Alexa put her pink Jetta into park, briefly closed her eyes, and thanked the spirit of Coco Chanel that she didn’t have the kind of family that took trips together. Then she rolled down her window and tapped her horn, peering out to wave at Holly. They were going to be late, but Alexa was woman enough to admit that it was her fault.
She’d awoken that morning, the gloom seeping in through her bamboo shades, and with a jolt of joy, remembered her destination. Hollywood. Malibu. Wedding. Alexa had bounded out of bed, flung away the outfit she’d laid out the night before—a striped Luella Bartley shirt, denim mini, navy-blue leggings, and flats—and replaced it with what she wore now: a clingy yellow Lela Rose sundress with nut-brown spaghetti straps. Sure, it wasn’t too travel-comfy, but paired with the floppy straw hat and oversized Oliver Peoples sunglasses she’d packed in her carry-on, she knew she’d make quite a statement stepping off the plane.
Through the fog and drizzle, Alexa could see that Holly was in her standard Gap jeans, terry-cloth flip-flops, and shrunken olive-colored cotton hoodie over a white tank. Alexa honked her horn again, mostly out of annoyance; after all this time, had she taught her friend nothing about fashion?
“Coming!” Holly called, looking up from the trunk of the Subaru to see Alexa in the car, wearing her Impatient Face. Holly felt a giggle rise up in her throat, and she blew her sweaty bangs off her forehead. “The Diva has arrived,” she whispered, turning to Tyler, who put his hands on her waist and laughed, warm and deep, in her ear.
The minute Tyler had shown up that morning in his baggy cargo shorts and wrinkled Oakridge Lacrosse T-shirt to help her parents load up the car, Holly, who’d run out to greet him with a piece of toast still in hand, had known everything was going to be okay. On the drive home late last night, she and Alexa had whispered over lingering LA plans—did they need to bring Jonah a thanks-for-letting-us-crash-here gift, and if so, what did one get a guy who had an Oscar on his shelf and a mansion over the ocean?—while Tyler had silently gripped the wheel, the muscle in his jaw twitching. After they’d dropped Alexa off, there’d been no talk of Holly coming over to fill out student housing forms, and she’d assumed that the soft, quick kiss they’d exchanged outside her house had been their good-bye.
But now here he was smiling down at her, raindrops glistening on his dark-blond head while her father wrestled with the backpacks and muttered curses. Around Tyler, Holly never felt embarrassed by her often crazy, overly involved family. Tyler simply seemed to understand, and, though he was more laid-back than any of the Jacobsons, he fit in seamlessly.
“Think she can wait a few more seconds?” Tyler asked, nodding toward Alexa. He reached out and took hold of Holly’s hand. “There’s something I need to do before you go.”
Holly’s heart rate picked up; Tyler wasn’t big on surprises. But she didn’t hesitate an instant before following him around the car, through the light rain, and up the steps to her house, where they turned toward each other under the porch awning.
“Great,” Alexa murmured, turning up the volume on her Teddy Geiger CD. For all she knew, Tyler was getting ready to drop to one knee—and she and Holly could not have any other weddings thrown into this week.
Since she now had time to kill, Alexa plucked her cell phone from her citrus-colored Bliss Lau handbag and text-messaged her former best friend, Portia, just to let her know where she was going, with whom she was staying, and who was accompanying her on her grand voyage. With her dark curly ringlets and permanent sneer, Portia was—as Holly had once insightfully put it—that worst of combinations: stuck-up and insecure at the same time. Portia wasn’t a fan of Holly’s, either; her favorite hobby, next to chain-smoking, was critiquing Holly’s outfits with her henchwoman, Maeve. Alexa felt a small swell of triumph that she’d been able to brush off Portia’s trash-talking and choose Holly over her.
Alexa hit send and fell back against her seat with a contented sigh. Last night, it had felt equally rewarding dropping the Hollywood bombshell on her mother; Gail had gone all slack-jawed at the realization that Alexa, too, could make famous friends. Of course, if there’d been any chance in hell of Gail attending her graduation, Alexa knew she’d probably blown it. But, oh well. Her dad had been nothing but supportive that morning while waving good-bye to her over his café au lait. Smiling, Alexa glanced out the window again, only to see Tyler nervously handing Holly a small white box. Uh-oh.
