by Barrie Summy
“This crowd will love you, Sherry.” She unclasps her purse and pulls out a tube. She reapplies bloodred lipstick. “Loosen up and go with the flow Dear Elle–style.”
Going with the flow is so not me when it comes to class presentations, which seem totally tame compared with this evening. I snuffle in earnest. No coffee scent. I want my mother. Butterflies are fluttering and flapping in my stomach.
“If you need to blow your nose,” Dear Elle says, “now’s the time.”
“I’m good,” I say.
The band strikes up. Bright lights on stands are positioned at the front of the room. A couple of guys set up their cameras. Then, to a drumroll, a woman in a black pantsuit steps behind the podium. She introduces herself as the president of Hollywood Girl and spouts off the usual we’re-glad-you-all-could-make-it junk. She gives out a few awards. Kudos to sales for selling stacks of Hollywood Girl in Europe. The art department designed a cover that won something somewhere. Gloria Vasquez wrote an article that attracted a bunch of recognition in the industry.
The butterflies are basically hurling themselves around my stomach.
The clapping for Gloria dies down. “For the first time ever,” the president says, “we ran a writing contest for our teen readers. We asked them to submit five hundred words on true love.” She sips from a goblet of water. “We received many excellent entries. Many. But a certain entry stood head and shoulders above the rest.” She looks over at Dear Elle. “And Dear Elle, our extremely savvy, extremely popular love advice columnist will tell you about the entry and introduce the winner.”
“Please don’t faint. Please don’t faint,” I repeat under my breath.
Amid thunderous applause, Dear Elle sashays to the podium, grabs the mic and proceeds to talk about her book. And her life as a writer. And then more about her book.
My stomach settles. The microphone is Dear Elle’s best friend, and I am A-OK with this.
After many minutes, Dear Elle picks up a gold chain. A heart-shaped medal hangs from it. She dangles it in front of the audience. “Can you get a clear shot of this?” she says to the cameramen.
“Got it,” one of them answers.
“Sherlock Holmes Baldwin—we call her Sherry—wrote an amazing essay on love. She totally owned the contest. Hollywood Girl is beyond thrilled to have her with us this evening.” Dear Elle beckons to me. “Give it up for Sherry Baldwin!”
My dad’s shrill two-fingered whistle slices through the applause. He perfected it at my brother’s soccer games.
Like when you blend up all the ingredients of a smoothie, I’m a mixture of nerves and excitement. I stand and square my shoulders. I take a deep breath. This is my moment. I stride to the podium.
Dear Elle grasps my shoulders and does the air-kissing thing. I gaze out over the crowd. Many pairs of eyeballs gaze back.
Pushing up the corners of her mouth with her index fingers, Junie makes an exaggerated smile. As a reminder to me.
I paste on a grin and look around. Lots of faces grin back. My heart beats wildly. I’m a winner. A Hollywood winner.
“Sherry,” Dear Elle says, cradling the heart pendant in the palm of her hand, “did you notice the diamond at the tip? Because, say it with me, people …”
“Diamonds are forever. Just like love,” chants the entire room.
Dear Elle grabs my hand and lifts it straight up. “Sherry Holmes Baldwin,” she booms, “our teen love expert!” She drops my hand and starts clapping.
Thunderous applause. Flashing rainbow ceiling lights. Cameras on. I pinch my arms just to check that I’m actually awake.
Still applauding, Dear Elle hip-bumps me. “This group is digging you,” she says out of the side of her mouth. “We’re going with it.”
“Going with what?” Suddenly, the butterflies are back in full nauseating force.
Dear Elle just shoots me a sparkly smile. When the room quiets down, she says in a loud voice, “You know what I want to hear?”
“What?” the audience shouts back.
“Whatever Sherry wants to tell us!” She starts clapping rhythmically. “Sherry! Sherry! Sherry!”
chapter
nine
A roomful of people clapping and yelling for me to make a speech?
Ack. Eek. Ike.
I thought grinning and gazing around would be enough.
There’s a whoosh of coffee aroma. Mom! She breezes in next to me. “You can do this, Sherry. Pretend you’re only talking to a few people. Start with thanking them for the award. And mention how much you enjoy reading the magazine.”
