“with your family and all.”
Right. Meghan and Jess’s fallback excuse. Holly glanced up at her coach, wishing that she were a better actress—or at least as naturally dramatic as Alexa. Channeling her friend across the Channel, Holly opened her eyes as wide as they would go and whispered, “It’s been really rough.” Holly didn’t feel like she was completely lying; after all, she had had issues with someone from home. Remembering Tyler—to whom she now hadn’t spoken for a full week—Holly didn’t have to fake the sadness that crossed her face.
“I understand,” Coach Graham assured her. “Problems from home can really interfere while you’re away. It’s probably not appropriate for me to tell you this”—Holly immediately perked up at these words—“but my husband and I had an argument right before I left and I’ve been…” She shrugged at Holly, looking embarrassed. “Pretty torn up about it ever since.”
Surprise Number Three Hundred and Twenty. Holly felt a tingling of sudden understanding; maybe that was why the coach had been so irritable on this trip—and why she may have been too distracted to think too deeply about Meghan and Jess’s multiple excuses. Holly remembered how, on the plane to London, she’d assumed that Coach Graham didn’t know jack about relationships, and felt instantly humbled; apparently, she and Alexa didn’t have the monopoly on romantic crises. She pictured Coach Graham sitting at a café with her and Alexa, complaining to the girls about her lame husband. Holly almost giggled out loud at the unlikely image, until she remembered she was supposed to be torn up, too. She straightened her face and returned Coach Graham’s gaze.
“I guess we had sort of parallel weeks,” Holly told her coach, surprised at how easy it felt to talk to her like this. The sheep pajamas definitely helped. But, a little unsteady from her unforeseen victory, Holly decided to quit while she was ahead. After urging her coach to get better soon, Holly was turning back toward the bathroom, when Ms. Graham spoke up again.
“Holly? One thing,” she said.
Holly glanced over her shoulder, wary once more. “Yes?” she whispered.
r /> “Because you did miss most of the competition this week,” Coach Graham began, crossing her arms over her chest and returning to teacher mode, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to bench you for another couple of weeks.” She sighed, shaking her head. “I hate to penalize team members for illnesses or problems beyond their control, but I don’t want to set a precedent for the others so they think they can skip meets, too.”
“Oh,” Holly mumbled, her heart sinking. Reality check! She should have known she wouldn’t get off one-hundred-percent free. And not being able to run once she was back in Oakridge was going to suck. But considering what her punishment could have been, that seemed a minor price to pay.
As Coach Graham waved and returned to her room, Holly finally surrendered to the excitement that had been building inside her. Alexa had been right! Only this was better than just okay—this was miraculous! All of her anxieties in Paris had been for naught. While Holly had savored every moment of her secret trip, she surely would have had an even better time had she not obsessed over Wimbledon so much. Maybe that was the thing about doing something that risky, Holly thought as she headed into the bathroom. You just had to go for it, helter-skelter, banishing worry or fear.
Still, Holly mused as she started for the shower, even though she had pulled off her vanishing act, she felt horrible about abandoning her team in their time of need. And she knew enough not to push her luck; fate might not be so friendly to her in the future. She definitely didn’t plan on repeating a stunt like this anytime soon.
The next morning, at seven o’clock, New Jersey time, Coach Graham led the jet-lagged girls’ track team through the Virgin Atlantic arrivals gate at Newark Airport. As the team started up the escalator to baggage claim, Holly lingered behind, holding her duffel in both hands and taking in the wonderfully familiar sights: the crowded Starbucks kiosk to her left, the Pizza Hut to her right, the empty Krispy Kreme bag crumpled on the floor. The very air—stale coffee and lemony cleaning solution—smelled comforting, like home.