“What’s this?” Holly asked Tyler as she accepted the box from him, her hands quivering slightly. Back in May, for Holly’s birthday, Tyler had gotten them tickets to a Yankees game (“Whatever happened to romance?” Alexa had sighed when Holly had told her). This gift felt different, weightier, even though the box itself was feather-light.
“I wanted to give it to you at graduation,” Tyler replied as Holly, her stomach flipping, took the lid off the box. “But now is even better. You can wear it this week and think of me.”
Nestled in the white cotton was a delicate golden ring with an intricate design at its center: a pair of tiny hands holding a single heart, topped by a miniature crown. Holly caught her breath, overcome; nobody had ever given her real jewelry before. Tears pricking her eyes, she glanced up to see a blurry Tyler watching her with an expectant smile. “It’s a Claddagh ring,” he said, tracing a finger over the design. “My Irish grandma once explained the different symbols to me. The hands mean friendship, the heart represents love, and the crown stands for loyalty. If you’re in love, you’re supposed to wear it with the heart facing toward you, and if you’re single, it should face out.” His cheeks reddened. “I know it’s kind of cheesy—”
“Not at all,” Holly breathed, removing the chunky silver ring she always wore and sticking it in her back pocket. Then she carefully slid on the Claddagh ring, making sure the heart pointed inward. “See? My heart’s closed off—because it belongs to just one person.” She lifted her face to Tyler, who was already lowering his head to kiss her. Holly felt suffused with peace and warmth; she hadn’t slept most of the night due to a mixture of belly-fluttering excitement and worry. But Alexa had been right; boys were resilient. Now Holly knew she could head west with a clear conscience.
Which was convenient, because Alexa was sticking her head out the window of her car and shouting something unintelligible—but not too friendly-sounding—through the rain.
“I should go,” Holly said, bending down to grab her duffel bag; unlike Alexa, she was a steadfastly light traveler. She bounded down the steps of her house and over to her parents, who began flinging warnings at Holly as they wrapped her in tight hugs. “Wear sunscreen, please don’t get yourself on TV again, don’t let Alexa talk you into anything…” Trying to tune them out, Holly petted Mia, waved to Josh, kissed Tyler once more, and jumped into Alexa’s car, squeezing the rain out of her ponytail.
The two girls glanced at each other, and at the exact same time, demanded:
“What are you wearing?”
“You do know we’re going to be chilling with Margaux in, like, seven hours,” Alexa added, giving Holly a haughty once-over while putting the car in drive.
Holly laughed and shook her head, paying no mind to Alexa’s jibe. “And you know we’re getting on a plane, not a royal cruise, right?” she retorted. Holly enjoyed poking fun at Alexa’s princess-y tendencies, and Alexa could usually mock herself in turn. This time, though, Alexa cast a scowl in Holly’s direction and slammed one suede platform down on the gas.
“Let’s hope so,” she replied, tearing away from Holly’s house. “If we miss our plane, I’m forcing you to give me a piggyback ride all the way to LA so we can make the party in time.” She was only half joking; Alexa couldn’t quite articulate why, but she had the strong feeling—as sure as the pulsing of her own heart—that she had to be at The Standard bash.
“It’s a deal,” Holly muttered, raising her eyes skyward as the car zipped down the rain-streaked streets of Oakridge. She missed Tyler already, and was in no mood for what she secretly t
hought of as Alexa’s PTS—Pre-Trip Syndrome. Before taking off on a journey, Alexa’s high-maintenance side emerged full force.
“So is that what Tyler gave you just now?”Alexa asked, her eyes on the road as she gestured down to Holly’s ring. “Couldn’t he have sprung for something from Tiffany?” Alexa knew she was being mildly inappropriate, but after all, she’d always been the love expert, and Holly the novice. Holly needed Alexa’s wisdom on dating.
“You wouldn’t understand,” Holly shot back, shielding her hand. Sometimes she couldn’t believe the giant gap that existed between her and Alexa. Despite their recent closeness, they were still so different in so many ways. For one stomach-sinking second, Holly wondered if they would spend this week backbiting and sniping, as they had at the start of their South Beach vacation. Then the sudden brring of Alexa’s cell phone brought her back to the present.
