Holly Hearts Hollywood (22 page)

I was washing my face in the bathroom earlier, trying not to knock over one of the many sample products off the counter, when I heard the door open behind me.

“Who’s there?” I asked with soap oh-so-conveniently in my eyes. I immediately assumed the worst because that’s what I do: assume the worst. How could I not when my doors were locked, and I was alone? What if it was one of those crazy people sending death threats to Lacey? Maybe they followed us from the airport and thought this was her room! Maybe they’d be so upset I wasn’t Lacey they’d kill me anyway. They’d puree my body and hide my remains inside the 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner bottle.

After a couple heart-stopping seconds, I heard Lacey say, “It’s me!”

“Lacey?” I began to rinse the soap off my face. “What are you doing in here? How’d you get in, anyway?”

“Our rooms are connected through that door over there.” She gestured behind her vaguely. “The door was unlocked. What are you doing?”

I patted my face dry. I once read in
Seventeen
that you weren’t supposed to rub your face with a towel. It’s bad for your skin or something. I don’t read magazines very much. You’ve read one magazine, you’ve read them all.
How to keep him interested! Is he cheating on you? How to please him in the bedroom!
Geez, hasn’t it ever occurred to people that there’s more to life than pleasing men? Not to mention the fact that some women are more interested in pleasing other women, not men.

“I’m washing my face,” I said. Although, I was strongly tempted to say I was removing my freckles or something equally ridiculous. What did she think I was doing? Going for a swim?

“With
soap?
” Lacey practically shrieked.

With my vision restored, I looked at Lacey’s reflection in the mirror. She was wearing a Victoria’s Secret nightshirt and matching slippers with glittery stars all over them.

“Yes, with soap. How else do you clean things?”

Lacey’s un-made-up eyes widened. It’s ridiculous how she looks as beautiful without makeup as she does with. Is there no justice in this world?

“You can’t use
hand soap
on your
face
,” Lacey hissed.

“I can’t?” I said. I’d been using it for years. I couldn’t tell what the problem was.

Lacey held her finger up. “You wait right here,” she commanded before she sashayed out of the bathroom and back to her own room.

I stood in my bathroom, feeling like a complete idiot in my oversized Rolling Stones t-shirt. I wasn’t even wearing
pants
underneath it. I know the shirt is oversized, but girls with legs like mine shouldn’t be allowed to not wear pants. Moments later, Lacey came back in with what looked like a dozen jars and bottles in her arms.

“Here.” She thrust one jar into my hand. “Wash your face with that.”

I glanced at the jar, and my eyes went cross as I saw the jumble of French words on the label. I washed my face with the French stuff, and you know what? It made my skin feel awesome—very smooth and velvety.

“Never use hand soap,” Lacey chided. “It dries your skin out, and it isn’t
meant
for your face. That’s why it’s called hand soap.” She handed me another bottle. “Put this on and let it sit for fifteen minutes. Only use this twice a week.”

While the mask dried on my skin, Lacey and I talked. Well,
she
talked, and I listened. Once the mask began to harden, I couldn’t move my mouth very much. Lacey wants to have
sixteen
costume changes in the tour, one for each song. If she manages to pull that off, she’d have more costume changes than Taylor Swift—who’s quickly becoming Lacey’s biggest competition. Or should I say
Lacey’s
becoming Taylor’s biggest competition?

After I washed the mask off and did the next two skin care steps (moisturizing and acne treatment), Lacey went back to her room. When she started to leave, I went to hand her things back, but she stopped me.

“No, you keep those.” She nodded at the bottles and jars.

“What? Lacey, what are you going to wash your face with?”

Lacey rolled her eyes. “I packed
more
,” she said in a tone that insinuated I should’ve already known. I couldn’t help but feel touched that Lacey had gone through the time and effort to help me with something I was so hopeless at.

When she’s not being mean, she can be so nice. Sometimes I don’t know what to do with her. I don’t think Lacey has a clue what to do with me, either.

