She surfaced, gasping, to find Daredevil Boy’s board floating haphazardly on the waves, and the boy himself beneath it, one limp hand on the board, the rest of him underwater. Holly felt pure fear fill her throat. Don’t lose it, Hol. You have to help him. As a camp counselor, Holly had received rudimentary lifeguard and CPR training, but she was mostly acting on instinct as she shoved the surfboard out of the way and put one arm around the motionless boy, hoisting all his weight onto her. Her heart kicking, wreaths of seaweed slapping her face, she mustered all her strength and began to propel them both toward the shoreline.
“Did you get Zach? Did you get him?” Suddenly Holly was surrounded by a passel of surfer boys, their hair plastered to their foreheads and their eyes frantic.
“Grab his board!” Holly shouted, trying to keep her mouth above water; somehow she sensed that Daredevil Boy—Zach—would want it when he was okay. If he’d be okay.
One of the boys got on that, while the other three took some of Zach’s weight, helping Holly carry him to shore. Holly heard the sharp scream of the lifeguard’s whistle, and looked up to see him running into the water with his large red rescue board. The two girls he’d been talking to were standing on the shore with their hands over their mouths. Holly gave the negligent lifeguard a too-late! glare as the three surfers laid their fallen friend on the damp sand. Holly, still acting on automatic pilot, knelt down, the sun burning the back of her neck. Zach’s eyes were closed, his fine-featured face was pale, and there was a telltale bump on his high forehead from where his board had hit him.
Holly was vaguely aware that a huge crowd had gathered around them—she heard Alexa calling her name—and that the lifeguard was telling her to get out of his way. But, with surprisingly steady hands, she held Zach’s nose together, and when his lips parted, she tilted her head down, pressed her mouth to his, and gave two long, slow breaths. She kept one hand on Zach’s still-warm chest as she continued the mouth-to-mouth, willing him to waken.
“Excuse me—that’s my friend—Holly!” Alexa was crying, elbowing her way through the swarming crowd. She had been half napping on her lounger, mentally composing the ideal outfit for tonight’s date—Marc Jacobs Grecian sandals, Blumarine teal tube dress?—when screams from the water had startled her. Alexa’s first, horrifying thought had been that Holly was in danger, but as she scrambled toward the shoreline, she’d seen that Holly was, in fact, the hero. Alexa felt a rush of pride as she rose up on her bare toes to witness Holly pulling her head back from the unconscious surfer, who suddenly began to stir.
Holly, holding her own breath, barely dared believe it as Zach’s long, wet lashes fluttered and he let out a series of small, gasping coughs. Then he opened his eyes entirely: They were a deep, pure brown, the color of bittersweet chocolate. They held Holly’s gaze for a long beat before she felt the lifeguard’s hands on her shoulders, moving her aside, and Zach began to cough hoarsely. Shouts of “he’s okay” echoed through the crowd, along with a palpable wave of relief, and Holly stood shakily as the lifeguard tended to Zach. She was aware then of her hair sticking to her head, the water trickling down her back, the sogginess of her tankini, and the stitch in her side.
“Hey, you were incredible,” one of Zach’s surfer friends called to Holly. The others nodded in gratitude and a few onlookers standing behind her let out a smattering of applause. Holly felt her face flame and she ducked her head; was this what it was like to be famous?
“Oh, Hol!” Alexa tore through the crowd to wrap her friend in an effusive hug. “I can’t believe you did that—you were so, so brave!” Alexa had always thought of herself as the bold one, and Holly the cautious wallflower. But Holly had looked so badass, confidently pulling that guy ashore, while Alexa knew she’d never have the guts—nor the swimming abilities—to attempt the same. More likely, she’d be the one in need of rescuing.
“I’m—I’m just glad he’s okay,” Holly said, her heart thumping as she watched Zach slowly get to his feet with the help of the lifeguard. And that was all Holly cared about right then. Though she couldn’t wait to broadcast the news to her parents and Tyler.
Hmm. Maybe Holly didn’t always need Alexa to make things adventurous after all.
“Let’s go,” Alexa suggested. Picking up on how overwhelmed Holly was feeling, she slipped an arm around her friend’s waist and began to lead her away from the crowd. The girls were almost back at their loungers when they heard someone call out behind them.
