Holly Hearts Headlines (Holly Hearts Hollywood Book 2) (9 page)

I stared at my mom. She might as well have stood on her head and started to sing Native American tribal chants in pig Latin. I was that dumbfounded. “That’s not true,” I said.

“Holly, you have to admit that you can’t always see yourself clearly. Sometimes you need other people to help by pointing out your flaws and mistakes so you can move on and make positive changes!”

“But this isn’t a change I have to make,” I said back firmly. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Mom sighed and looked at her feet for a moment. “I’m just letting you know what I’m seeing, Holly. If you don’t recognize it in yourself and make changes soon, you’ll find that you have no one to turn to when you need them.”

“Whatever, Mom,” I huffed and I stormed off to my room, slamming the door behind me.

In all of my teenage years, I have never done something so clichéd. Seriously, is everyone around me losing their touch with reality?

April 8
^th
, 9:50am—Home

I decided that even if my Mom was
way
off base last night, it wouldn’t hurt to reach out to Meredith or Amanda and see how they are doing. It’s been a really long time since we talked last and I had so much to tell them. I couldn’t get a hold of Amanda, but Meredith answered after five or six rings.

“Hello?” she sounded tired, like I had just woken her up.

“Hey, Meredith!” I chirped. “Did I wake you up? You sound tired.”

Meredith yawned on the other line. “No, I’ve been awake for a while. I haven’t been getting much sleep lately.”

“I’m so glad you answered your phone, we haven’t talked in forever. You wouldn’t
believe
what’s been happening over here.” I filled her in with every dirty little detail from dumping my drink onto Lacey, my grandparents losing the farm, and the news stories about Lacey in the tabloids. “The best part of it all,” I went on, “is that the tabloids might unravel Grayson and Lacey’s sham relationship before the tour even starts, and then I can have Grayson all to myself!”

“Holly,” Meredith said loudly, interrupting me, “I need to go.” She sounded strange and distant, not at all like herself.

“Oh,” I said disappointed. “Okay, we’ll talk later then!”

“Bye,” Meredith said without her usual touch of joy and the line went dead.

I think that maybe there’s been an alien invasion on Earth and I never realized it. It’s obvious to me that these alien creatures have taken over the bodies of my friends and family and replaced them with strange, lifeless beings who can barely carry on conversations.

Obviously, the chances of an alien invasion are pretty small, at least in our lifetime. I mean come on, it takes
forever
to travel through space. If aliens are on their way to invade it’ll take them forever to get here, and hopefully, I’ll be long dead by the time they do arrive.

Anyway, now that I’m thinking about it and replaying our conversation in my head, it has suddenly occurred to me that something was upsetting Meredith. Meredith just isn’t the kind of person who gets down for no reason. And I haven’t heard from Amanda in a while either … oh God, I’m such a bad friend. I had Meredith on the phone, who was obviously in distress, but I was too busy talking about going to second base with Grayson and my concerns about college to even
ask
her how she’s doing.

Maybe Mom is right. Maybe I am a horrible friend.

Aliens should just come and abduct me now to spare everyone from having to deal with me anymore.

Later, 10:00am—Home

I suddenly realized a few minutes ago that I didn’t even know what Serena’s new album is
called
. I racked my brain for a solid minute, and I didn’t have a single clue. No wonder Serena’s upset at me. If I can’t remember something like that, I truly belong in the trash.

I did a Google search and found out that it’s called Electric Night. Maybe if I’d been a better friend and asked Serena about this earlier I could have advised her to
not
name her album Electric Night because that’s just awful.

Later, 12:00pm—Home

MAJOR
EMERGENCY. Call the Coast Guard and have them evacuate me from the premises in a helicopter because I’m in serious danger and need to be rescued. I just received this text from Jennifer:

Jennifer: Sorry for the last minute notice, but I just got you into the sex ed class at BHHS. Can you be there for the first class at 1:45?

After my initial panic, I realized I had no idea what BHHS was. I texted Jennifer back asking her what the heck was a BHHS and received this horrifying response.

Jennifer: BHHS stands for Beverly Hills High School.

BEVERLY
HILLS
HIGH
SCHOOL?!?
Has Jennifer lost her mind? Is she trying to kill me? Beverly Hills High School is a very famous school. For Heaven’s sake, the movie
Clueless
was filmed there. Have you ever seen
It’s A Wonderful Life
? There’s this scene where they are at a school dance in the gym, and some prankster opens up the gym floor to reveal a swimming pool that’s underneath and James Stewart and Donna Reed fall in the pool while doing the Charleston. They filmed that scene at Beverly Hills High School! Angelina Jolie and Jenji Kohan graduated from this school. I can’t learn about male and female sex organs in the same place Angelina Jolie learned geometry.

This is ridiculous.

Later, 12:05pm—Home

I’m not going.

Later, 12:10pm—Home

Jennifer can’t make me, it isn’t a college requirement.

Later, 12:20pm—Car Ride to BHHS

Jennifer is a traitor and she’s officially going on my list of people who have plunged a knife into my back. She
messaged my mom
. That’s right. After not hearing from me, Jennifer told on me.

Mom came in here just a few minutes ago and said, “Are you ready to go to Sex Ed?”

I’m not even kidding, my chest began to have sharp pains. I was pretty certain I was about to have a heart attack even though I wasn’t exhibiting any other symptoms, like a numb left arm for example. I learned about heart attack symptoms in an eighth grade trip to a Heart Health Museum. We actually have one of those in Iowa. It’s probably because clogged arteries are such a disturbing trend in the corn-fed state that they had to dedicate a whole museum to the mere concept of not devouring lard on the regular.

Anyway, I don’t know why they took a class of eighth graders there. It’s not like any of us were at risk for heart attacks.

