This gala is going to be all my own sweat (and maybe some blood and tears too).
“I’m no doctor, but I think you’ll survive it,” he says. He takes his phone back. “One a day from this list, dude. That’s what I’m thinking. If we do that, we should have everyone on board within a week or so and then the rest is just setup and execution.”
He’s only supposed to be in this for the plane ticket, and yet he’s taking the lead. It’s refreshingly optimistic, despite the annoying added superiority complex.
“And what about the theme? You can’t throw a gala without a theme!”
Hector’s Android lights up in his hand with an incoming call. A girl’s photo flashes on the screen, but I don’t get a good enough look to see if it’s someone I’ve passed around town. Hector’s posture changes, hardening in time with his expression.
“I gotta grab this, but let’s meet at the storage unit tomorrow afternoon. We’ll go dig around in there. See what we can find.” His words slide into one another as he stands, eyes glued to his phone.
“And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?” I ask.
“Back to the drawing board, Party Prince,” he says. “Hard work feeds the soul.”
His words hang behind long after he’s gone.
Chapter 13
“A Prince asking for a handout? That’s rich!” the sole salon owner, Kendra, shouts when I explain to her about the donations necessary for the gala’s silent auction. All we’d need is a free blowout or a cut-and-color to incentivize some bidders, but I guess that’s too much to ask. “See what I did there?Rich?”
The other stylist, with hair so voluminous you could get lost in it, cackles, while I try not to cringe.
“Yes, I see what you did there,” I say, summoning politeness with every fiber of my being. Everyone in this town is full of jokes and wordplay.
Kendra appears to be about Mom’s age. Her last name is painted in swoopy script on the front of the salon: Cuts by Callihan. I wouldn’t be surprised if she went to school with Mom, and the distaste for my family dates back to the year Mom refused to show up to the high school reunion after she landed her big TV deal.I’m too busy for empty nostalgia, she’d said.
Even the two women in the styling chairs—one with a head full of curlers, the other a head full of foil—glanced over at me with evident skepticism when the door whooshed closed behind me. Word of my presence in town has been spread like caviar over blinis. I’m an acquired taste. I know that.
But when I catch my reflection in one of the station mirrors, I realize I should’ve worn something less ostentatious if I was planning to beg for financial support. My Moschino coat and pants set covered in large hashtags and questions marks doesn’t exactly screamTake pity on me.
I guess I didn’t consider that when I decided to put Hector’s advice into practice.Hard work feeds the soulreplayed in my mind all night, taunting me. I want to show him that I can take the initiative. Wooing people is usually what I do best.
“It’s for a worthy cause,” I tell Kendra. “The Small Business Association helps establishments like yours stay…well,in business.”
My joke is met with sudden silence. Tough room.
“Your mom could bankroll all the businesses in this town if she chose to. Why should I give her son free products for some frilly basket? Dip into your trust fund for us if you care so much,” Kendra says, waggling her scissors semi-menacingly at me.
The elderly woman in Kendra’s chair reaches a hand out from beneath her cape and places it on Kendra’s elbow. “Go easy on the child. He’s Lorna’s grandson. He’s just trying to help.”
“We don’t need outside help,” says Kendra. “Jack usually takes care of all this. We’re doing just fine without.”
“It’s the season of giving,” says the woman with the foils on the other side of the room. A gentle reminder that I could give more of myself to win this woman over. “And the gala is to ensure we stay doing just fine.”
“What if I could promise better than fine?” I ask. “After the New Year, I could promise an ad posting on my Instagram account. It reaches millions of people. I have a large following. Who knows? It could get you some New York clientele.”
“Please, like your kind would come all the way out here for a haircut,” she says, blowing me off.
“No, seriously. You don’t understand the lengths the rich and famous will go to for the new, hot stylist,” I say.
She shrugs, indifferent, but I can tell that’s perked her up. “So why not post now? Show me you’re serious.”
I stifle a groan. “I can’t. I’m locked out of my accounts.”
“Likely story.”
“No, I’m serious, but I promise”—I look her right in the eyes so she knows I mean it—“I’ll come through.” I’m surprised that I kind of want to come through.