“Wait up, guardian angel!”
Holly turned to see Zach, surrounded by his concerned-looking surfing buddies, making his way toward her across the sand. “How can I thank you?” he asked. His voice was a little hoarse, and the bump on his forehead was blooming into a bruise, but the naturally mischievous expression had returned to his face. His brown curls were matted and sandy, and Holly noticed a sprinkling of gold-brown freckles across the bridge of his nose.
Meeting his wide brown eyes, Holly felt the flush in her cheeks deepen. I put my mouth against his, she realized, her stomach somersaulting. Who was the courageous girl who’d possessed Holly in that moment? Now that her adrenaline—and her boldness—was wearing off, she wasn’t sure how she’d done it. She shook her head at Zach, not with modesty, but with disbelief. “Don’t worry about it,” she told him, brushing her wet hair back off her face. “Really.” She could feel her pulse ticking away in her throat, probably from her little swim.
“Listen,” Zach said, undeterred, “I could get you in for free to see my band, Blue Dog Babylon, sometime—”
Alexa had never heard of Blue Dog Babylon—clearly one of those indie Cali bands—but she was definitely intrigued by the hottie Holly had rescued. She flashed him a smile, but before she could accept on Holly’s behalf, Holly was abruptly leading her away by the elbow. “Thanks,” Holly called over her shoulder. “But I’m just visiting LA for a short time.” Alexa saw disappointment cross the boy’s face, and then he shrugged and turned back to his friends.
“Why did you turn down that offer?” Alexa wondered aloud as the girls collapsed back in their loungers. “He’s a musician surfer! He’s, like, a California original. God. If I saved that boy’s life, I would so have a crush on him,” she added, passing Holly a bottle of Fiji water (El Sueño’s housekeeper had stocked the guest fridge with them).
Holly had been vigorously rubbing her still-sopping hair with a towel, but she stopped and took a long drink of water. “It wasn’t like that,” she protested, her voice curt. Unlike Alexa, Holly wasn’t a fan of the word crush; she felt like it implied something sort of serious. Instinctively, Holly reached into her beach bag to retrieve her Claddagh ring and slipped it back on. The whole rescue now felt so random, so bizarre. Holly knew what she needed was some normalcy to put her on an even keel again. Something mindless and trivial.
Alexa, observing her friend’s sober expression, realized, with a prickle of guilt, how exhausted Holly must be after that intense experience. “Hol, I’m sure you want to go back to El Sueño and rest,” she offered gently.
“Not at all.” Holly swung her legs off her lounger, looking determined. “I want to shop.”
And Alexa—who knew all too well what a rare occasion it was when Holly suggested retail therapy—decided not to fight it. “If you say so,” she said, shooting her friend a grin. “Maybe you’ll rescue someone out of their too-tight capris.”
CHAPTER SIX
Rodeo Queens
Alexa had many pet peeves—pleated pants, bad kissers, the math section of the SAT—but chief among them were people who referred to that fabled strip of Beverly Hills high fashion as Row-dee-oh Drive.
Rodeos, the cowboy kind, could be sort of sexy in and of themselves—all those cute, sweaty boys in plaid shirts, fitted jeans, and Stetsons—but the famous Row-day-oh Drive inhabited a world of glamour and class that had nothing to do with bucking broncos.
Unfortunately, when Alexa and Holly got lost en route from Zuma Beach to Beverly Hills and sto
pped to ask a passerby for directions, the woman turned out to be a tourist who committed the twin crimes of not knowing where the shopping paradise was and pronouncing its name all wrong. Sighing in frustration, Alexa rolled up the window and zoomed off, while Holly chided her for being so snobby.
“Not everyone knows, Alexa,” Holly pointed out as the girls cruised down North Robertson Boulevard, passing The Ivy restaurant, which even Holly recognized as a celebrity power-lunch landmark. “The whole world hasn’t traveled as much as you have.”
Turning the wheel, Alexa felt herself mellowing as she realized Holly had a point. “You know,” she argued feebly.
Holly shrugged. “I’ve seen Pretty Woman.”