“How did you hear about that?” I asked, recovering from my maybe-heart-attack.

“Jennifer texted me,” she replied with a look that obviously said, “Stop trying to get away with this kind of garbage, you’re almost an adult.”

“Do I have to go?”

My mom’s eyes became as big as UFOs. “Of course you have to go! I didn’t get permanently banned from the Cedar Junction school board meetings just so you could opt out of something that not everyone can have!”

“Haven’t people heard of the internet?”

Mom lightly wacked me on the head with a rolled-up copy of
Cosmo
like I was a misbehaving poodle. “There are thousands of young adults in this country who can’t access these kinds of classes because narrow-minded parents won’t allow it. You’re going,” she said forcefully.

So now I’m sitting in the front seat of the car wishing I could suddenly turn to vapor, slip through the air vents, and live amongst the heavy LA smog.

Anything sounds better than this.

Later, 1:30pm—BHHS Admission’s Office

It’s worse than I imagined. I feel like I’m in an episode of
Gossip Girl: Beverly Hills Edition
. Everyone is beautiful and thin. People keep walking by this office and staring at me. Earlier a group of girls stood outside and whispered and pointed at me through the small window. I’m about as subtle as a beached whale.

Mom is currently speaking to the admissions officer and getting me officially set up to be a “sex education student of Beverly Hills High School.”

When I graduate will that make me an alumni? What if I get invited to homecoming events and I get to meet Jamie Lee Curtis or Nicholas Cage (other notable BHHS alumi)? Taking Sex Ed would
totally
be worth it then.

Later, 1:40pm—Sex Education Class

I’m the oldest person in the class by what feels like
decades
. In reality, they’re freshman and I’m a senior, but still. The emotional maturity difference between 9
^th
and 12
^th
grade is Grand Canyon sized. I look so out of place. I’m obviously older and obviously not on the latest Beverly Hills diet these girls are on.

No one has said a word to me, although that may be because I’m writing in this journal very intently. My body language doesn’t really scream “Come talk to me.” Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever given off that vibe to anyone. It’s a miracle I have friends.

Later, 2:50pm—Car Ride Home

I’m writing this in the back seat of my mom’s car. Do you know why I’m in the back seat and not the front seat? Because there is currently an
egg
in the front seat of the car. You’d think my mom would put the egg in the back seat but no, the egg is apparently very precious and more valuable than her oldest daughter. So I’m back here and the egg is up front and buckled in snuggly.

You may be wondering,
Holly, why are you suddenly in possession of a single egg? Don’t eggs usually come by the dozen? Did you eat eleven eggs in one sitting or break them? Are you bringing the lone egg home to recover from the loss of its family? What gives?

I didn’t have the opportunity to start practicing my body language skills because the teacher walked into the classroom just a few seconds after writing the entry above. She didn’t notice me at first. I’m not sure if the administration forgot to tell her about the new student or if she was just so excited about sex education that she didn’t notice me.

“Okay, guys, you’ve all been waiting and I can finally announce that it is time!” she announced gleefully as she walked in. She, like the students of this school, also looked like a model, which must be some kind of admission or employment requirement.

She noticed me then and she looked very confused. “I’m sorry, are you in the wrong class?” she asked.

My face turned as red as the bottom of a Louboutin stiletto. “No, I’m a transfer. Holly Hart?” I said my name like it was a question.

The teacher thought for a second and then said, “Oh yes, I remember. Class, this is Holly. She will be joining us for the remainder of the year. Holly, why don’t you stand up and tell the class something about yourself?”

That sentence is probably the
worst sentence
that could ever be spoken to a new student. I stood up slowly, very well aware that everyone was staring at me like I had just sprouted tentacles for arms. “Um, I’m Holly. My tutor wanted me to take sex education before I graduated so that’s why I’m here.” I spat this sentence out quickly in hopes that the classmates around me might be understanding and give me a break.

No sooner had I finished this sentence than a girl in front of me with the longest, reddest hair I’ve ever seen turned around and said, “A tutor? What, are you mentally challenged?” in the snootiest voice I have ever heard. And when I say that it was the snootiest voice, I’m very serious. I’ve heard Jessica Alba order Starbucks in Hollywood. I know
exactly
what the pinnacle of snootiness sounds like and this girl made Jessica Alba seem approachable.

“Um, no?” I said in that annoying “everything-is-a-question” voice I get when I’m nervous.

“’Um, no?’” she mimicked in an even snobbier voice. “Are you sure about that?”

“Bernadette,” the teacher said sharply, “that’s enough.”

I don’t believe in making fun of people, and I try very hard to make sure that I don’t laugh at others, but it was really hard for me to not to laugh at this girl’s name. Luckily, she immediately turned back around to the front of the class so she couldn’t see me swallowing back laughter.

“I’m Miss Ansell, by the way,” the teacher said. “And I’m sorry you’re with us at the end of the year, you’ve missed everything except for our big final project.”

The class collectively groaned and Miss Ansell smiled. “Now, now,” she said, “it will be fun!”

A girl across the aisle from me with short, jet black hair leaned over to me and whispered conspiratorially, “We’re supposed to take care of an egg and apparently that’s ‘fun.’” She smiled at me, and to be honest, it made me feel a lot better. If there was at least one girl in this class who liked me, I could probably survive.

“Your assignment is going to be to take care of an egg with a partner. This project will show you how difficult it can be to care for a child. You will take this egg everywhere. You will create a schedule with your partner so you can take turns caring for the egg.”

The word
partner
caused a shiver to run up my spine. It’s been a while since I was in a normal high school class like this, and I completely forgot the horrible dread of partner assignments. This always created issues for Meredith, Amanda, and me because we’re an uneven number. We’d have to take turns partnering with someone else in the class which was the worst.