Holly Hearts Hollywood (4 page)

Even as I write this, she’s still going on about how planet Earth is the perfect example of living in harmony.

“Holly, are you writing down everything Mom’s saying?” Ivy asked, wrinkling her nose.

I turned the journal away from Ivy’s heavily made-up eyes. “Of course not.”

Ivy stood up and a wave of her perfume hit me. “Wait, are you writing down what I’m saying now?” she demanded.

“No!” I lied. I’m a terrible liar, and Ivy knows that. Her nostrils flared with anger.

“Mom, make Holly stop!”

Mom plunked Chinese take-out cartons onto the practically antique table. “Will you all quit it?” she said. “You’re seriously upsetting my chi. Holly, stop writing in that thing and eat some lunch.”

What I wouldn’t give for those big-shot studio executives to see their newest talent and her family eating Chinese take-out from cartons in a salmon-pink motel with jasmine flower crowns on their heads. We’re strange, to say the least.

Ooh, General Tso’s Chicken!

February 6
^th
, 8:30am—On way to the studio

Today, I wanted to wear my Princess Leia pajama pants and watch A&E’s
Criminal Minds
marathon, but I have to go sign my contract in front of an audience or whatever instead. So, I had to dig around in my suitcase and various boxes until I found my favorite dress. I got it at Target last summer. I’d never be able to wear this in Iowa this time of year. Luckily, California doesn’t seem to have real winters.

My wardrobe is going to be extremely limited until more stuff from home arrives. My mom enlisted the help of her lab students back at the University, and they’re packing up our stuff and shipping it to us gradually. She, of course, is giving them glowing recommendations in return. I, of course, am mortified that a bunch of college guys are packing up my clothes and underwear for me.

Even though I always feel a little bit more confident in that dress, it didn’t do the trick this time. It was probably my nerves. Regardless, I did something that was truly an act of desperation: I asked my sister for help.

She curled her upper lip. “You want me to
what
?”

I sighed. “Please don’t. I need you to help me with my hair and makeup, since you seem to know a thing or two about it.” This was a bit of an exaggeration to be honest. Ivy wears her makeup a little heavy and dramatic for my personal taste, so I had a feeling she wouldn’t go for the au-natural look on me.

“Why? So you can go to your fancy meeting and leave me behind?” Ivy simpered.

I threw my hands up in the air. “Can’t you help me a
little
bit?”

Ivy rolled her eyes and tossed her copy of
Teen Vogue
onto the side table. “Fine, whatever.”

So I sat there and listened as Ivy rambled about
the
magazine’s list of “Seven Reasons Why You are Ready to Do
IT
!!” All the while, she coated my eyelashes in mascara and smeared goopy stuff all over my face.

“And I know
I
was emotionally mature enough to handle it,” Ivy trilled, “but Roy was only interested in getting in my pants, and let’s be serious: who
doesn’t
want to get in my pants?” I had to stop myself from bursting into disbelieving laughter. I think my sister has a superiority complex. Also, my sister is
fifteen
! It’s totally unfair that she’s going to lose her virginity before me. Not that she has already, as far as I know, but I can’t imagine I’ll get laid anytime soon.

“All done,” she announced, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Now, when you turn around and see yourself, try to accept the new-and-improved you. Keep in mind that I did the best I could with your…circumstances.”

I whirled around in my chair and looked at myself over my shoulder. I tried really hard not to scream, but I still shrieked a little bit. I sounded like Meredith does every time she sees anything with more than four legs. “Ivy, what the heck did you do?” I gasped.

“I did your makeup, you psycho,” Ivy shrieked.

Ivy put makeup on me, that was for sure, and I was trying so hard not to panic. I had no time to fix anything. The face that stared at me in the mirror was covered in three-shades-too-dark foundation. My eyes were coated in ice blue shadow with thick lines of eyeliner around their edges, and there was so much mascara on my lashes that they looked like spider legs.

“Holly?” Mom called through the bathroom door. “We gotta go; the car is here.”

