Alterations

by Stephanie Scott

  Geez, didn’t these guys talk? “His app. He has a potential buyer. It’s kind of a big deal.”

  Ethan nodded like this was sounding familiar. “That’s cool. That’s nice of you.” He looked past me to where Haylo fussed with Liam’s hair, probably attempting to make it more Ethan-like. Good luck.

  “I can understand if you held back on the stylist thing,” Ethan went on. “But the people we’re meeting through the producers—it’s amazing. Something my dad taught me is to not let opportunities pass by.”

  Abuelita and Mami said the same thing. I’d been all about the opportunities lately, just not that one.

  Ethan stepped closer, his voice lowering. “Like how your mother took the offer to work with the producers. It’s a good move. I mean, look what we could do for her. Her house cleaning days are probably over, right?”

  “You know, she was already working on a business plan for a catering business.” A defensive note definitely sneaked in there.

  “Right, of course. I didn’t mean anyone handed her this without working. I only meant, look what happens with connections and knowing the right people.”

  And the Laurentis and the Lohmans were the right people.

  Haylo slid to my side. “The show’s producers want me to dress übersexy and it so isn’t me. I like cute, not like, sexy vamp. You totally got that when you told my mom about my look. I was thinking, if you help me out, maybe I can help you?”

  “Help me? How?”

  Haylo gushed over people she’d met tonight with Ethan. People she wanted me to meet. She mentioned something about a yacht. I was pretty sure she mentioned a yacht. My mind swirled with possibilities. I could shift RunwayGirl12’s focus to being a stylist and branding consultant. I could use Haylo’s connections and maybe the reality show itself as my platform. It would be me directly involved in fashion! Plus, still being in high school set me apart. The comment I made to the producer about authenticity—that was real!

  “Let me give you my number.” Haylo plugged her number into my phone.

  This was all sounding pretty awesome. Haylo needed my help, not Ethan. I could build up contacts and work with Desiree on a plan. Make some money. I could be on my way to realizing my fashion dreams now, not years later waiting on fashion school while I sewed more scarves. This wasn’t about Ethan at all. This was about me. This was about opportunities!

  Barely able to contain my excitement, I turned to Liam who’d been talking to his brother. Haylo’s chatter dulled to background noise as Liam’s expression sharpened into focus. The spark in his eyes faded. It was like he was watching something slip away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Ethan sauntered out of the Laurentis’ pool house, shirtless and wearing swimming trunks. The late morning sun cast a warm glow against his skin, with light glinting off drink glasses he carried. He looked across the aqua pool water until his gaze connected with mine. Eyes locked. Smile engaged.

  This was not a dream. Repeat: This was not a dream.

  “Cut!” The director moved across the patio, pointing at various Lohmans—there was an aunt now, along with Mr. Lohman, who constantly spoke of trustees and land agreements. Ethan stepped back into the pool house.

  “Ugh, this is taking forever,” Haylo said. She glanced at me, looked away, and then looked back at me again. “Are you okay?”

  I fanned myself. “Isn’t anyone else out here melting?”

  Haylo shrugged. We were both standing in the shade under an open-sided white tent designated for the crew.

  Okay, so it was me then. I could tell myself I was over Ethan Laurenti until my face was as blue as this water, but one more eye lock from him and I’d be a goner. Catnip and all that.

  Filming resumed, where Pru, Fayth, Mrs. Lohman, and the aunt talked loudly about a Welcome to Miami party they were planning and who did or did not fit the guest list. Ethan emerged from the pool house again, on cue (reality TV was so not as real as I’d expected) and then …

  I nudged Haylo. “Aren’t you supposed to be out there?”

  She took a breath and left the tent, walking toward Ethan like she’d just come from the house. “Hey guys.” Her voice pitched up a notch as she sashayed into the camera’s frame.

  Beyond her, the director mimed for Haylo to remove her beach cover-up, which was gauzy and really chic. She let a shoulder peek out. Ethan spoke up about having the party here at the Laurenti house, as if it were his idea and not already planned by the producers. The director flailed his arms at Haylo to take off the cover-up. Haylo joined in the conversation like she didn’t see the director at all. After a few minutes, filming cut.