Dear Elle nudges me toward the mic. I gulp in air.
“Say something,” Dear Elle hisses in my ear.
The whole room goes all hazy and fuzzy edges for me. And it’s like I’m up by the ceiling, looking down on everyone. Now I know what people mean by an out-of-body experience.
My mother stays beside me. I follow her suggestions. And once I open my mouth and start talking, most of the jitters disappear. I don’t know exactly what I say, but I get a few chuckles and leave the podium with applause ringing in my ears. Not to mention my dad’s whistle.
Then I’m seated and kicking back and enjoying the rest of the program. My brand-new shiny necklace dangles around my neck.
“You were amazing,” my mom says.
I give her a thumbs-up.
Dad thinks I’m gesturing to him and gives me a thumbs-up. “Great speech, Sherry!”
“My mom rocks!” I mouth to Junie.
The rest of the event passes by in a blur. While Junie’s snapping photos like she’s a paparazzo and Dad’s making multiple trips to the dessert bar, I manage to sneak to a corner for a chat with my mother. I press my cell to my ear so I don’t look like a nutzoid yakking away to the air.
“Sorry I was late,” she says. “I had trouble finding the hotel.” When alive, my mother had no sense of direction either.
“You were there when it mattered,” I say.
There’s a light touch where she’s squeezing my shoulders. “I am so proud of you, Sherry.”
“It’s pretty cool.” I hold up the necklace, and the diamond sparkles.
After we’ve caught up a little, my mom says, “How much longer do you plan to stay?”
“A while,” I say, looking at the line where Dear Elle is signing. “I’m going to buy Dear Elle’s book.”
“Really?” my mother sounds surprised.
“She is kind of a jerk, but she gives terrific love advice.”
“Really?” my mother says, still sounding surprised.
Which doesn’t surprise me. I mean, my mom is super at solving mysteries, but I doubt she knows much about love, especially for girls my age.
“If you’re okay, I’m going up to the Hollywood sign to see if I can connect with Peg Entwistle’s ghost.”
“Peg Entwistle?” I say.
“An actress who died tragically in the 1930s. She jumped from the H in the Hollywood sign, back when it still said Hollywoodland,” my mom says. “Word on the street is she and Marilyn Monroe’s ghost are friends.”
“Have they always been friends? Like even when they were alive?”
“No. Marilyn was only six when Peg died. But they were both very unhappy women who died under unusual circumstances. Apparently, they’ve reached out to each other in the afterlife.”
“Well, I guess that’s good,” I say, not commenting on the incredible amount of weirdness.
“I’ve heard that Marilyn Monroe is hard to find, hard to get to, hard to get talking. I’m hoping Peg Entwistle is my in,” Mom says. “I really want to get to the bottom of Marilyn’s death. The foreign Academy would love me to as well.”
Mom takes off, and I’m sticking my cell back in my purse when Madison shows up. “Sherry, people are really wanting to meet you! What a speech!” She hooks her arm around mine and marches me all over the room, introducing me to loads of magazine personnel and basically treating me like some kind of teen star. Final
ly, she leads me to the dessert bar, where we each choose chocolate swirl ice cream with toppings, then sit down at Madison’s table to indulge.
Madison sets her spoon in the empty bowl and dabs at her mouth with a napkin. “Sherry, I have something for you.” She digs in a bag under the table. “Here it is. Dear Elle’s book. I have a copy for Junie too. Let’s find her and then have Dear Elle sign them.”
Junie’s across the room, taking some wide-angle shots. She sees me looking for her and holds up her hand to signal “five more minutes.”
Dad’s near her, talking to a man in a suit. He finishes his conversation, then saunters over to me. “I’m ready to head back to the room, Sherry.”
I hold up my book. “Junie and I’ll be up after we get these signed.”
“Fine.” He turns to Madison. “Great evening. Thank you.”
“I’m just so glad you could attend.” Madison beams.
Walking across the room to the double doors, Dad loosens his belt.
There’s a huge huddle around Dear Elle. Junie and I veer toward the end of the line.
