Monday, June 8
8:11 P.M.
The line outside Hotel Lindo was Miley-Cyrus-on-tour long. It curved around the back of the hotel, which was shaped like giant pink marble L, and continued to grow as limo after limo pulled up to the valet parking attendants. Apparently, every SLBR with a pair of high heels and fake lashes had decided tonight would be the night they’d catch a glimpse of ¡i!
But they were wrong.
Anger-peering at the bouncers, wondering why they weren’t moving forward, the wannabes fanned their faces and reapplied their lipstick so they’d have something to do besides anger-peer and wonder why they weren’t moving forward. The crashing surf, located directly behind the hotel, seemed to echo their rage. Not that the bouncers cared. Rocking on the heels of their white leather Vans, they glanced up at the starry sky as if they were alone at a bus stop, contemplating life on a warm summer night.
“There’s no way I can stand on that line in these . . . things.” Alicia pointed to the silver open-toe boots she’d let Isobel talk her into. They did look caliente with Celia’s white pony-hair miniskirt (don’t tell MB), pewter chain belt, and ivory gauze halter. If the Pretty Committee had seen her ew-fit, they’d have put her on trial for crimes against fashion. But she had to put the S in Spalpha somehow, and everyone was envy-staring.
“Por fah-vor, American Cousin, we will not be standing on any line,” Celia practically spat, marching straight toward the blue-eyed bouncer with the buzzed head and bronzed arms. He stood in front of a red velvet rope, wearing a white linen suit and hugging a clipboard to his shirtless chest.
“Hay una cola.” He tilted his head to show them the line, just in case they’d somehow managed to overlook it.
“We’re Guest Relations,” Isobel insisted, purposely popping the collar on her black and white–striped blazer so he could spot the black Ralph Lauren label. Then she turned and adjusted the back of her bloodred short shorts, casually revealing the same label, proving her fabulousness wasn’t restricted to her upper half.
He eagerly scanned her long, oil-slicked legs, then consulted his clipboard. “Nombre?”
“Celia and Isobel Callas, plus two,” Celia said, like it should have been obvious.
“Ahhh, sííí.” His eyes crinkled with kindness and his expression softened. “Forgive me. It’s just that your outfits confused me.” He finally spoke English.
“Why?” Celia jumped back as if his words were fire. “What’s wrong with our designer outfits?” She grabbed her 100 percent silk navy wide-leg pants in one hand and matching beaded vest in the other and squeezed the delicate fabrics in her quaking fist. “This Ralph Lauren is hawt couture. From Ah-merica!” The canary yellow canvas riding cap (also Ralph) atop her blowout nodded in consent.
Nina stepped forward. “And in case you were wondering, I DIY’ed these jeans!” She lifted her skinny leg and showed him her purple and blue tie-dyed denim. “They may not be in America yet, but they will be soon.”
Alicia turned away, pretending she hadn’t heard her cousin’s embarrassing admission. Or noticed her two different-colored ballet flats—one silver and one gold—or her teeny green bikini top, which she was trying to pass off as acceptable.
“I like your outfits veryvery much,” the bouncer said to Nina’s D-cups.
“Let us in!” yelled a delusional American girl from the middle of the line.
“Síííííííí!” shouted others.
The bouncer held up his palm, putting an immediate end to their spontaneous uprising.
Alicia felt wonderfully superior, like when she was seated in first class and got to watch all the LBRs in coach trudge to the back of the plane. Being “in” with the bouncer at Barcelona’s luxe new five-star hotel—on her first night—was Spalpha times ten.
“Then what’s the problem with our outfits?” Celia pushed Nina aside and smoothed her wild hair to combat the onset of ocean-air frizz.
“It’s just that Esmeralda has Versace gowns for the GR girls. They are not from America, but they are veryvery sexy and—”
“Versace! Where?” Isobel began unbuttoning her blazer.
“Inside your suite.” He dug his dark hand in his white linen pant pocket and pulled out a credit card–size mirror. “This is the key. Your summer wardrobe and all necessary accessories are there for you. If you need anything, I will be veryvery happy to take care of you.” He winked one blue eye. “Welcome to Lindo.”