As Alexa giggled, Holly reached up to brush some stray sand out of her loose braid; she and Alexa had changed out of their swimwear in the Zuma Beach bathrooms, but even in her purple ribbed tank and drawstring white skirt, her skin soothed with Alexa’s aloe hand cream, Holly felt gritty and still kind of shaky from her ocean escapade. To get her mind off the crazy adventure, she gazed out the window, noticing that the tree-lined sidewalks—blinding white in the midday sun—were empty, even though there were countless little shops and restaurants.
“It’s kind of creepy, right?” Alexa asked, observing the same phenomenon. “Where is everyone, besides on the beach?”
“In their cars,” Holly realized out loud, watching as a fleet of Maseratis passed by, their trunks half open to accommodate bulging bags from boutiques. “People drive everywhere, shop, and drive back home.” That notion didn’t seem terrible to Holly right then; she was achy from her swim, and wasn’t wild about the idea of doing too much walking.
Alexa, meanwhile, was ruminating on how much she loved to walk and window-shop—that was one of her favorite things about New York City. Once, last summer, she’d put on her leopard-print Miu Miu flats and walked all the way from Bloomingdale’s uptown to Bloomingdale’s SoHo, buying long necklaces, footless tights, and spiky heels as she went and breaking only to eat a hot dog. Alexa smiled at the memory, but her brief moment of New York nostalgia faded the instant she and Holly turned onto Rodeo Drive. At last.
“Lacoste!” Alexa exclaimed as she steered the Hybrid slowly between miles of slender palm trees. “Stuart Weitzman! Valentino!” She felt as if she were saying hello to old friends; it was rapturous to see them all in one concentrated place.
“You realize you sound like a lunatic,” Holly teased, but when Wilshire Boulevard came into view, she gasped in recognition at the elegant, old-fashioned façade of the Regent Beverly Wilshire. “Isn’t that—” she began.
“Yup.” Alexa beamed up at the ornate via rodeo sign on the corner. In her big Oliver Peoples sunglasses, gauchos, and an aqua Michael Stars tank, she felt more than ever like a fashionable character in a movie. “The hotel from Pretty Woman. Don’t you feel like, in this moment, you are Julia?” she added in all seriousness, twirling her hand through the air with a flourish.
“Except, you know, for the hooker thing,” Holly remarked wryly.
The girls opted for valet parking, which neither of them was too familiar with. But in LA, valet was everywhere, and Alexa enjoyed the glam sensation of accepting the white ticket from the attendant as she handed over her keys. To kick off their shopping extravaganza, the girls strolled along an elevated cobblestone road lined with small shops, their arms linked as they pointed out familiar brand names and snapped photos, blending in with the throngs of tourists.
Their first stop was Burberry—all shiny blond wood and high ceilings—but the store proved a little too Northeast country club for their tastes. It was Alexa’s idea for them to tie on silk head scarves printed with the distinctive red-and-black tartan design, and loudly call each other names like “Biffy” and “Muffy.” Laughing uncontrollably while Alexa pouted into the mirror near the sunglass display, Holly reflected on how being with her friend could make her feel like she was twelve again—in the best possible way. She was reaching for a pair of aviator shades when a balding salesman in a cream linen suit strode over to the girls, frowning.
“Ladies.” His tone was just this side of sharp as he cast a scornful eye over, Holly feared, her sand-speckled hair. “I must inquire if you are intending to purchase anything. If not, I will have to ask you to leave.”
Holly and Alexa glanced at each other in shock. Then, stifling their laughter, they darted out of there and into Dolce & Gabbana, where the salespeople consisted of funky, multiply-pierced men who gave them no trouble at all. Holly tried not to curse out loud at the price tags—she always forgot what shopping with Alexa could be like—but Alexa, always willing to splurge a little, bought a short, poufy satin skirt decorated with pink-and-silver swirls. Then it was on to Theodore—a holy site, as far as Alexa was concerned, because the store had been among the first to sell Seven jeans. There, Alexa tried on a plumcolored dress that she decided wasn’t fun or flirty enough for Margaux’s outdoor wedding. Holly, for kicks, decided to try on her first-ever pair of dark denim Sevens, and the pricey designer jeans fit so well that she didn’t resist too much when Alexa convinced her to buy them. When the girls decided that they’d sufficiently “done” Rodeo, they made a point of proudly marching past the Burberry window, swinging their shiny shopping bags, Pretty Woman-style.