  The director stormed over. “We’re in South Florida at a pool. Viewers expect to see skin.”

  “What’s the problem?” Mrs. Lohman asked. “Her cover-up is sheer. There are hints of skin.”

  “Hints.”

  Pru barged in. “What am I to you? Scenery?” Pru looked like she spent a lot of hours in the gym toning and was proud to show herself off in a bikini.

  Haylo clutched her cover-up. “Take me out of the pool scene then. I’m not wearing a skimpy suit just because you want me to.”

  The gravelly-voiced producer I’d met the first day of filming approached. “What’s the problem?”

  Everyone talked at once—everyone but Haylo, who stood aside, her arms folded tightly. The wispy ends of her cover-up curled around her legs like protective arms.

  “Haylo, honey,” the Lohman aunt said. “No one’s asking you to do anything racy. You’re seventeen! You have a lovely figure. Believe me, when you get to be my age you’ll wish you showed more skin while it was still in the right places.”

  She and Mrs. Lohman laughed. The aunt held up her arm and shook it, cackling at her own jiggling flab.

  Haylo stomped back to the tent. She picked up her purse and slid her feet into her sandals.

  Ethan caught up. “Where are you going? We have a whole day of shooting left.”

  “Go ahead. The producers love you.”

  Ethan seemed to accept this as a compliment, until Haylo pushed past him. “Come on, Hay. You have a great body. What’s the big deal? It’s not like you have anything to be ashamed of.”

  Haylo stopped and stared at her feet where flamingo-pink toenails fanned out from her sandals. I felt every inch of what she wasn’t saying.

  “If Haylo doesn’t want to wear a swimsuit on TV or ever, that’s her choice,” I said to Ethan, though I dialed up my volume in case the producers overheard. I didn’t know her reasons, but she clearly didn’t feel comfortable. “Stop pressuring her.”

  Haylo spun around. “Amelia’s right. It’s not about what I’ve worn, or what my body looks like. I’m not intentionally showing skin on TV. That’s not me. I thought you understood? It’s why you suggested Amelia as a stylist, remember?”

  Ethan glanced to me, his mouth opening and closing a moment later. But, hadn’t the stylist idea been Haylo’s?

  “I’m getting out of here,” she said, and walked toward the front of the house.

  The producer and Mrs. Lohman called after her. Ethan didn’t.

  “She’s overreacting,” Ethan said. “She just needs time to cool off.” His expression brightened. “You’re staying for filming, right? I could use some pointers.” He tugged at his swim trunks. “These are last season. That has to be a faux pas.”

  All I could think was how Haylo hadn’t spoken up. No, she’d tried, but no one was listening. Not even Ethan. “I’m going, too,” I told him.

  I dashed through the landscaped path, taking the turnoff toward the front drive. I found Haylo unlocking her car. Her sunglasses shaded her eyes, but her mouth turned down in an expression that matched crying, or close to it.

  I stopped at the passenger side door. “Want company?”

  “I can’t believe my family is going along with this reality show,” Haylo said while applying steady pressure to the gas pedal as we tore out of the Laurenti estate.

&nbs
p; I was sitting in the passenger seat of Haylo Lohman’s sleek sedan, the AC blasting, and folky guitar music playing on the stereo.

  She took a sharp right turn. “Next thing you know, little Nevayeh will be wearing tube tops.”

  Tube tops themselves were not the issue, but I figured Haylo knew that. It was that Haylo didn’t want to wear those clothes, and people were pushing her toward it. They were trying to make her into someone she wasn’t.

  “Let’s go shopping,” I suggested.

  “Now?” Haylo slowed as we approached a stoplight. “I was thinking we’d get lattes and then froYo and after that probably a Z dog.”

  “You’re into Z dogs? My best friend works at the Zeenos in the financial district!”

  We fangirled over Miami’s best hot dogs until the light flicked to green. “I guess I should limit the Z dogs if I’m expected to wear a bikini all season.”

