tuna as they tried to make the return trip up his throat.
The lobby was like a ghost town, most of the hotel's fabulous guests having already stepped
out for late-night dinner reservations or club hopping. Ash trailed chlorine-scented water onto
the pink and green carpet. Only one chair was occupied, the girl in it sitting with her back to
him. Her shiny almond-colored hair was pulled into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck. She
turned at the sound of Ash's soggy footfalls. He recognized her instantly--Myla's new sister. In
the throes of his newfound crush, Tucker had cut Jojo's picture from a copy of Us Weekly and
tacked it up in his locker under the words, "Hottie alert."
She was cute. Beautiful, actually, but not in the same check-me-out way as Myla. She had
Lailah's pronounced cheekbones and captivating eyes, with Barkley's open, easy, down-toearth expression.
She looked surprised as Ash approached her. "Hey, you're Jojo, Myla's sister, right? What are
you doing out here?" He stood in front of her, drops of water falling from his hair onto Jojo's
forehead.
Jojo wiped away the water trickling into her eyes. Ash Gilmour was cuter up close than from
afar at BHH. He was Myla's ex-boyfriend, she knew, because that gossip was so big that even
a loser like her heard murmurs of it.
He had sandy blond hair, slightly uneven on the bottom, with a piece falling in front of his
warm brown eyes, which had tiny flecks of amber in them. Jojo suppressed a smile at his
beyond-dorky, jellyfish-adorned swim trunks.
"I wasn't invited," she said simply, her fingers playing with the glossy corners of September's
Vogue.
How predictable, Ash thought. Myla was playing Screw with the New Girl. She'd done the
same thing when Billie Bollman--now one of her closest friends--was new to their school in
eighth grade. Myla, intimidated by Billie's long blond hair and even longer legs, had started a
rumor that Billie left her school in Malibu because she'd had an affair with a lesbian badminton
coach. Ash bet she was threatened by having a new sister, especially one who could compete in
the looks category--not to mention being her parents' biological progeny.
Ash settled himself, still wet, into the chair next to Jojo's, pulling it close. "You're not missing
much," he said, rubbing his hair dry with a fluffy green towel. A white-haired man and woman
in matching plaid golf outfits entered through the glass double doors, sniffing disapprovingly at
the sight of a barefoot, shirtless, and soaked teenager tilting back so comfortably in his chair.
"Unless I'm mistaken and you're actually a fan of Myla."
Jojo smiled wanly. "We're not exactly close."
Maybe it was the shock of the cold water in the air-conditioned lobby, but suddenly Ash felt
charged. "You know, we could have a little fun," he said, casually tapping the arm of the chair.
"Myla doesn't seem to love you, and she definitely hates me."
Jojo turned her violet eyes on him in a questioning, "where are you going with this?" stare.
Ash licked his lips excitedly. "Well, think about it. If you and I pretend to be friends, Myla will
go nuts."
For the first time since Ash had sat down, Jojo's smile reached her eyes. No, it went past her
eyes--it lifted her entire body. It was a little manipulative, maybe even cruel . . . but wasn't that
the Myla Everhart way?
"You know, Ash, I like the way you think."
BELIEVE THE HYPE
"Come on, powder puff, in what universe does a girl like me go out with a jock like Tommy?"
Kady and Amelie were sitting across from each other at the tiny IKEA table in Amelie's trailer
on Thursday afternoon, scripts laid out in front of them.
Kady had come asking for Amelie's help because Gary, the nervous new director--the
producers had fired Dirk Wink and hired Gary, the AD--had pulled her aside to say he
expected her to nail her scenes tomorrow. They'd done fourteen takes of Kady and DeAndra's
confrontational, alpha-versus-beta scene, and Gary still wasn't satisfied, so they were
reshooting the whole thing.
Amelie had been grateful for the unexpected company, even if it was Kady's first offer to hang
Hollywood Reporter, staring at Hunter's head shot. He'd been signed for a part in the next Iron
Man movie, as the hero's illegitimate son, and had been busy dealing with contract negotiations.
