Secrets of the Sisterhood (The Cinderella Society, Episode 1) (13 page)

What alternate universe had I fallen into where a former supermodel chummed with two sixteen-year-olds over paninis and a Cobb salad? I glanced down to see if my clothing had suddenly transformed into uber-cool threads. Sadly, no. Apparently this dimension also had red-tag clearance sales at Target.

Audrey set down our meals on one of the tables in the kitchenette, and somehow during dinner we ended up talking about our most embarrassing moments. Or Audrey and Gaby did. I sat there stunned at what they were tossing around like they didn’t have a care in the world. Audrey mistaking a hot new fashion designer for the coffee runner at Fashion Week and getting screamed at by the prima donna live on the Style Network. Gaby strutting around the entire cafeteria with a tampon wrapper clinging to her pant leg. I would’ve crawled under a very heavy rock to avoid giving the details on something like that.

Which must’ve shown on my face, because Audrey let out a gusty laugh. “Come on, Jess. Time to fess up.”

I shook my head and chomped a monster bite of panini to buy time.

She handed me another napkin. “Awkward moments are part of being human. No one’s as perfect as you think they are.”

“Can’t,” I mumbled around the mouthful. I took my time chewing, my cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. I swallowed the bite in a series of gulps, even took my time wiping the mustard from my mouth. But did my stalling tactics let me off the hook? That would be a no.

“Seriously, you guys, I can’t,” I told them. “I’m still sweating stupid stuff that happened in first grade. If it all came out, I might implode.”

Audrey sipped her green-tea smoothie through a bendy straw. “That’s far too long to be harboring embarrassments. They can’t all have passed the Rule of Fives.”

I shared a look of bewilderment with Gaby.

“The Rule of Fives,” Audrey said. “Every time something embarrassing or horrible or stressful happens, stop and take five slow, deep breaths. Then ask yourself the ‘five’ questions: Will this matter in five hours? Will this matter in five weeks? Will this matter in five years? You’d be surprised how things that seem earth-shattering at the time don’t even pass the five-week test. It puts things in perspective.”

Not spending half my life dwelling on my never-ending stream of faux pas? Now there was a novel idea.

“It’s only good if you use it, though,” she said. “Pick an embarrassing moment and put it to the test.”

Embarrassing moment? Gee, maybe eagerly replying to my total crush
who wasn’t even talking to me?

Okay, deep breaths. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five.

I did a quick body check-in. Still felt squeamish about it, but not like I was going to throw up. That was an improvement. Did it matter in five hours? Um,
yes
. Since I managed to run into him (literally!) twice in those five hours.

Deep breath.

Would it matter in five weeks? I sipped my water and pondered. That was harder. He might remember me as the groupie from the hall. But since he’d seen me with SJ and the other Cindys after that, maybe he’d associate me with them, instead. Five weeks was looking pretty iffy.

Would it matter in five years? That almost made me laugh. No way would he still remember that five years from now. He’d be off doing some fabulous thing, graduating from college. He wouldn’t remember me at all.

Okay, not a fun line of thought.

“So, what’s the verdict?” Audrey asked, popping the lid back onto her empty salad bowl. “Can you spill?”

“Time limit is an iffy five weeks.”

“Excellent. And . . . ?”

“And it just happened on Friday, so we’re not in the clear yet.”

Gaby laughed. “We’ll hit you up for it later.”

Perspective could come in mighty handy. I had a feeling I’d be seeing a lot more embarrassing moments at the hands of Lexy. Might as well have a defensive strategy ready to go.

We dumped our trash and headed back through study hall. Audrey glanced over at my project. Clippings lay scattered around the far end of the table like a tornado had struck.

“How’s the
Signature Style Portfolio
coming?” she asked.

When I looked aghast that she knew the name of my
CMM
assignment, Audrey laughed. “I’ve been coming in and out of here for several years, Jess. I’ve seen more than you can imagine. Don’t worry—what happens in the Club stays in the Club. It’s like Vegas that way.” She nodded toward the piles of magazines. “You want to know a secret about those?”