“I have a text,” Alexa said, futilely pawing through her handbag. She felt herself tense up; what if it was Margaux, texting to say that the girls shouldn’t come after all? “Can you check it?” she demanded, thrusting her bag in Holly’s direction.
Still sour, Holly grudgingly pushed aside Alexa’s tube of Paula Dorf Taffeta lip gloss, iPod nano in its lavender plush case, and sample container of Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue in order to find her cell. She flipped open the phone to see the incoming message:
Have fun, lucky bitches.
Holly, chuckling, read the text aloud.
“It’s from Portia!” Alexa cried, cracking up as well. She felt her spirits lift instantly. “She’s so jealous of us right now she’s probably…”
“Chewing a hole through her best Tsubi jeans?” Holly offered with a snort, and the two girls broke into laughter. Alexa, her spirits lifting, realized she may have taught Holly something about fashion after all.
The girls’ moods greatly improved by the time they reached the airport, and soared once they boarded their cross-country flight. They spent the plane ride sitting cross-legged in their seats, sharing the peanut-butter-and-quince-jelly sandwiches Holly’s mother had packed them, and analyzing Jonah Eklundstrom.
“I hope with every inch of my being that he’s shaved his beard,” Alexa pronounced as they sailed over the Rocky Mountains. The latest photo that she’d seen of Jonah, online, had shown him sporting a mountain man look—still yummy on him, but Alexa so did not buy into the whole beards-are-trendy fad.
“You want him all smooth when you guys inevitably make out?” Holly teased, tucking her knees up under her chin. She was amazed at how relaxed she felt on the plane, as opposed to the freak-out she’d had on her first flight with Alexa, to Miami. Maybe because she’d developed a taste for travel, Holly’s once-paralyzing fear of flying had diminished over the past year. Alexa, who adored being airborne, took full credit for the breakthrough.
“Would you stop?” Alexa giggled, lobbing her stiff pillow at Holly, who ducked and shrieked, provoking a glare from the family across the aisle, “I told you—just because we’re staying with him does not mean I’m going to hook up with Jonah Eklundstrom!”
A hush seemed to fall over the plane, and Alexa realized how loud she and Holly were being. Across the aisle, two sisters—who looked to be about fifteen and twelve, and were decked out in matching striped tank tops and jelly bracelets—leaned over, eyes enormous. “Excuse me, what did you say?” the older one whispered in a southern accent, her braces-covered teeth snapping a piece of gum. On the younger one’s lap, Alexa noticed, sat an open Seventeen magazine, and Jonah Eklundstrom’s bearded face beamed up from the pages.
“You’ll have to ignore her. She’s delusional,” Holly told the girls, while Alexa hid her face in her hands, her bare shoulders shaking with laughter.
“Nellie, what’s ‘delusional’?” Holly heard the younger one ask her older sister. Grinning, Holly turned back to Alexa, who was pulling a pair of sunglasses and an adorable floppy hat out of her tote bag. Quickly, Alexa undid her hair from its bun, let it tumble down her back in pale gold waves, and slipped on the shades and hat. “It’s time to go incognito,” Alexa whispered through her laughter, looking uncannily like a movie star avoiding the press.
Once the girls landed in the Las Vegas airport and bid farewell to the curious sisters, they were able to pick up right where they’d left off. “The point is, I’m not delusional,” Alexa was saying, still in her hat and shades, as she and Holly strode past rows of blinking, beeping slot machines. Determined elderly ladies with pink-dyed hair sat before each one, tugging on the levers while their husbands waited nearby, most likely wishing they could drive off to the Bellagio and play poker. Holly half expected to see her plucky Grandma Ida with her new husband, Miles, among them, but she knew they were home in Miami.
“Ever since my, uh, incident in Paris,” Alexa continued as the girls arrived at their connecting flight’s gate, and were stopped short by a serpentine line, “my new motto when it comes to guys is ‘be realistic.’” She nodded; the words sounded good to her. She wondered if she could get them emblazoned on her cell phone in Swarovski crystals.
Holly patted Alexa’s arm supportively; she fervently wished that her friend would one day experience the love and devotion she deserved. The only problem was, Alexa was reckless and choosy at the same time—a dangerous combo when it came to finding the right guy.