He'd hardly been on set, and even when he had, he and Amelie had barely spoken. She was
starting to feel like Class Angel all the time: completely invisible.
"True love should be surprising, Lizzie."
Amelie knew she wasn't exactly putting her heart into Class Angel's pep talk. Here she was,
doling out sage advice about true love when she couldn't even get her true love to talk to her.
"But me with Tommy is almost sacrilege," Kady overemoted, throwing her hands up as she
read it. "I'll never have any street cred in the art world wearing a letterman's jacket."
Kady flipped the pages closed. "Forget it." She sighed. "I'm as good as I'm going to be." She
pushed her red plastic chair away from the table and padded into the trailer's tiny bedroom.
"Your trailer's nicer than mine," Kady said, her throaty tomboy voice echoing in the smallish
space. "It pays to be Fairy Princess, huh?" Kady examined a pair of tiger lily orange Austrian
crystal chandelier earrings. All of the pristine white Class Angel outfits were strewn across the
generic-looking beige bedspread. Kady had also unearthed a selection of sparkly tops the
wardrobe people had assembled for Amelie to wear during cast interviews for the DVD extras.
"Not that I mind, but what are you doing?" Amelie asked. She leaned against the doorjamb,
genuinely curious.
"Picking out an outfit for your clubbing debut, happening--dun dah dah--tonight!" Kady
swung a nearly sheer black Chelsea Flower embroidered top with a low-cut neckline in front of
Amelie's face.
Seeing Amelie's grimace, Kady held the top up in front of her. "Don't argue, you're coming out
with us tonight. You can say no Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, but I'm insisting on Thursday.
It's the best night of the week. And you don't have to be here tomorrow. Just DeAndra and I,
doing that same scene over and over until we die." It was true--Amelie didn't have to report to
the set tomorrow. Kady and DeAndra did, however, as did fifty members of the crew who'd
been supposed to have the day off, to finally get their scene to Gary's liking.
Amelie turned to face her mirror. The top had been rejected for a DVD interview because it
was too sexy. She tossed it back on the bed. "Look, I appreciate you inviting me, but I have
tuto--I'm meeting a friend tonight, at Urth Caffé. And some Kidz Net promos to shoot
tomorrow morning. And, I just . . . can't. It's a big deal I'm even doing a PG movie. It's a lot for
my fans to get used to. If I start partying--"
Kady's pressed an emerald green D&G halter with practically no back to Amelie's frame.
"You'll what? Be doing something for Amelie Adams, instead of Fairy Princess?"
Amelie took the green top and threw it back down with the rest. "It's just not my thing." The
words sounded hollow, even to her. She did want to go. But if Lindsay Lohan or Britney
Spears had grown up with the Board looming over them
, maybe things would have turned out
differently for them.
Kady sighed and flopped her petite frame onto the bed, wrinkling several thousand dollars in
designer apparel as she did so. "I didn't want to play this card, but I will." She paused
dramatically and folded her arms cockily over her requisite black Lizzie Barnett T-shirt.
"Hunter will be there," she said slyly, one eyebrow raised, a knowing twinkle in her blue eyes.
Amelie silently studied the individual links of a silver lariat necklace on the oak vanity table.
She couldn't bring herself to look at Kady.
"I saw you talking the other day. You're in Puppy-Love City." Kady sprang up again, rifling
through the piles of clothing.
Amelie blushed. She thought she'd been so discreet. "But I thought you and Hunter were--"
"Puh-lease! Hunter's so not my style. I like 'em skinny, scraggly, and a little punk rock." Kady
threw her head back and laughed, her Chiclet-white teeth visible in her dainty mouth. "Ew. I
sound like a total ho."
Kady contemplated her ho-ness for a second before throwing herself against a down pillow.