Gaby paused on her way into her office and doubled back. Who wouldn’t want to hear a supermodel’s secret?
 

Audrey pulled a magazine from the stack in the middle of the table and tapped a finger on the cover. “No one’s as polished as you think they are,” she told us. “The ‘me’ you see on a cover or a billboard? That’s the airbrushed, meticulously styled me. Usually attended to by a whole team of well-paid, extremely talented professionals. It’s not the me I wake up to in the mirror every morning. Professional photos create a snapshot in time that sends a specific visual message:
We’re having the time of our lives
or
Don’t you wish you were part of
our
crowd?
Whatever message they need to convey to sell what they’re advertising.”

The scattered images in my portfolio stack seemed to say,
Don’t you wish you could make up your mind? ‘Cause we sure wish you could.

Audrey gave both of our shoulders a friendly squeeze. “Stay true to the real you, and you’ll do fine.”
 

Great advice. If I knew what the real Jess looked like. Or who she was, for that matter.

It took me a ridiculous amount of time to finish my boards. Just before eight o’clock, I handed Gaby my
Signature Style Portfolio
to review and went to grab a juice from the kitchenette. I plunked down at one of the tables in the lounge and stared longingly across the room at the laptops with the
Style Quiz
, wishing for the password that would finally kick-start the makeover phase.

As if in answer to my prayers, Gaby walked into the kitchenette clutching a small card and my portfolio. “Chic, sleek, and memorable?”

I cringed, hearing some of the words I’d listed on my
STYLES I ADMIRE
board. Definitely a difference between admiring and being me. “There were more words than that,” I defended.

“It’s not a criticism. I think you’ve got great images and words on there to get you thinking. You did me proud.” She stepped forward to lay a card and my style boards on the table. “Login instructions are on the card. It should only take you about twenty minutes.”

Bingo.

A few quick keystrokes, and I was on my way to style heaven.

QUESTION #1: It’s a lazy Saturday morning, and you’re going to be hanging out at home all day. You:

A) Wear your pajamas until your parents force you to get dressed. Come on, it’s Saturday!

B) Get all dolled up, including full makeup and hair. You never know who might swing by for a visit.

C) Wash your face, throw on a headband, and put on your favorite comfy outfit. Clean is good, but comfort is the main attraction.

D) Hop out of bed, get cleaned up, and put on whatever is handy. Who has time for a lazy Saturday?

B
was definitely out. Someone swinging by to visit me was not exactly a concern.
A
was a little too on the lazy side, and
D
was too high-strung. I clicked on
C
and hit Enter.
 

I couldn’t keep the grin from creeping across my face. One question closer to my makeover fantasy. Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

Jess Parker was about to make Cinderella look
good
.

Chapter Twenty

In a lot of ways, playing Cinderella is like watching a train wreck in slow motion. You’re terrified of what you might see as it unfolds, but you can’t
not
look.

Especially when you suspect that you might be the train.
 

A day I thought would be filled with magical pampering and glass-slipper fantasies started bright and early with a posh salon, a gold coin, and an elitist hairdresser named Leopold.

We’d arrived at Avalon Salon and Spa in plenty of time for my nine-thirty morning appointment, only to be told by the rail-thin Amazon passing for a receptionist that we couldn’t possibly have made an appointment on such short notice. They were “simply booked months in advance.” My glass slippers had barely been donned, and it looked like we were out on our butts.

Which was fine with me, actually, because one look at the granite counters and silicone clients told me there was no way my allowance could sustain a hit of this magnitude without resorting to Old Navy clearance for the wardrobe part of our adventure.

