Holly Hearts Hollywood Read Online Free PDF Page A

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