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  I take out a pen and paper and decide I’ll use the next seven hours to get to the bottom of this:

  Suspects

  People who knew Dalton asked me out:

  • Ellie

  • Someone who overheard at Chateau Marmont?

  • Dalton

  • Someone Dalton told?

  • Someone Ellie told?

  People who knew I went on a date with Dalton:

  • Ellie

  • Dalton

  • My mom

  • Jack

  • The British girls from Moonshadows

  • Any number of people at Moonshadows

  • The paparazzi —>anyone who has seen their pictures

  • Any number of people at the Magic Castle

  • Dalton’s jerk friends

  People who knew I was at Jamba Juice:

  • Ellie

  • Anyone on the street who saw us go in

  • The Jamba Juice cashier

  People who don’t like me:

  • Dalton’s jerk friend Roger

  • Ashley Adler

  • Ashley’s blond squad

  • Maybe Jack? (if he resents me for rejecting him?)

  • Maybe Ellie (if she’s secretly jealous and resents my success?)

  I try to pinpoint where there’s crossover. I figure if I can find someone who fits into all four categories, they have to be the guilty party. But as far as I can tell, there’s nobody. I stare at the lists until all the names start to blur together, and before I know it, I’m finally, blissfully asleep.

  CHAPTER 9

  ••••••••••

  Forty-Eight Hours in London

  So have you ever seen The Parent Trap? The 1998 one, I mean, with little Lindsay Lohan when she was just about the cutest kid ever and legitimately so crazy talented. There’s that scene where Hallie Parker (the scrappier of the twins) shows up in London for the first time as her twin sister, Annie (the posh one), and she takes in the sights as her cab drives through the town that is so magically foreign to her Californian eyes, and she’s just so excited that she rests her arms on the window ledge and sticks her head out like a dog. That’s how I always imagined it would be like when I first arrived in London, but it isn’t.

  It is SO MUCH BETTER.

  After we get off the plane, slog through customs, and pick up our luggage, we hop into the private car waiting for Dalton and drive through residential neighborhoods so quaint and quintessentially British that they look like they have been cut straight out of Peter Pan, past parks as big and lush as forests, past Buckingham Palace, which is, hello, where the QUEEN lives. The queen. We drive in a roundabout around the Royal Albert Hall (where the Spice Girls perform at the end of Spice World, duh), and zigzag across roads that are about ten times more exciting than the ones in America; they’re all windy and narrow and unpredictable, so that the whole trip to our hotel feels like Disneyland’s Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. Hashtag best ride ever. I seriously cannot believe how delightful and charming this town is. Never in my life have I seen anything so picturesque; I’ve apparently flown out of Los Angeles and straight into a storybook. Luckily, I think to pull out my phone and record almost all of this amazingness. I can’t speak for my followers, but I will want to remember this forever.

  The Kensington Hotel at 113 Queen’s Gate is to die for. There’s a gold-plated fireplace in the lobby and bowls upon bowls of crisp red apples. My eyes dart around like I’m a kid in a candy shop. The suite itself is on the tenth floor, decorated with lush satins and spiraling gold accents and Victorian-era patterned carpets. The walls are painted deep, steel blue with white trim, and there’s a grand piano placed casually by the window. Oh, and get this, the slate-tiled bathroom floor is heated so your feet don’t have to be cold during middle-of-the-night visits, of which for me there are many (I drink a lot of water).

  Now, I have seen some nice things in my short time on this earth, but nothing as nice as Dalton James’s suite at the Ken­sington Hotel (with two bedrooms, thank you very much! The guy really is a gentleman, as it turns out). We order room service right away (it’s breakfast time, but I’m eight hours behind and can’t tell if I’m hungry or nauseous or tired or dead)—ice cream parfaits, hash browns, orange juice—and consume it all in a daze.

  “Are you ready?” he asks, finishing off a champagne flute and standing up.

  “Ready for what?”