“You look horrified,” Ivy said. “You look like you did when you thought that stupid show you like so much was going to get canceled,” Ivy snapped.

“
Doctor Who
,” I corrected. “And it’s the best show ever.”

Ivy rolled her eyes. “Whatever. You have to go; you’re going to be late.”

I didn’t have a choice. Even though I felt like I was going to be sick, I knew I had to go downstairs and get in that car. I thought if I acted like it was no big deal, then maybe no one else would notice.

“Holly, there you are,” my mom trailed off as she took in the sight of me. “What…I mean, are you wearing that?” This was coming from a woman who considers her Birkenstocks to be the height of fashion.

“Yes, Mom; I don’t really have a lot of options right now, and please don’t make me feel worse then I already do.”

“I never said it looked bad,” Mom said quickly.

Even the
driver
looked at me strangely as I walked down the slick concrete stairs to the parking lot. Who’s he to judge my fashion choices when he’s wearing that stupid hat? Oh, well, Mom read over my shoulder and told me it’s part of his uniform. What’s the point of keeping a journal if your mom reads what you’re writing? Am I not allowed to have
any
secrets? Oh, right. I forgot about my top-secret recording contract.

February 7
^th
, 11:45am—Pink Palm Motel

Sometimes when I dread something, and I imagine in my mind how things are going to go, I’m pleasantly surprised when they go better than expected. This was not one of those times. If anything, things probably went
worse
than I’d thought they would. I anticipated getting weird looks from the models/secretaries, and I’d even expected to get a few snide comments. Highlight comments include: “Well don’t you look…
nice
?” and “
You’re
Holly Hart?”

I was so tempted to turn to my mom and say, “Let’s blow this popsicle stand,” but I didn’t. As we walked through the stainless-steel lobby, my legs shook, and Mom’s vegan clogs flip-flopped happily against the floor. We went into another room with a ridiculously long table. One can’t help but wonder if Mr. Salazar uses these tables to
compensate
for something. Of course, the room was milling with businessmen in suits. I think they were the same businessmen from the first meeting, but it’s hard to tell them apart when they’re all wearing nearly-identical ties and scowls.

There were two tight-lipped, sallow-faced men sitting at the table with a bunch of papers spread before them. They were pouring over them and arguing quietly amongst themselves. Mr. Salazar saw me and grimaced quickly before he composed his face. I know he was trying to be nice and all, but I still felt like I might die.

“Ms. Hart,” he boomed as he walked over to me. “I’m so glad you’re here. Head on over to our studio lawyers,” he pointed at the tight-lipped men. “They have the paperwork for you to sign.”

I looked over at Tweedledee and Tweedledum and felt my heart start to beat sporadically. What was I doing? I was going to actually
sell
my voice to these people. It was almost like I was giving up the right to fully be myself. They’d
own
me. I knew if I signed those papers, I’d practically be enslaved to the company and the girl they deemed more attractive than me.

Then again, I’d be stupid to
not
sign, right? Mr. Salazar made it perfectly clear that I wasn’t star material. What are the chances of getting another record deal? Besides, I’d never be able to sing on stage in front of thousands of people in a pleather tube top or whatever it is singers wear these days.

I went over to the lawyers and tried not to lose it as they told me to “sign here” and “initial here” about fifteen times. And just like that, I sold my voice to a complete stranger.

“Thank you, Ms. Hart. I’m very excited about the future of Shell Shocked now that you’re on board,” Mr. Salazar said as he smothered my hand in a handshake.

I almost couldn’t get the words out to say anything back. I don’t know why, but it suddenly felt like I had no control over my voice anymore. The words got caught in my throat, which felt as dry as dust.

I finally croaked, “Um, thanks. Me too?” I sounded like an idiot. Oh God, these people are going to eat me alive.

February 9
^th
, 10:50am—Pink Palm Motel

When I logged onto my Facebook account this morning, for the first time since I’d arrived really, I was bombarded with messages. It seems people are suddenly interested in talking to me now that word has gotten out that I’ve left.