Amelie toyed with the sequins on a black ABS minidress. She was relieved that there was
nothing between Kady and Hunter, but that didn't change her situation. "What will I tell my
mom? She's expecting me at home tonight."
Kady gave her a playful "Duh!" shove. "Have you never seen a teen comedy? You're sleeping
over at my house. Actually, we'll head there now to get ready before we hit Area. I think your
sweet face could use some black eyeliner."
Amelie stood up from the bed, taking the sequined dress with her. She held it in front of her
and looked in the mirror. Its scooped neckline was tasteful, but the skirt was dangerously short.
Amelie pictured herself standing at the edge of the dance floor, looking grown-up and enticing.
Sexy. Hunter would ask her to dance. Did people get asked to dance at clubs? She wasn't sure.
But she knew she had no chance with Hunter if she didn't play the game a little.
She picked her cell phone up off the nightstand, dialing her mom. "Hi Mom, it's me. I'm fine. I
just wanted to let you know I'm going to spend the night at Kady's house. She rented the new
Natalie Portman movie and I haven't seen it yet," she lied, both loving and hating how easy this
was. Kady gave her the thumbs-up. "I will. Love you, too."
She hung up, her body jittering like she'd pounded a five-shot venti soy latte. She couldn't wait
to get to Area so Hunter could see her in the black dress. She wouldn't wear a trace of Fairy
Princess pink or Class Angel white.
Tonight, she was playing the part of Amelie Adams, a young starlet ready to have some fun.
SUPERBAD NIGHT
Myla swung open the door to her house, dodging a wayward Nerf dart headed straight for her
eye. The dart hit Lailah's Oscar, nested cozily on the teak table her father had made himself.
Myla had heard the electric saw running in the wood shop yesterday, her dad busily building
Jojo her "permanent vacation" furniture, an enormous armoire. Myla briefly wondered if once
completed, it would be big enough to lock her new sister inside.
"Got you!" Nelson shrieked, appearing from behind a potted palm to retrieve his dart. He
bounded over to Myla and wrapped her knees in a paralytic grip--or a hug, depending on how
you looked at it. He looked up at her, his long curls forming a messy halo, "Hi, My-My. You
mine."
Myla softened at the nickname, loosening Nelson's death grip so she didn't go flying head over
Dolce & Gabbana white patent pumps. She kissed his forehead. Secretly, Myla really liked all
the babies. It was her newest sibling that got on her nerves. Maybe being extra sweet to her
other siblings could score her enough good karma to make Jojo go away.
Not that Jojo had been in her face, or anything. After the pool party, Myla had expected to find
Jojo in a pouty state, eager to tattle on Myla to Mom and Dad. But Jojo had been serene,
waiting comfortably in the lobby, a Mona Lisa smile on her face and the September Vogue
open on her lap. Maybe she'd finally figured out that being seen and not heard--at least by
Myla--was still better than Crap-ramento. And there'd been no whiny text messages from Ash,
which was just fine. She had nothing to say to him anyway. Since he'd made his big swan-dive
exit from the pool party, she hadn't seen him once at school.
Myla cut through the dining room, her heels leaving little circular imprints on the handwoven
rug her parents had purchased at a street market in Cairo this summer. The nanny, a chubby
English girl who designed handbags in her downtime, was helping eight-year-old Mahalo read
Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory as Barkley looked on, providing a nasally voice for
the Willie Wonka lines. Briefly she wondered where Jojo was. She'd missed their three o'clock
pickup today, sending a curt text message at three fifteen: You can leave without me. I've made
other arrangements. Had Jojo ever made it home? Myla quickly dismissed the thought. She
didn't have time to worry about Jojo's whereabouts. She was probably hanging with her new
loser friend, Jacob Porter-Goldsmith.