  “To see the town, of course. You didn’t think we flew all the way to England just to have room service in a five-star hotel, did you? We can do that in Los Angeles anytime.”

  “Oh, but I’m far too fancy and important to leave my hotel room.” I dramatically put the back of my hand to my forehead and fake the best British accent I can. “Can’t I just lounge in bed eating tea and crumpets all day?”

  “Very funny. Your accent is wretched.”

  “I know it is, darling,” I tease, and then switch back to my normal American voice. “I’m just kidding. Of course I’m ready to go out on the town. I was born ready.”

  “That’s my girl,” he says and opens his arms to me. I jump into them and he holds me up successfully for one spectacular moment before losing his balance and falling, Harper and all, onto the fancy-as-hell carpet.

  * * *

  Our forty-eight hours in London are a whirlwind of romance and adventure. Ugh, I know that sounds corny, but trust me, it was anything but. On the first day we zip around the town using the Tube, wearing baseball hats and sunglasses so as to stay under the radar (eeeh, so glamorous!). He takes me to Portobello Road to see where they filmed Notting Hill, then to the Tower of London to see where Henry the Eighth cut off all his wives’ heads, then to the Tate Modern to see my favorite paintings (Picasso! Van Gogh! Rothko!), then to the Ritz for tea and cucumber sandwiches, then to Leicester Square to see a production of Billy Elliot, then to central London, where we take a moonlit boat ride down the river Thames and kiss under the stars while the boat conductor points out historical landmarks along the shore. Afterward we take the Tube to Shoreditch (the Silver Lake of London; in other words, the hipster part of town) to see some punk band that some of Dalton’s childhood “mates” are in. His mates in London are a lot nicer and less pretentious than his friends in Los Angeles, that’s for sure. After the show we all go out to a hilariously stereotypical British pub (Union Jacks everywhere, the oily smell of fish and chips heavy in the air), where they drink whiskey like it’s water and I charm everyone with my surprisingly impressive pool skills.

  “What are you doing dating this wanker?” one friend named Alfie asks, jabbing Dalton in his rib cage. “Don’t you know you’re far too pretty and clever for a guy like him?” Alfie has shaggy black hair and gigantic holes in his earlobes.

  “Oh, I think he’s all right,” I say, winking at Dalton.

  “Are you trying to steal my girlfriend, mate?” Dalton grips Alfie’s shoulder, pretending to get all macho and protective. “Huh? Are ya?”

  “No way, man. If she’s too good for you, she’s way too good for me.”

  I giggle. Oh, Alfie, why can’t more men be like you?

  Hanging out with Dalton’s childhood buddies is the most fun I’ve had in a while. It feels so refreshing to see him being treated like an old friend, not an Internet star, but an actual human being. And from what I can tell, it’s refreshing for him too; he seems lighter and more at ease in England, his shoulders looser and his entire face softened.

  By the time we’ve finished our third game of pool (and I’ve won them all, thank you very much), it’s almost three in the morning. The Tube has closed down long ago, so Dalton calls a car to take us back to the hotel.

  “Did you have a fun day?” he asks as we slip inside the monstrous suite, unbuttoning my coat for me and dimming the lights with a switch behind my head.

  “Ummm, is the pope Catholic?”

  “I don’t know. Should we give him a call to find out?”

  “I think the pope
probably has better things to do than take our phone calls.”

  He rests his forehead against my forehead. “Hey, we are very important people.”

  “You are, at least,” I say.

  “Me? No. Compared to you I’m barely significant.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “No, really. If you weren’t an extremely important person, would I do this?” He scoops me up off the floor and holds me like a newlywed bride, then spins me around and swings me gently onto the bed.

  “Voilà,” he says, “treatment fit for a princess. Which you are. To me.”

  “Stop it . . .” I trail off in a tone of voice that actually says, “Keep going. Forever.” He unbuckles my boots and slips them off my feet one by one.

  “You know, I’m surprised your parents let you sleep in a foreign country in a room alone with some strange guy they’ve never met.”

