This is the story of a girl and her father, rather unremarkable in many senses. The girl, who’s name is Holly is like every other twelve year old girl, she worries about friends, what cloths she is wearing and if that cute boy down the street was ever going to notice her. For the record he might in a few years after he discovers that his time is better spent chasing girls then laughing at fart jokes and digging holes in his father’s otherwise meticulously groomed backyard.
Holly Grant was not a happy girl though. She hadn’t been happy for several months. Her mood had turned sharply one day, possibly a Tuesday, when her father told her they were leaving Las Angeles and moving to Minneapolis Minnesota. He failed to provide a genuinely good reason for uprooting her from her friends and school, although admittedly the girl would not think any reason provided enough of a rationale for leaving the sun drenched west coast for a place she had only heard of in the movie Fargo.
Bill Grant, the petulant girl’s father, had his reasons; least of which involved California suddenly sinking into the ocean in another Atlantean catastrophe. The reason Bill Grant wanted to move could be summed up in two words, actually a name. It is a name that can be infinitely interchanged depending upon the season, the year and which socialite was making the news for behaving poorly. To William Grant the name was his own daughters, and the fact he didn’t want to see it on the front page of every tabloid newspaper in the dingiest convenience stores across the United States.
It turns out that besides being an extremely successful author and screenwriter, William Grant was exceptionally observant of what Hollywood culture did to young ladies with boundless amounts of cash. His objective in moving to Minnesota was to protect his daughter from his success, unfortunately it came at the price of listening to her complain about leaving her friends behind.
To Holly it wasn’t just about her friends, actually to be precise there was only one person she counted as a true friend; it was about a new home, in a strange place with no one to confide in. She could have forgiven her father if they had moved someplace like New York, because the people in New York were cool. She even could have tolerated New Orleans or Seattle, they had some semblance of an understanding of cool. Minneapolis wasn’t cool, and neither was the Midwest; a lifetime of comedies and stereotypical movies had taught her that much.
There was also the small factor that in the course of a month of unpacking she had not met, nor even seen another girl her age. She had of course forgiven her father for the move, and was excited about the prospect of finally meeting people her own age, but that required surviving the first day of school.