Holding her sun hat in place and rising up on her toes, Alexa surveyed the never-ending line before them: a series of balding heads, and worried voices buzzing into cell phones. Lines—in addition to a pairing of plaids and stripes, elevator music, and chipped nail polish—were the stuff of Alexa’s worst nightmares. They got in the way of her natural progression toward fabulousness. “What’s going on?” she demanded imperiously, while Holly shrugged.
The stressed-out mom in front of them turned around, a wailing infant in her arms. “Apparently there’s some kind of strike,” she replied. “I don’t know—” She was interrupted by the crackle of the loudspeaker overhead, and then a twangy voice announced: “Attention, all passengers. Flight four twenty-eight, which just arrived from Newark, will be True West’s last flight today. I repeat—due to an airline strike, all of True West’s flights are grounded indefinitely.”
Alexa and Holly exchanged a look of horror.
“Don’t panic,” Holly instructed. But from the set of Alexa’s jaw and the rosy flush of her peaches-and-cream skin, she was beginning to do just that. Holly tried to keep calm for the both of them, but visions of spending the week in tacky Las Vegas—sneaking into casinos, driving past Cirque du Soleil billboards, getting hit on by slimy card sharks wearing gold chains—were already flashing through her head. “I’m sure every other airline here has flights to LA—”
“Passengers flying to Los Angeles International Airport, Burbank, or Long Beach, please be advised that all other airlines’ flights to those destinations are booked until tomorrow. We apologize for the inconvenience.”
“The inconvenience?” Alexa burst out in fury as the crowd collectively groaned. She glanced around, searching in vain for some official-looking person to yell at. Dread washed over her; they’d never make tonight’s party now.
“Listen,” Holly replied, holding up her hands and hoping she sounded more in control than she was feeling. Getting stranded anywhere terrified her. She thought about calling her parents, but she knew their panicking would only make the situation worse. “We won’t get to LA today,” Holly went on pragmatically. “So let’s see if we can get a cheap motel room for the night, and I’m sure…”
“No.” Alexa was not about to let fate decide her travel plans. She had a glitzy event to attend in downtown LA, a wedding to shop for, and a Malibu guesthouse to enjoy—and she’d be damned if some teensy detail like an airline strike stood in the way. “I have a better idea.”
Holly bit her lip, looking apprehensive. “Alexa, whatever I said before, I am not going to give you a piggyback ride to—”
“Not that, you idiot,” Alexa said a
ffectionately. Scooping up her Paul & Joe owl shoulder bag, Alexa motioned to the Hertz car rental desk, where another line was already beginning to form. “There’s a much more luxurious form of transport. LA’s got to be—what?—an hour’s drive from here? Totally doable.”
“Try five hours,” the Hertz guy told them a few minutes later, his tone flat and his gray hair illuminated by the fluorescent bulbs overhead. The laminated pin he wore on his shirt read george. “And can I see some ID? We don’t rent cars to anyone younger than twenty-three, or twenty-one if you’re willing to pay extra.”
This time, the look Alexa and Holly exchanged plainly translated as we’re screwed. Though both girls had fake IDs, they didn’t need to confer to know that using one at an airport would be glaringly stupid. The people in line behind them started to complain about the holdup—a soft grumbling that could quickly turn into a roar. Holly’s hand instinctively flew to the Claddagh ring on her finger; she twisted it around and around, wondering if she should call Tyler. He’d probably urge her to come home, which she sort of wanted to do anyway.
“You must understand, George,” Alexa was insisting, leaning over the counter and wishing that she, like Holly, had actual cleavage; maybe Mr. Hertz would give her a break then. “It’s life-or-death crucial that we get to LA within the next few hours, and I’m happy to put you in touch with Margaux Eklundstrom if need be.” The name clearly meant nothing to George, so Alexa, throat tightening with desperation, rebounded with: “Do you know who my mother is?”
“Sorry to interrupt.” A male voice came from a few feet away. “But I need to get to LA, too.” Alexa glanced away from George, to her right, to see a strikingly good-looking guy with floppy blond hair and black-framed glasses. He was sitting cross-legged on a nearby bench, balancing a notebook on his corduroy-clad lap; he’d been writing something, but he closed the notebook. “And,” he added, unfolding his long legs and standing up, giving Alexa a full view of the rumpled Hot Hot Heat T-shirt under his tattered tweed blazer and the worn brown belt slung around his cords. “I turned twenty-one last week.”