It’s too bad I’m not in Cedar Junction, because I’d be the most popular girl in town right now. Everyone is asking me what California is like and how I got such a cool opportunity. Even scarier, people I haven’t spoken to in years are posting things like, “You’ll be missed around here, Holly! You always were a bright spot at school.”

They make it sound like I’ve died.

Later, 1:50pm—Pink Palm Motel

I thought grandparents were supposed to be sweet and feed you Werther’s Originals. They’re supposed to love every single thing you do and knit you unnecessary scarves and potholders for every holiday. Not my grandparents, oh no. They’re too busy being bitter to bother with candy and mittens. My grandparents called a few minutes ago, and they were
not
happy.

“So, that mother of yours is making you move?” Grandma Hart asked.

“No, she’s not making me. It’s something I want to do; she’s moving to support me.”

“It’s so like your mother to make people do what she wants them to do,” she said, obviously ignoring me. “Look where that got my son. It got him dead, that’s where.”

My dad died when I was six years old. When he got sick, he needed constant in-home care, and my mom wasn’t able to leave work completely to care for him around the clock. She was in the middle of an important research project she’d been in charge of for two years, so she wanted to work part-time instead and have in-home care. Well, Grandma and Grandpa thought she wasn’t being a good wife, and it turned into a whole thing. Eventually, she did take a leave of absence for over a year, but her research projects went belly-up, and someone eventually replaced her.

When my father died, my grandparents blamed her and have never forgiven her. My mom ended up losing her husband, a job she loved, and the love of her in-laws in one year. Mom doesn’t really talk about that period of her life much.

“Grandma, I want to do this. Don’t be mad at Mom.”

The rest of the conversation was pretty much the same—Grandma and Grandpa complaining about my mother while I tried to put out the flames.

With such a great family support system, it’s a wonder I don’t have a complex or anything. Time to go to bed. We’re going to see Hollywood Boulevard tomorrow. Ivy’s been preparing like crazy—she seems to think some big shot producer is going to discover her while she’s placing her hands inside Marilyn Monroe’s handprints at the Chinese Theatre.

February 10
^th
, 11:45am—On the way to the studio

My mom is officially the coolest. Most moms would force their child into a high school so they could learn to socialize and go to proms and stuff. Well, I’m still going to school, but I’m getting a tutor! Mom and I talked about it for a really long time and weighed the pros and cons. We figured that I’d probably get just as much, if not more, social interaction working in my internship and at the studio as I would in high school. Plus, I don’t want to juggle a double life like Hannah Montana.

So, I won’t have to go to real school! I’m absolutely thrilled. High school was always stressful for me. It was an endless sea of faces that always seemed to be laughing either at what I was wearing or what I was saying. But a tutor! I imagine that my tutor will be one of those snobby intellectual types, bitter about the burden of his knowledge. He’ll have salt-and-pepper hair and a curly goatee that he strokes before he says something brilliant. We’ll drink black coffee and stay up late discussing Nietzsche and Dostoevsky. He’ll drill me in Latin, and it’ll be the only language he allows me to speak around him. He’ll be harsh, but I’ll learn important life lessons from him, and he’ll learn unexpected things from me. But I’m getting ahead of myself here.

Later, 12:45pm—Java Bean Coffee

I’m what you’d call “socially awkward.” Meredith and Amanda were my only friends back home. I could blame it on the small town environment. All it really takes is one person to make me an outcast, and that’s it—I’m the laughingstock of the high school. Every single lunch period involved some sort of wet or heavy food being hurled at me. So you can imagine my surprise today when I managed to make three friends in a one-hour time span.

I arrived at the studio to meet my tutor to talk about my “educational needs” and discovered that my tutor was a girl named Jennifer, not some cranky, older man, or, God forbid, a young hot guy. Jennifer looked like a former cheerleader with her perky ponytail and super-white smile, and during our conversation, I learned that she was a cheerleader at UCLA. She works for the studio, so that’s where we’ll meet most of the time. Jennifer works mainly with packets, so I won’t have heavy textbooks to lug around.