Myla waved in her dad's direction, anxious to get to her room and pop on a DVD. She, Talia,
and Billie had hit the Beverly Center right after school, and Myla's feet and legs ached from
lugging around her purchases. So far, the Myla-and-Ash split had been going okay. Tosha
Saunders and Mai Halen, two super-obnoxious cheerleaders who thought their red-and-white
polyester BHH uniforms were just as fashion-forward as Missoni sweaterdresses, had been
hanging around Myla's crew, thinking they were part of the group. But after respective
makeout sessions with Ash's friends Geoff and Tucker at the pool party, they'd finally defected
to Ash's side. Meanwhile, Julius Grand and Simon Todd had made their way to Myla's group
because Julius was into the Lacey twins--he'd take either one, or better yet, both--and Simon
did whatever Julius said. Everything had ended up just as Myla had outlined it in her
Moleskine.
Now that her most loyal followers had made themselves known, Myla needed to do something
nice to prove they'd chosen the right side. Maybe a little chartered-jet jaunt to the Palms in
Vegas, or a laid-back off-season weekend at her parents' mountain cabin in Big Bear.
Flinging open the door to her room, Myla was vaguely annoyed to find that David, her driver,
hadn't yet brought up her shopping bags. She closed and locked her door behind her. She didn't
need him barging in here when she was lounging in her jammies.
She'd cleared as much Ash memorabilia as she could from her room--all the framed photos she
used to keep on her huge vanity were now in a box from her latest Charles David purchase-but she still saw signs of him everywhere. Atop her white cube-shaped twelve-drawer
dresser--printed with Andy Warhol's daisies in different hues--where a cigar box filled with
ticket stubs from every concert and movie she and Ash had been to in the last three years sat.
On her king-size Charles Rogers plank bed, a stuffed SpongeBob Ash had won her at some
cheesy Venice Beach carnival stared at her blankly. At least her closet--custom-size so that
skirts, pants, tops, dresses, and jeans each got twelve feet of hanger space--was vo
id of Ash
Gilmour memorabilia. She'd always told him to never buy her clothing. Scanning her space,
she took minor satisfaction in knowing that Jojo's room next door was at least 250 square feet
smaller.
Myla opened her built-in DVD cabinet, scanning the titles and settling on Superbad. The
raunchy comedy would perfectly suit her victorious mood, and secretly she found Michael
Cera cute. Popping the DVD in, she freed her feet from their treacherous shoes and flopped
down on her purple velvet couch, running her bare toes over her sheepskin rug. She skipped
ahead to the scene where Michael Cera ran from the cops. As his character, Evan, zoomed
down the street on her fifty-two-inch flat screen, Myla heard muffled peals of laughter coming
from next door. Jojo's room. The unmistakable Mario Kart music made it impossible to
concentrate on Seth Rogen puffing out, "Fastest kid in the world." Myla rolled her eyes. Jojo
was probably playing online against some loser in Sacramento.
Myla stomped out of her room and banged on Jojo's door. "Do you mind? I'm trying to watch
a movie." She turned the knob and burst inside.
Jojo was sprawled on her own burgundy velvet couch. And sitting beside her, his hair mussed
and his eyes glimmering, was Ash.
What the fuck? What. The. Fuck.
Jojo hit pause on her Wii steering wheel and the game froze on Mario throwing a turtle shell.
Ash blandly waved in her direction, like he wanted to get back to his game.
Myla eyed her "sister." She wore a cream Michael Stars racerback tank, paired with ivory
Hudson jeans that had been sold out when Myla hit Kitson last week. Three gold leather
bangles adorned her tanned wrist and a gold Dior heart pendant hung daintily around her neck.
On her feet were garden-variety Havaianas flip-flops in white, each with a tiny golden daisy
affixed to the outside strap. Her hair was fastened in a stylishly messy updo with plain old
Chinese restaurant chopsticks, several strands falling loosely around her face. She practically
glowed--her face was flushed in a way not even professionally applied Tarte cheek stain could
mimic.
"Where did you get those jeans?" Myla fired off, her lips set in a sneer.
Jojo looked down, as though she'd forgotten what she was wearing. "Oh, these?" she asked