In true Sarah Jane style, however, she gave the twentysomething a patient smile and stepped off to the side with her. They spoke in muffled voices, the girl continuing to shake her head. It wasn’t until SJ passed her a two-inch gold coin thing that the girl suddenly went from “Nuh-uh” to “Whatever you say, Miss Peterson.” Amazon scurried away to the back room, while SJ came to sit next to me, looking pleased with herself.

I pretended to be engrossed in the latest issue of
Celebrity Hair
and gave her a fake-cheerful smile. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”
Please say it’s not.

“All taken care of.”

I put Jessica Biel’s new ‘do face-up in my lap. “I don’t mean to be tacky,” I whispered, casting furtive glances at the upper-echelon clientele. “But how much is this going to cost? I thought we’d be at a local salon for a quick cut and some highlights. I didn’t budget for a hair extravaganza.”

SJ smiled serenely in her Sarah Jane way. “Don’t sweat it, J. This part is on the house. It’s one of our traditions.”

At that, a tall man dressed head to toe in flowing black came out, clapping his hands in delight. “Welcome, Sarah Jane!”

He exchanged air kisses with SJ, then held her at arm’s length to take in her Tommy Girl gloriosity. “Always magnificent to see you, darling. The gold chili rinse was pure genius. You look radiant!”

SJ accepted the compliments graciously and took his hand to face me. “Leopold, this is my good friend Jessica. We’re here to have you work your magic.”

Leopold pursed his lips and sized me up in two-point-three seconds. “Flat and forgettable. You brought her just in time.”

“Don’t worry, Jess. Leopold is the best there is.”

Good thing, because he was already steering me toward the blood-red curtains in the rear of the salon, saying, “Much work ahead. Not a moment to waste.”

“Look, Leo,” I said, starting to panic. I didn’t want a drastic makeover; I just wanted a little primping. “I’m just here to—”

“Leo
pold
.”

Stupid nerves! “Leopold, right. So sorry.”
Note to self: never insult the person who holds your follicular future in their hands.
“I didn’t mean to drop in on you like this. If it’s not a good time, I can totally make an appointment.” Or say I’m going to and then not.

“Tink, tink,” he scolded, guiding me firmly by the forearm. “I do not take appointments like a common stylist. I am the owner of Avalon. I am only available for celebrity emergencies.”

“But I’m not a celebrity.”

He stopped short of the curtains and gave me another appraising look. “You are emergency enough to make up for it.”

Chapter Twenty-One

A haircut is usually just a haircut. But a hair consultation by Leopold is like a religious experience for
Glamour
groupies.

After drilling me with questions for ten minutes—describe my morning ritual, what was my signature style (he definitely knew his Cindy lingo)—he and Sarah Jane discussed my best features, my coloring, high maintenance versus low maintenance, and other essentials as though I were nothing more than a chimp in a chair.

For two hours, I was served more sparkling water than I could possibly consume (with the bladder pain to prove it), suffered more veiled insults at the hands of a sadistic stylist than Lexy could hurl in a week, and had every inch of my head pulled, twisted, clipped, capped, gooed, and even plucked.

In short, I’d never been happier in my life.

To say that Leopold is a complete flippin’ genius is to say that Ryan Steele gives 505s a good name. Understatement of the century. My hair was magically transformed from mouse-turd brown to a shimmery mix of chocolate, copper, and gold that looked almost iridescent under the lights. My once-boring longish bob was shaped and shagged and nipped and tucked until it was full and free and looked like an ad for a top styling school. Flirty to the tenth degree.

Imagine . . . me, flirty.
I suppressed a jolt of laughter.

With my hair in dazzling shape, I was ready for round two: makeup.

A cosmetologist named Chiniqua took over and redid my face so I could see the result she was after. Totally babe-like, if I do say so myself. Clean and fresh with a hint of shimmer to match my hair.

Rock on, Chiniqua!

Then Chiniqua did me one better. She washed it all off and had
me
redo the whole thing, with her coaching every step. It wasn’t as good as her version—not by a long shot—but my confidence went through the roof knowing I could manage even a halfway decent copy of her look.