Free American Beauty by Zoey Dean

had been—and would be again, she vowed—that he really and truly loved her exactly as she was. They’d even made love with the lights on. That had been tough on her; she’d studied him like he was a canary in a coal mine for signs of disgust while viewing her dimpled thighs. But all she saw was lust. And love. On the worldwide guy scale of one to ten, Eduardo was an eleven. He had fallen really, deeply, and truly for Sam. Then she had gone and fucked it all up.
    Well, how the hell was she supposed to know he was going to surprise her and show up at the prom after-party? In real life, guys as fine as Eduardo didn’t do things like that for girls who looked like her. Talk about your suspension of disbelief. She’d tried to reconnect with him since then: phone calls, e-mails, all the usual ways. Nothing worked. It was time to get more creative. Whatever her plan would be, step one involved being buffed, scrubbed, rubbed, painted, and primped into a state of Le Petite polish. If, God forbid, her efforts bore no fruit, she’d at least look as good as she ever did.
    Roger, one of her father’s many drivers, dropped her at Le Petite, and she stepped through the glass door into the circular lobby. It was all white, with a soaring twenty-foot ceiling that featured a massive skylight. A waterfall trickled musically into an indoor koi pond—lights on the waterfall morphed through the spectrum of colors, all pulsing in time to the New Age music that emanated from inside the pebbled white walls. Large, slender aquamarine vases had been placed here and there on small black pedestals; each held a single purple orchid. The spa staff—invariably slender, mostly platinum blond—wafted through in white saris and loose-fitting pants, specially designed for the spa by Vera Wang. Each staff member had a “third eye” jewel glued to the middle of his or her forehead.
    Her friends were already there, on different white couches, as if they’d never met. Anna looked up from her
New Yorker
magazine; Cammie continued a cell phone conversation.
    “Hi, Sam.” Anna stood and kissed Sam on the cheek. “This place is beautiful. Thanks for inviting me.”
    “That was Dee,” Cammie reported, dropping her Razr cell phone into her mint-green-and-baby-pink Kate Spade hobo bag. “She can’t come—I didn’t catch exactly why—probably boning Jack. She said she tried to call but, Sam, your phone is off.”
    Sam pulled her Samsung out of her chocolate-brown fringed Kenneth Cole purse. Dee was right; the battery pack had come loose.
Shit.
What if Eduardo had tried to call, hit her voice mail, and decided not to leave a message? She couldn’t have it on during the spa session; cell phones in Le Petite were strictly forbidden. Even for her.
    “Ah, Miss Sharpe, welcome. I am Batsheva, at your service.” The girl greeting her had beautiful almond-shaped eyes and a lush raven braid down her back. She wore the regulation white outfit and had a ruby in the center of her forehead. She gestured toward Anna and Cammie with one graceful arm. “Please call me Sheva. And these are your guests?”
    “Yes; meet Anna and Cammie.”
    Sheva nodded. “I will be your personal valet for the afternoon. If you need anything at all, I am but a chime away.” She handed Sam a small white disc on a wristband. “You press the disc like so—” Sheva pressed the disc; an identical bracelet on her own wrist chimed loudly. “When you chime, I chime, you see, and then I will come see to your every need. I hope that is satisfactory.”
    “Sure,” Sam agreed, donning her bracelet. “Thanks.”
    Sheva gave a small bow. “Most excellent. Now if all three of you would be so good as to follow me?”
    She led the way through a pristine hallway, then down some steps and into the ladies’ changing room. There was a row of doors with brass handles. Each girl’s name had been precalligraphied on a faux-brass name-plate. Nice touch.
    Sam entered the SAM door to get