  I hated that Haylo even for a second doubted herself when she’d told the producer and her own mother exactly what she wanted. She wanted her own style, and not to wear skimpy stuff in front of the cameras. “Seriously. Let’s go shopping. I have ideas.”

  I directed her to Coral Gables to an area with unique shops. We crossed into the city, where tree branches twisted into organic canopies shading the street. A bit off the beaten path, I urged her toward one of my favorite vintage-inspired shops. Most of the clothes were out of my price range, but I’d found tons of ideas over the years from looking.

  We ended up buying her a retro-style one-piece swimsuit—full coverage with a ton of style, and a few more unique pieces. I was beginning to form a mental profile of Haylo’s taste. After shopping, we stopped at a frozen yogurt shop and settled in at a lime-green table beside the front window where we could people watch. “I’ll put together some Pinboards you can show the PR person and producer. Maybe then they’ll see what look you’re going for.”

  Haylo took a bite of her salted caramel and vanilla twist. “This was awesome, Amelia. I feel a ton better than I did this morning with those vultures trying to get me to disrobe.” She made a disgusted face. “You’re the best. Ethan was so right about you.”

  There was that comment about Ethan again. “What do you mean? He couldn’t have been the one to tell you I should be your stylist. I’m not a stylist. I’m faking this whole thing.”

  “First of all, don’t call yourself a fake. I like that you care how I feel about clothes. The TV people only care about ratings. They don’t care about me. As for the Ethan thing,” she gave me a sly smile. “I think he likes you.”

  All functioning ceased and my plastic spoon pitched forward into my rainbow-sprinkled cookies and cream. Obviously, I had brain freeze from eating my froYo too fast.

  “You look surprised!” Haylo said with amusement. “You didn’t know?”

  “He told you he likes me?”

  “Well, no. I can just sense these things.”

  When had it started? Before New York? At the party? It wasn’t as if Ethan and I spent much time together. “I thought you and Ethan,” I started. “You two have a history.”

  Haylo ate another bite and watched shoppers pass by the window. “We’ve been friends. Always friends.”

  I could swear she sounded sad about that. I could nail down longing like I could whipstitch a seam. “Are you sure?”

  Her attention drifted back to me. “You heard Ethan. He’s always introducing me as his friend.” She smiled. “Anyway, I’m super busy with the show, and now I have to cultivate this whole new look. Who has time to worry about guys? Will you take me shopping again soon? I think we need to devote an entire day. Where should we go?”

  I rattled off my suggestions and told her again about needing to put together an inspiration board. The idea of Ethan liking me lurked quietly behind every word spoken. It was too surreal to believe. Just as I’d given up him, now he liked me?

  “And don’t forget the yacht party,” Haylo was saying. “You’ve done so much for me already. I can already feel my life changing.”

  Funny, so could I.

  I could get used to the yachting life. Salt-stinging wind, clear blue waves shifting to deeper blue, and sipping champagne from a fluted glass. Okay, cream soda from a fluted glass. And I’d passed on the caviar (raw fish eggs? no thanks). The yacht sailed smoothly like hovering over glass. With Ethan standing beside me, the sun reflecting off his mirrored sunglasses, this was the image of a dream.

  I pinched myself.

  I pinched myself again. Not a dream. I really was on a boat. A sailing vessel, according to one of the very gorgeous, very European guys Haylo introduced me to. He’d said Ciao! and then kissed my cheek. Nearly my mouth, really. I may have drooled a little.

  Weirdly enough, I could have sworn Ethan looked jealous. Then again, now that Haylo put in my mind the idea that Ethan might like me, I’d been hyper-deconstructing every look he gave me. I’d also been hyper-sleuthing Ethan’s interactions with Haylo. Nothing at all indicated the two were dating.

  A tiny part of me celebrated that fact. Super teeny-tiny, because I was over Ethan.

  While occasionally Haylo kept her gaze on Ethan a moment too long, she seemed okay with the whole friends thing, too. We were all friends. Hooray!

  Now, here I was on a yacht with wealthy socialites and people who looked like models and actors, or people who hung out with models and actors.