THINGS TO DO:

1.
Research proper face-washing procedures.

2.
HOMEWORK.
Trip is not vacation, despite hotel.

3.
Buy toothpaste. Earlier fear is confirmed, toothpaste missed the flight.

March 11
^th
, 10:30am—Lobby of the Plaza Hotel

Thankfully, we get today off to settle in and enjoy the city. Tomorrow night, Lacey is performing on
Saturday Night Live
! This morning, Lacey invited me to her suite for breakfast. I wasn’t surprised, of course, to see Grayson sitting at the table with her when I walked in. Lacey was wearing a fluffy white robe and had her usually straight and glossy hair in messy French braids. She didn’t look like she planned to go anywhere important today.

“Morning,” Grayson said cheerily as I went to help myself to a plate of Belgian waffles before noticing a blue box of Pop-Tarts perched on the table.

“Pop-Tarts? Who got these?”

Lacey wrinkled her nose.

“Ugh, not me. Grayson is obsessed with those things. He could have a nice breakfast, but he insists on eating something he could get anywhere instead.”

Grayson tore the shiny package apart and placed the cinnamon brown sugar Pop-Tart in the toaster room service had provided.

“I
love
Pop-Tarts,” I agreed.

Grayson’s eyes lit up, and he held up the box. “Want one?”

I shook my head. “I can’t. I’m allergic to cinnamon.”

Grayson’s mouth fell open. “You’re kidding. How can you live without cinnamon? What about snickerdoodles, apple pie, and the most delicious Pop-Tart flavor known to mankind?”

I laughed. “I can’t have it. I’ll break out in hives.”

“Ew,” Lacey said. “Not while I’m eating, please.”

The toaster dinged and the Pop-Tarts rose, steaming from the toaster.

“You know what you should do?” I said to Grayson as he removed the toaster treat. “Put butter on them.”

Grayson raised an eyebrow. “Butter? Are you kidding me?”

“No, I’m serious. My family back in Iowa is Norwegian, and the Norwegians apparently like to put butter on everything. Spread some butter on the iced part and let it melt. It’s delicious.”

I guess Grayson doesn’t have any Norwegian relatives back in Iowa or he’d know about the butter thing already. Grandma and Grandpa Fredrickson, my mom’s parents, used to butter the crusts of their pizzas and put milk in their white rice.

“Holly, do you have any idea how many saturated fats are in that thing
without
slathering butter all over it?” Lacey drawled.

But Grayson was already smearing a pad of butter on one of his Pop-Tarts. He bit into it eagerly and melted butter dribbled down his chin. His eyes widened. “Oh my God,” he exclaimed. “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

Lacey snorted. “That’s ridiculous. What about that steak you had at Paulo’s the other day?”

“I don’t know how I ever lived without this,” Grayson said, ignoring Lacey’s comment.

I laughed and piled waffles on my plate. “Lacey, aren’t you coming today?” I asked, gesturing to the robe.

Lacey shrugged and daintily bit into a melon ball. “I have to go to rehearsal. I have to get a feel for that small little stage, and they want me to cameo in some game show skit.”

“What?” Grayson said in dismay. “I completely forgot. I wanted you to come.”

“I’m going to be busy. Besides, going out sounds so exhausting. Everywhere I go, people want my autograph,” Lacey sniffed and inspected the leaves of a strawberry. “It’s so much work.”

I tried not to laugh as she told, perhaps, the biggest lie I’d ever heard in my life. I glanced at Grayson who seemed genuinely disappointed. I’m not sure if he was disappointed about spending the day alone with me or if he was disappointed in Lacey’s elitist attitude.

“People ask me for autographs all the time,” he reminded her.

“Well, obviously,” Lacey groaned. “But you’re
used
to it.”

Grayson raised his eyebrows. “I’m not sure if anyone ever gets used to being mobbed while grocery shopping,” he said flatly.

People do go crazy when they see Lacey, but they go
insane
when they see Grayson. You wouldn’t believe how many girls asked him to sign their chest at Venice Beach a few days ago.

“Well, that’s why you
hire
someone to do your shopping for you, silly,” Lacey giggled. “Honestly, you’re so hopeless. I’m amazed that you’ve been doing this longer than me.”

Grayson and I glanced at each other, and I quickly changed the subject. “So, where are we going today?”

Grayson’s face brightened. “Oh, you’ll see. I don’t want to give everything away.”