“Sherry,” Madison says, “you’re a guest of honor.” She approaches Dear Elle and taps her on the shoulder.
Dear Elle waves us to the front.
She signs my book, To Sherry, a girl who truly understands love. Dear Elle XO
“Junie,” Dear Elle says, “could you forward any good photos you got of me to the magazine?”
Back in our room, I make a beeline for comfy sweats and the couch. Seriously, it’s like getting home after a long vacation. Celebrity status, even for an evening, is exhausting.
Junie sits at the desk, boots up her laptop, and gets to work uploading photos and writing copy for the school paper while it’s all fresh in her smart little head.
Dear Elle’s book, Love, Revealed, on my chest, I’m stretched out, all mellow, half considering cracking open the book, half wondering why I bought the exclusive-to-Hollywood-Girl-readers-only Camel’s Breath CD this evening. For Josh. I guess when you’re dating someone, you get in the habit of noticing little things they like. Jazzed-Up Juice coupons, water polo key chains, Camel’s Breath CDs. It’s not like I have to give Josh the CD. But I might.
Junie jumps to her feet. “I can’t believe it!”
I startle and bounce up. The book clatters to the floor. “What?”
She snatches the remote from the coffee table. “The news!”
“You practically gave me a heart attack for the news?” I pick up the book and lie back down.
Her finger dancing up a storm on the remote, Junie says, “I can’t believe I got so into the school-paper stuff that I almost missed the news. That’s really saying something. Like journalism might be my calling. And all these years I’ve been thinking astronaut.” Channels whiz by at a dizzying speed. “At least the photos are uploaded. I just have to go through and delete the garbage ones.”
Junie’s been hard-core about the news since she was around five, only taking a brief hiatus when she got her tonsils out. Personally, I don’t get it. Give me a decent reality show any day. That’s close enough to the news for me.
I stand and stretch. “Are the Oreos in here or in my dad’s room?”
“Oreos? You had three desserts!”
“Three desserts? Are you sure? I have zero memory of that. How scary. I wonder what else I ate. Vegetables? Liver? Pigs’ feet?” I walk over to the mini fridge. “If I had to choose one word to describe tonight, it would be ‘fog.’ ”
“Sherry! Quick!” Junie plops down on the couch. “This story’s on the Hollywood Girl dinner.”
I race over to the couch and plop down next to her.
The anchorman stares out at us. Above his left shoulder is a drawing of Dear Elle’s diamond purse.
“So cute.” I sigh.
“This evening Hollywood Girl hosted a gala event at the Roosevelt Hotel,” a reporter says. “The event celebrated the accomplishments of various magazine personnel.”
The screen fills with footage of the bald guy from sales marching up to the podium, then cuts to Gloria Vasquez giving her short acceptance speech.
Junie’s and my head swivel toward each other. Am I going to be on TV?
“Dear Elle, the wisdom behind the popular advice column followed avidly by teens around the country, introduced the first-time teen winner of an essay-writing contest. The topic? True love, of course.”
And there I am gliding to the podium. I look poised and cool. No way anyone could tell I was full of butterflies.
Junie and I scream.
“Your hair looks good,” Junie says.
“But my dress!” I wail. “I had no idea TV did that to colors.”
“The evening was not all glam and glitter,” the anchorman continues. “Things soured sometime after dinner.”
“What?” Junie and I say in unison. We sit up straight, shoulders touching, focused.
“Here’s our Crime-Around-Town Reporter, Katie Scott. She was in the Blossom Ballroom at the Roosevelt Hotel a little before this newscast.”
A slender reporter with glasses and a silver microphone stands at the wooden door. She raises the microphone to her mouth. “That’s right, Paul. The atmosphere here in the ballroom changed from elation to outrage earlier this evening.” She walks through the doorway and stands by the podium.
The room is mostly empty. Only a few members of the hotel staff remain, working on cleanup.
“At some point after dinner, someone at this extravagant affair stole Dear Elle’s purse.”
Junie and I gasp.
“Dear Elle is here with me,” the reporter says, “and has agreed to answer some questions.”