“I can’t believe I bought those jeans,” Holly groaned as she and Alexa waited in the afternoon heat for their car. “I’m supposed to be saving money for sheets and a Supercool Fridge for my dorm room.”
“And we’re just warming up,” Alexa declared as the Hybrid pulled up. “With God as my witness,” she added dramatically, lifting one hand and channeling Scarlett O’Hara, “I will not go back to Malibu today until I’ve found my dream dress.”
“But if you had no luck on Rodeo,” Holly reasoned as Alexa tipped the attendant, “where do you imagine you’ll find this one perfect dress?”
“Kitson, of course,” Alexa replied, and the adorable, super-trendy boutique on South Robertson was the next stop on the girls’ treasure hunt. But all Alexa came out of there with was a beaded silver Isabella Fiore clutch. And Holly, who had planned to repeat her beige prom sandals for the wedding, found an onsale pair of strappy black stilettos that were surprisingly comfortable. Still, Holly felt another huge wave of shopping guilt as she and Alexa, like true Los Angelenos, deposited their bags in their trunk and headed toward Melrose Avenue—their third and final destination.
Fred Segal, its name written in quirky blue-andred lettering across the ivy-covered entrance, was, to Holly’s surprise, not one big store, but a maze of interconnected small boutiques. She and Alexa dawdled in the jewel-like little shoe shop, where Alexa purchased a pair of peep-toe, pencil-heeled silver Jimmy Choos, and then found their way to a cozy room with butter-colored walls and a disco ball spinning on the ceiling. There, they came upon a wealth of sublime, summery dresses: strapless lavenders, creamy-pink halters, sky-blue empire waists…
“Jackpot,” Alexa sighed, picking out a daringly short, spaghetti-strap Jill Stuart that was a vivid aquamarine color. It reminded her of the ocean outside their windows in Malibu. Holly was pawing through the racks—“just to see what’s out there,” she insisted—so Alexa took her choice over to the fitting rooms.
As she posed in front of the full-length mirrors, she admired how the dress made her eyes even bluer and showed off her long, starting-to-get-tan legs. With the right smoky eyeliner and her new metallic peep-toes…then Alexa frowned, studying her hair. As always, it rippled over her shoulders. But seeing herself anew in this dress, she wondered if the same hairstyle she’d had all her life made her look a little…-young. Alexa in Wonderland. She was thoughtfully twisting her hair up off her neck when there was a tap on her door.
“It’s me,” Holly said, her voice unmistakably excited, with a tremor of hesitation. “I want to show you something.”
Alexa opened her door to see Holly standing barefoot, her cheeks flushed, and wearing an exquisite, papaya
-colored strapless dress with a delicately ruffled hem. The bright color made her golden-freckled skin luminous; it was impossible to tell that she’d done impromptu lifeguarding just that morning. And there was something else about Holly, too, Alexa mused, her eyes flicking over her friend’s face. It was like Holly had left her slightly uptight East Coast self behind to become freer, more relaxed—as if the short time she’d spent in LA had already transformed her somehow.
“It’s not really my style, right?” Holly asked nervously, smoothing down the lightly embroidered bodice that hugged her curves. “I mean, it’s so girly, and it’s not green…and I didn’t even want to get a dress today.”
“But you look incredible,” Alexa told her friend truthfully, grinning at her.
Holly chewed on her bottom lip, fingering the cool, rich fabric. She knew Alexa was telling the truth. The dress made her feel almost regal—queenly. Wearing it, she realized that in her prom dress, she’d always feel like the old Holly. This deep orange-pink Catherine Malandrino dress seemed to bring alive a new Holly—one who was adventurous enough to buy the dress in the first place. But besides the general “green” issue there was yet another one: moolah. It was bad enough that Holly had blown most of her graduation money on airplane tickets, jeans, and new shoes. The dress was almost more expensive than all of those put together. But at the same time she wanted it so much her heart twisted a little, a sensation she didn’t recognize when it came to something as basic as clothes.