I know he’s excited and everything, and he wants to be my tour guide, but does he actually need to leave me waiting in the lobby for almost thirty minutes? Maybe he’s having a hair gel emergency or something. Actually, that’s silly. Grayson doesn’t wear hair gel. That’s why his golden-brown hair is so shiny and soft. Soft-
looking
, I mean. I’ve never
petted
him or anything, but then again, his hair did brush against my arm on the plane.

Where
is
he? I wouldn’t be surprised if he abandoned me to hang out with some cooler people. Usher probably called him and was like, “Yo, dawg, let’s chill,” and Grayson was like, “Sweet, let me ditch this loser.”

What if he humiliates me like that scene in
Never Been Kissed
? You know, that part where Drew Barrymore’s date throws eggs at her? Although, I’m sure Grayson wouldn’t throw eggs at me. The Plaza wouldn’t be happy with him.

Wait, is that him over there? It’s hard to tell with those things on his face.

Later, 6:00pm—Five Napkin Burger

My feet are killing me. I think they might actually fall off my legs. Grayson has a driver, but he insisted we walk around the city like real New Yorkers. I’m sure even real New Yorkers take a taxi or the subway every once in a while. Geez.

Turns out, the reason Grayson took so long getting to the lobby was because he needed a disguise. Not like a fake moustache or anything, but he had to wait for his assistant to run out and buy him a Yankees cap and sunglasses. That’s what I saw on his face earlier. From a distance, he looked like any other guy. That is, until I saw his chiseled jaw and perfectly-shaped lips. I wasn’t sure how effective the disguise would be. After all, celebrities are in magazines all the time with the hat-and-sunglasses look. I didn’t think people wouldn’t recognize him just because they couldn’t see his eyes and hair.

The day has been very fun so far, despite my aching feet. I’m surprised at how much fun we had. First, we went to Central Park and the zoo. Central Park is freaking
huge
. It could secede and become its own state. The zoo itself was actually pretty small, as far as zoos are concerned, but I loved the sea lions! They were adorable. We had Nathan’s Famous hot dogs for lunch.

We went exploring some more, walked down Fifth Avenue, and looked in the windows of all the expensive shops. It was strange to not go
in
like I normally would if I were with Serena. It was nice for the focus to be on other things, although I do love shopping. Now we’re at this place called Five Napkin Burgers which isn’t too far from Times Square.

Out of all of the private conversations Grayson and I have had, our talk during dinner exceeded them all. It goes to show that when you think you know someone, things can be turned upside down. Well, it’s not like I know Grayson
super
well or anything. I guess you could say I’ve made assumptions about him. Who hasn’t assumed things about him when you think about it? He’s always in the news, and he has a giant fan base. Grayson has a reputation for being a heartthrob, a ladies man, and a bit egotistical.

The big surprise of the meal was when he emphatically declared: “I
hate
country music.”

I nearly choked on my burger. “What?” I gasped. “How can you hate it? You
sing
it.”

Grayson rolled his eyes and slathered more mustard on his burger. “It’s easy, and by that, I mean it’s easy to sing and easy to hate. I have no passion for it. The stories are tired and almost always about love, small towns, or a Chevy truck.” He looked up at me. “I’ve never even
driven
a Chevy truck.”

I sipped my pop. “Then what kind of music do you want to sing?”

Grayson actually looked embarrassed. He seemed uncomfortable. I was starting to think of a million possibilities in my mind. Perhaps he likes lyrical rap or Latin music. Maybe he wanted to be a soul singer like Adele or something. I took a giant gulp of pop at the exact moment Grayson finally answered.

“Broadway show tunes,” he admitted.

I spat my Coke all over him. And I don’t mean I choked on my pop and sputtered some of it in his general direction. I
sprayed
pop all over his face. I could practically see the headlines:
Socially Awkward, Overweight Mystery Girl Blinds Country Star with Coca-Cola Blitz Attack
. But seriously, could you blame me? He meant “Broadway” as in “singing and dancing on stage,” right?

“Oh my gosh,” I said as Grayson wiped the drink from his eyes. “I’m so sorry. You took me by surprise, that’s all.”

Grayson laughed. He actually laughed!