  “Well, they trust me. And I trust you.”

  “As you should.” He clicks on the TV and the red Netflix logo pops onto the screen. “My intentions are pure.”

  “Oh, really? Because it seems to me that your intentions are to Netflix and chill, if you know what I mean.”

  “My intentions are Netflix and giving you a foot massage, thank you very much.”

  “Fine by me. But that’s all you’re going to get.”

  “Me? That’s all you’re going to get.”

  We both laugh and he massages my feet, sore from walking all day, while The Prince and Me with Julia Stiles plays in the background. My eyelids begin to grow heavy, and within minutes I can feel myself drifting off to sleep, more peaceful than I’ve ever been.

  * * *

  In the morning he takes me to Hyde Park and we sit by a pond watching ducks paddle through the water, hunting down bread crumbs. The whole thing is so charming I could explode. We just sit there peacefully, in silence, holding hands, basking in each ­other’s presence. That’s the best part: in such a short time I’ve gone from nervous fangirl to totally comfortable around him. The more I act like my truest self, the more he seems to fall for me, so why bother being anything other than 100 percent me?

  “I wish you didn’t have to go home today,” he says.

  “Me too.”

  “Stay with me the rest of the week,” he says impulsively. “And then come with me to New York next weekend.”

  “What’s in New York?”

  “I have to do Jimmy Fallon.”

  “You have to do Jimmy Fallon?”

  “I have to appear on his show. Promote the next Sacred movie.”

  “Seriously? Ugh, I would love to come with you, but my flight back to L.A. is in three hours and my parents will literally murder me if I’m not on it.”

  “I know, I know. Is it so wrong that I want you to be with me all the time?”

  “Are you kidding? It’s not wrong, it’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “If I could, I would shrink you down and take you with me in my pocket wherever I go.”

  “Okay, now that’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. I’m all for that as long as your pocket fabric is soft. I’m thinking satin, maybe?”

  “It’s settled, then. I’ll get satin lining for all my pockets.”

  * * *

  A few hours later Dalton and his driver drop me at Heathrow and he kisses me goodbye, murmuring how much he’ll miss me. I wave at him until he’s out of sight and then go through the usual airport rigmarole, eventually boarding the plane and settling into my first-class seat. This time I’m not afraid to fly. In fact, I don’t feel afraid of anything anymore. Life is too sweet for fear, I think, resting my head against the plush leather chair. I close my eyes, and before I know it, I’ve slept my way safely back to Los Angeles.

  * * *

  TUTORIAL #6

  Five Insanely Easy Back-to-School Hairstyles

  Hi, guys! So, after almost three whole days of forgetting school is even a thing, I am being forced to return. *Cringes* The only thing I can think of to cheer me up and get me through this upcoming week is to cook up some back-to-school hairstyles and pair them with my favorite outfits! I gotta keep up with the trends, my friends.

  1. Okay, so I’m going to start off style number one by curling my hair, just because I think it looks better to have styles with nicely textured, wavy hair. So I’m just brushing out my hair and making a middle part, and then I’m using my NuMe Lustrum set. I’ve been using their curling wands for literally like three years, no joke; they last forever, and there are like five different barrels in the set, which is crazy. I’m going to use the biggest one, because like I said, I really want big-textured hair. So then you’re just going to go ahead and curl your whole head of hair, I’m sure you know how to do that by now, and if you don’t, you can see I’m taking one-inch sections and wrapping it around for about ten seconds. Lastly, I’m using some argan oil to smooth it out and prevent frizz. Voilà! Once your hair is completely curled, it’s time to move on to the rest of the hairstyle. For this one, I’m just using this really adorable, girlie-looking headband (any headband that is beaded and super skinny will do!) and pulling out the front pieces of my hair so that they hang loose in front of the headband. In my opinion, this makes all the difference, so much better than if it were all slicked back into the headband. To go with this hairstyle I’m wearing a pink printed sundress with flat white strappy leather sandals for a beachy, almost earthy kind of vibe.