  “I really wish next year’s Christian Siriano resort wear collection had more of a vintage feel,” a girl named Pash said to me. She was a self-proclaimed social media influencer, style maven, and personal assistant who branded her name Pash so it sounded like posh (her real name was Megan).

  “He always goes for a vintage feel,” I said. “Maybe he wants to try a new direction.”

  “A designer should never alienate the base. People follow him for a reason.”

  “But how can you challenge yourself if you always do the same thing?” I was counting on this in my own life.

  “True.” She looked over Miami’s shoreline, where hotels and high rises blended into the afternoon haze like a photo fade effect. “Have you thought about working as a personal assistant?”

  “No. What’s that all about?”

  “I work for Melzinya. I make sure her life runs without interruption.”

  “Who?”

  “The rising pop sensation, Melzinya. She came in sixth place on season seven of Next Latina Pop Sensation in Brazil. She’s going to be huge here. Being a personal assistant is instant access to the next level.”

  “Personal assistant?” Ethan chuckled as he joined in our conversation. “No way. Amelia will have her own assistant soon enough.”

  I wasn’t so sure, but a girl could dream.

  “You could,” he said, reading the doubt on my face. “Haylo told me how impressed she is with your stylist work. You really made her happy.”

  I smiled. If I had a skill that resulted in happiness making, why wouldn’t I use it? Haylo was even more convinced of my stylist ability after I’d shown her the inspiration board with my handpicked celebrity looks: versatile like Zendaya and fresh and stylish while respectable like the Fanning girls. I could put together Pinboards in my sleep, but if she wanted to repay the favor by upping my cool factor on a party boat, by all means.

  We walked the deck toward another group. Guys were going on about an exclusive club where Rihanna hung out when she came to South Florida. VIP access, getting on the list, that was all key, according to these dudes. They dropped so many names I checked for holes in the floor.

  Haylo looked my way. “Which clubs do you go to in Miami?”

  “Oh, um, I’m not so much a club girl.” Unless you counted the honor society, which obviously no one here did.

  “Did you go to the Ralphio event?” one of the guys asked me. “It was sick,” he continued, not waiting for my answer.

  “Who hooked you up with courtside seats to the Heat?” another guy asked.

  Ethan chimed in about the ba
sketball team, and Haylo jumped into the Ralphio guy conversation. Ralphio had a penthouse and supposedly knew the Kardashians.

  My mind drifted to the interface design of UFit. We needed to make the buttons a little larger without them invading the screen. The whole user experience. Abuelita was always complaining how the letter keys on her smartphone were too small. The app needed to work for anyone, regardless of age or tech savvy.

  “Earth to Amelia.” Ethan moved into my line of sight. “You left us for a minute.”

  I laughed it off and rejoined the conversation about swiping right on the latest dating app. These guys only cared about how girls lied in their profiles. No one mentioned the actual UX or platform compatibility.

  After the yacht dropped us off at the docks, we made our way back to Haylo’s car and headed out for food. Ethan rattled off restaurants in Miami Beach with short, one word names. One was simply called Eat.

  Ethan read through texts as Haylo drove. “Liam’s meeting us.”

  “Awesome. So are my sisters!” Haylo glanced back at me in the rearview mirror. “I’m hoping Pru will be more receptive to my fashion choices. Maybe you can talk for me, Amelia. You’re so much better at explaining the look I’m going for.”

  Apparently, a true stylist was never off duty.

  At the restaurant, we passed table after table of bright-colored dresses. In New York, so many people wore black. In Miami, clothes were all about color. Which gave me an idea.

  I caught up to Haylo once we reached the top of the stairs to the open air, shaded rooftop patio. “Are the producers playing up the Miami angle in the show? Because I was thinking your wardrobe could—”

  My words were cut off by a round of hellos from Haylo’s sisters. You’d think they hadn’t seen each other in weeks with the level of squealing.

  Then I saw them—the cameras. Of course the girls were squealing. This was a performance.

  Only a handful of film crew were here at the restaurant. A guy in a white visor stopped me. “Did you sign a release? You can’t be on camera without a release.”

  Ethan’s body brushed against mine. “She’s with us.”