“ADM!” Celia and Isobel shouted at the same time. Then, as if rehearsed, they quickly applied Clinique’s A Different Grape to their puffy lips and kissed the side of his stubbly face, leaving behind two purple smooch marks to show their gratitude.
Alicia side-glanced at the bouncer, hoping he’d ask what ADM meant.
“What is ADM?” He grinned nervously while petting his soiled cheek.
Yes!
“Ay Dios mío!” they giggled.
Alicia smiled triumphantly at the Spanish version of “ehmagawd.” Muy Spalpha.
“Let’s go to our suite and get changed.” Celia pushed past the bouncer, no longer needing him or Ralph Lauren.
The crowd booed and hissed as the foursome entered the pink L-shaped hotel.
No one inside the open-air marble lobby was wheeling luggage, exchanging foreign currency, or studying maps with the concierge. Instead, heavily perfumed locals whisper-huddled every time a group of good-looking boys passed. They’d quickly prop their cameras, then lower them once they realized it was just another group of hot guys and not ¡i! and his entourage. Meanwhile, several iridescent blue peacocks strutted around like supermodels during Fashion Week. They had an air of entitlement about them, like they knew something Alicia didn’t.
“Check out these elevators!” Isobel pointed at the doors, which doubled as two upright aquariums filled with pink mini dolphins, purple starfish, and dozens of luminous fish. Celia hurried over and smashed a crystal ball–size UP button that contained two live sea horses.
“Careful! You’ll kill them!” squealed Nina as the sea horses swam into each other amidst an explosion of effervescent bubbles.
Celia gave her sister a shove when several onlookers gave her the evil eye for overpressing.
“Ow!” Nina pout-shouted as she rubbed her bare arm in an obvious attempt to milk more sympathy from the compassionate crowd. But they had already turned away to continue search-stalking the elusive pop star.
A faint hiss signaled that the elevator was slowly dropping down the vertical part of the L, where the guest rooms were. Alicia wished the Pretty Committee could have been there with her to see the spectacular hotel. Or rather, she wished she were on some sort of reality show and they were sitting at home watching her. That way they could distance-envy her and not make her feel like a SLBR for wearing open-toe boots, which, by the way, she was starting to ah-dore.
The aquarium doors parted and three giggling blondes wearing white mesh “¡i! ♥ ¡i!” off-the-shoulder T-shirts scuttled out. A mix of vanilla and cigarette smoke lingered in the elevator, where a live feed of the raucous dance party by the pool was projected onto the white walls and a thumping remix of Lily Allen’s “Smile” blasted in surround sound.
“Woooo-hoooo!” Isobel grabbed her twin sister’s arm and yanked her inside the movable nightclub. They lifted their black cuff–covered arms above their heads and began turning their heads from side to side like they were trying to take secret sniffs of their pits. Their narrow hips gyrated, and their high heels lifted and lowered like they were on a gold, glitter-carpeted Stairmaster.
Alicia was about to step into the elevator, but Nina shoulder-shoved her out of the way, shaking her platinum-blond bowl-with-bangs haircut like it was crawling with flying beetles. Celia immediately butt-bumped her back into the lobby and jammed her bony elbow against the CLOSE button. The doors slammed shut, leaving Alicia alone with Nina for the second time that day.
Had they meant to shut her out? Or was it just another example of them working on some sort of master plan that would reveal itself when the time was right? Either way, Alicia was standing like an SLBR, next to an SLBR, in the lobby of the best hotel in Spain, when she should have been proving her Spalpha-ness to ¡i! and his entourage.
Without another thought, Alicia rolled back her spray-tanned shoulders, lifted her pert nose in the cigarette smoke–filled air, and marched her open-toe boots though the lobby to the party outside. She didn’t need Celia or Isobel any more than she needed Massie. Because a true Spalpha should be able to work a party solo, even if she was in another country with a half-naked Q-Tip in mismatched ballet flats lagging a few feet behind her.
The universe obviously was testing her. And Alicia was determined to score big.