  2. This next hairstyle is probably the easiest thing ever, and we all know how to do it! It’s just some simple low-hanging pigtails. I’m bringing it back, you guys. I feel like I’m five, but I’m loving it. So I’ll start by just dividing my hair into two sections and securing them with elastic hair ties, then putting a floppy hat on top for some extra fierceness. As for the rest of my outfit, I’m going to wear an orangy, mustard-colored crop top with some flared jeans (yes, I said flared). I just feel really seventies in this outfit, so why not go all the way?

  3. Hairstyle number three is a half-up, half-down kind of thing and it’s almost festivally with the braids. All I’m doing is taking a two-inch section from either side of my head and braiding each one nor­mally (or you can fishtail if you have those fancy skillz), then wrapping them around and crossing them at the back of my head (great for hiding areas that have had to have gum cut out of them, BTW) and securing with a few bobby pins. No big deal. Like with hairstyle #1, I’m going to leave some pieces out loose in the front for an extra whimsical look. To go along with this look I’m wearing a really cute white romper with a crème-colored knitted cardigan. You got this.

  4. Next is the sporty look, I guess, if you wanna call it that. I’m going to start this by parting my hair in a dramatic side part. You can pick the side you want to do, but I’m going with the left, meaning most of my hair is flipped over to the left side of my head. Then I’m making two small sections of hair on the right side of my head and basically just braiding them normally, kind of like cornrows except I’m really not talented enough to do real cornrows. It doesn’t matter, they can be regular old “boring” braids, just make them as tight as possible for this look. You can have your hair wavy or curly or straight for this one, whatever you want. For this outfit I’m gonna throw on a really casual sweater, casual white shorts and some basic slip-on shoes. Nothin’ fancy, just super comfy!

  5. The last hairstyle I’m preparing for this week is perfect if you’re anything like me and you hate having your hair in your face. It just bugs me, I hate it, always gotta pull it behind my ears. Ugh. So all you have to do is have a side part and then just start twisting your hair from the top to the bottom on both sides, and then secure them together with an elastic band in a side ponytail. And that’s pretty much it. Your hair is now out of your face, but it’s still down and wavy and cute all at the same time. For this outfit I’m wearing a black crop top that has a white stripe on the neckline, a brown suede skirt, and some black sneakers!

  So, if you’re ever dreading going back to school,
try using these five styles to keep your spirits up. Sometimes when you look amazing, your mood follows suit!

  You are my everything goals.

  Lots of love, Harper

  * * *

  CHAPTER 10

  ••••••••••

  Miss Harper of the People

  The first day back in school after any amount of freedom, however brief, is always a difficult transition, but today feels extra harsh, extra jarring. Maybe it’s because (A) I got such a sweet taste of independence and adventure that school now seems extra dull and oppressive in comparison. Or maybe it’s because (B) after my trip to London I’m no closer to knowing who @ThatBitchHarper really is, nor have I successfully made amends to Ellie for my horrible accusation. Or maybe it’s because (C) sitting in Ms. Bulow’s first-period English class waiting for the bell to ring, I’m surrounded by a flurry of sixteen-year-olds sharing and comparing their PSAT scores with irritating levels of enthusiasm and concern in their voices. The answer is (D) all of the above.

  The PSATs—that’s Preliminary SATs, as in preparation for the SATs, as in a test you take over and over again starting two years before the actual SATs so that you can be PREPARED for them. As if studying all of high school isn’t going to be enough to prepare you. One thing I’ve never understood: if the SATs are supposed to measure how prepared you are for college, and high school is supposed to prepare you for college, then why isn’t it enough to just pay attention during high school in order to do well on the SATs? Why aren’t our actual high school classes teaching us everything we need to know in order to do well on these wacky exams? Why, during sophomore year, do I have to start taking an extra class just to get me ready for one test that all my other classes are supposed to be preparing me for?! I don’t know much about conspiracies, TBQH, but this most certainly sounds like one