Dear Elle and the reporter are standing by our dinner table. The silver purse hook is still clipped to the table. Now, however, nothing hangs from it.
“When did you first notice your purse was missing?” The reporter tilts the mic toward Dear Elle.
“I didn’t notice until I was gathering up my belongings at the end of the evening.” Dear Elle runs her hand through her shiny hair. “At first, I just thought I’d misplaced it. But after scouring the entire ballroom, both on my own and with help, I finally came to the heartbreaking conclusion that my beautiful purse was stolen.”
“There’s something very special about this purse. Could you describe it for our viewers?”
“The clasp is to die for.” Dear Elle places a hand over her chest. “Diamonds are a symbol of love. I’m a love guru. So every time I do a public event, I wear or bring something with a diamond.” She touches an ear. “I’ve worn diamond earrings.” She shakes a hand in the air. “Diamond rings. For this event, I brought an evening purse with a sparkly diamond clasp.”
“When’s the last time you remember seeing your purse?” Katie Scott asks.
Dear Elle stares off into space. “I opened it”—she talks with her hands, mimicking unclasping her purse—“pulled out my tube of lipstick and redid my lips.” She draws in the air in front of her mouth. “That was just minutes before I went up to the podium.” Dear Elle strokes her chin. “Then I presented the teen award to”—she tilts her head—“Blaylock Baldwin.”
“Blaylock?” Junie and I shout.
“I understand you were recently the victim of house theft?” the reporter says.
“Almost. I was out of town on a book tour.” Dear Elle holds up a copy of Love, Revealed. “And my neighbor noticed some suspicious activity at my house and called the police. When they arrived, they found my back door open, but nothing had been stolen.”
“How lucky,” the reporter says.
“I’m not counting on luck anymore,” Dear Elle says. “I had a super security system installed.”
“You asked to say a personal word to our viewers. Would you like to do that now?” Katie Scott hands the mic to Dear Elle.
Dear Elle looks straight into the camera with big doelike brown eyes. “Whoever took this purse, this symbol of love, please return it.” She pauses. “Dia
monds are forever. Just like love.”
A drawing of the purse fills the screen. A fat 800 number flashes across it, while the anchor’s voice instructs all the viewers to keep an eye open and call the number with any leads.
A commercial for car insurance comes on.
I shake my sad little head. “I can’t believe I was at the scene and didn’t have a clue that a crime was going down.”
“Did you see anything weird?” Junie asks.
“Nothing. I was in a cloud. A celebrity cloud. I’m the girl who doesn’t recall scarfing down three desserts.”
“I can kind of remember the purse hanging on the back of her chair when she was signing.” Junie’s eyes are closed while she tries to re-create the scene.
“The thing with purses is that you pick them up, set them down, take stuff out of them, shove stuff into them. All on automatic pilot.” I twirl a few strands of hair around my index finger. “Dear Elle could easily have unhooked her purse, thrown it over her shoulder and carried it to the signing table. All on autopilot.”
“Like my mom and the garage door,” Junie says. “She always thinks she forgot to close it. But every time we go back, it’s closed.”
Junie and I sit in silence. A commercial for a new camera comes on.
We snap to attention.
Thanks to Junie, we have about a million shots of the evening. Maybe even one of the thief stealing the purse.
chapter
ten
Junie zips to the desk, grabs her laptop and hustles back to the couch.
We huddle side by side, eyes on the dark screen coming to life.
“Where are our minds at?” I say. “That we didn’t think of your photos?”
“Seriously.” Junie presses a bunch of buttons. “I pretty much chronicled the entire evening.”
“Wow, Junie.” I gape at her gajillion thumbnails. “That’s a boatload of photos.”
Junie starts scrolling. “I got a new memory card for the trip.”
I touch the screen. “Stop there.” I’m looking at several photos, practically identical, taken almost right in a row.
“Yeah, I was practicing with the sports mode. Where I hold down the shutter release button and pop off a bunch of shots fast.” She points to me on the screen. “Like here. I’d moved away from the table, so I had a clear view of you. I held down the shutter button and started clicking to make sure I got you on the way to the podium.”