Free Spoiled by Heather Cocks Page A

could tell the purple hue of the dress was extremely
     flattering. She touched the intricate work on the skirt, then wiggled around in it, throwing her hands in the air. The strapless
     bodice didn’t budge an inch. Molly’s heart leapt. Yes, it was a lot of dress, but when else would she have an excuse to wear
     something like this?
    Botox crossed the room and placed her hands on Molly’s shoulders. That close, Molly noticed that the stylist was wearing an
     excess of Chanel No. 5 and dark purple eyeliner. Her breath smelled of spearmint gum and raisins.
    “You look like Jessie Biel’s twin,” Botox said very seriously. “As a professional stylist, it would be criminal of me to let
     you turn this down. I’d literally get arrested.”
    “As a professional stylist, I’m shocked you can’t see the truth, which is that she looks like a giant grape-scented loofah,”
     Brooke said haughtily.
    Molly’s spirits crashed with a thud. Boobs and Bangs gasped in the background.
    “Are you sure?” she asked.
    “Positive,” Brooke said. “You don’t want to end up on
E!News
with some stand-up comic making a crack about using you with shower gel. Can you imagine? Seriously, ladies, this simply
     won’t do.”
    Boobs, Bangs, and Botox were agape. Molly got the impression nobody ever turned down a Marchesa.
    Outside, a horn honked.
    “There’s Stan!” Brooke chirped, noticeably relieved. “Hurry up and change—that color is making me crave a Jamba Juice and
     I can’t spare the calories.”
    She steered Molly back into the dressing area.
    “You are fully harshing my buzz, Brooke,” Molly heard Botox say. “What is your damage?”
    Molly, back in her jeans, looked down at the dress in her hands. She resisted the urge to hug it good-bye, and for a second
     she thought maybe she didn’t have the strength to give it back. But if Brooke thought she looked like a loofah… Surely, she
     knew what Molly ought to wear, and after three hours, she wouldn’t have let Molly walk out empty-handed unless the situation
     demanded it.
    “I have to trust Brooke on this one,” she said, coming out of the dressing room and handing the dress to Bangs, who looked
     as horrified as if someone had just told her the health food store was out of flaxseed oil. “But thank you so much for all
     your help.”
    “Don’t worry, Molly,” Brooke said with a huge smile. “Fashion may have failed you today, but now that I know your tastes,
     I have several vintage classics at home that’ll be totally perfect. Trust me.”

    It rained on Friday, so Saturday dawned clear and bright. Even after a week in Los Angeles, Molly still hadn’t quite acclimated
     to the West Coast, instead taking advantage of waking up three hours too early every day by hitting the pool for some laps.
     Brooke was appalled when she heard about it—apparently her own hair had a rare chlorine allergy—but Molly found the rhythmic
     smack of her arms against the water helped clear her head.
    Molly was
so close
to being excited about the party. Charmaine certainly was; she had offered to fly out and live-blog it. And Brooke’s enthusiasm
     was contagious. The previous night, they’d had Tex-Mex delivered while Brooke went over Famous Sibling Pairings in Tabloid
     History and how they found the optimal flattering angles when posing for pictures together. Apparently, Jessica and Ashlee
     Simpson had much to teach. Sometimes it felt like these first few days in Los Angeles had conspired to turn her into an alternate-universe
     Molly: someone who had a moderate spray tan (courtesy of Brooke), her own black Amex, and a social calendar that involved
     the words
red carpet
. Oh, and a private Olympic-size lap pool. Every morning, no matter how amazing it was to be experiencing all this, Molly
     felt a little more foreign to herself.
    But maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Isn’t that partially why I came here, anyway? To leave sad West Cairo Molly behind?
    But Molly