wide-brimmed sun hat, to protect her cream-colored skin from the sun. Myla fidgeted in an
overstuffed Brown Jordan patio chair on Lailah's other side.
On an open expanse of the backyard next to the pool, Barkley was playing Wiffle ball with
Mahalo, Bobby, and Nelson. Ajani and Indigo squealed with delight in the sandbox as they
poured a bucket of sand over a Hannah Montana doll's head.
Suddenly Myla sprang up, clomping across the pool tiles in her violet sandals. "Jojo, I'm going
to call Lucy for a San Pellegrino with lemon." Her singsong tone echoed as she disappeared
inside the cabana. "Do you want one?"
"Um, no, I think I'm okay," Jojo said, watching as Ajani shoved the Hannah doll's head into a
miniature sand dune. "Thanks, though."
"I'll have her bring you one, just in case," Myla said in a dulcet tone that could have made
woodland animals flock to her. She'd probably just skewer them to make kebabs, Jojo thought.
"Thanks," she said, not meaning it. The perfection of the moment--mother and daughters
poolside beneath a blue sky striped with wispy white clouds--belied the thick tension between
Myla and Jojo. Myla's Pollyanna act was just that, an act, for Lailah's benefit.
Jojo had spoken to her dads before school today, but hadn't had the heart to tell them that her
fantastic first weekend had morphed into a hell-on-Earth week. They'd sounded so happy,
telling her about Nuuk and its ice floes, and seemed relieved when she'd lied and said that BHH
was treating her great so far. Maybe someday soon, she wouldn't have to lie.
After calling in their drink orders to Lucy, the Everharts' live-in housekeeper, Myla began
digging around in the pool house, a Tahitian beach house slightly at odds with the majestic
Everhart estate. The sound of cabinets banging shut wafted over to Jojo as Myla searched for
items to fill her beach bag, getting ready for some kind of legendary pool party at the Beverly
Hills Hotel. She hadn't shared this information with Jojo, of course--Jojo had overheard Billie
Bollman and Fortune Weathers debating one-pieces versus bikinis in English class.
As Myla hunted for supplies, Lailah tilted her unmistakable profile in Jojo's direction. "Jojo, is
school going okay?"
Jojo nodded, faking a contented smile. "Yeah, great."
Lailah pulled down her Gucci sunglasses and studied Jojo intently. "Myla has been showing
you around?"
Jojo half-shrugged. She could spill the full dish on Myla right here and now, if she wanted.
But she was still too terrified of her malicious stepsister to risk pissing her off. If Myla was
this mean when all Jojo had done was show up, she shuddered to think how the girl would
retaliate to tattling. "Yeah, she kind of showed me what I'm in for," Jojo said instead, which
wasn't a complete lie. "We're not in a lot of the same classes so, you know. . . ." Jojo trailed off.
A Wiffle ball from Bobby's home run landed next to Lailah. She grabbed the ball and threw it
backwards, toward the boys. "Nice hit," she said, never taking her eyes off Jojo.
Myla emerged from the cabana, her silky wrap dress replaced with a Trina Turk petal pink and
palm green tropical print cover-up that hit mid-thigh. She'd paired it with sky-high lime green
Dior patent peep-toes. She casually slung a mint nylon Juicy Couture tote over her bare
shoulder and plopped down on the chair on Jojo's other side.
At least Jojo was wearing a new Pucci her mom had given her this afternoon, a tropical print
camisole dress splashed with aqua and lemon. For once she didn't feel like a pre-ball Cinderella
next to a wickedly fashionable stepsister.
Lucy arrived with a tall glass of fizzy water, complete with a lime slice balanced on the rim.
"You must have met some people by now," Lailah pressed. "Maybe some of Myla's friends?"
Myla, her water glass poised at her lips, opened her mouth to say something.
"Well, I met this guy Jake in the computer lab," Jojo cut her off. She didn't have to tattle, but no
way was she letting Myla pretend she'd welcomed Jojo into her exclusive inner sanctum. "Jake
Porter-Goldsmith. He's really nice." Jojo smiled angelically at her mother before turning to
flash a victorious grin at Myla.
Myla slipped on her Prada sunglasses, probably to roll her eyes behind them. She gulped her
water, emptying the glass, and stood up, grabbing her bag.
comment was innocent enough, but there was an accusatory edge to her voice.
"Um, yeah," Myla said, only barely looking up from her lime green tote.
Jojo shook her head. "Oh, no, that's okay. I'm totally fine hanging here. Lucy's making
quesadillas and me and the rest of the kids are watching Spider-Man 2 tonight."
"It will be a good way for you to meet more of your classmates. I insist." Lailah got up from
her lounger, wrapping a tropical print sarong around her waist. Barkley, mid-pitch to Mahalo,
wolf-whistled at his wife. She beamed in his direction and removed her giant hat, her dark hair
tumbling in waves to her shoulders.
Jojo felt a trickle of warm sweat slide down her back as every muscle in her body tensed.
Lailah must have known what was going on with her daughters. But still, she was sending Jojo
into the lion's den with the queen of the jungle.
Lailah hugged the girls and followed them all the way to the top of the winding driveway,
where the hybrid SUV was waiting.
"Make sure Jojo has a good time," she instructed Myla once they were ensconced in the
vehicle's backseat.
"Of course, Mom," Myla demurred. "She's my sister."
Myla glared at Jojo out of the corner of her eye. They were in the backseat of the Escalade, and
Jojo had spent the entire ride admiring her new silver Hollywould wedges. Lailah had given the
shoes to her this morning, claiming they'd come for her but "didn't fit." Lailah was always
giving Jojo something. Yesterday, it had been a Dolce & Gabbana motorcycle jacket that Myla
had been coveting for years. This morning, it was the silver wedges, and then after school the
colorful Pucci sundress Jojo now wore.
Myla was getting really sick of her new sister's sweet-and-innocent act. Every time Jojo walked
into a room, Lailah and Barkley stopped what they were doing to stare at their progeny.
Barkley was so infatuated with his daughter that he'd made her his famous blueberry-andchocolate-chip pancakes that morning, a recipe he hadn't broken out in a year. He'd even
offered to drive her to school on his way to a meeting on the Fox lot--like they didn't have a
driver for that.
Worst of all, Myla had come out by the pool first today, hoping for some alone time with her
parents. She'd wanted to remind them that she was their first child, their main source of pride
and joy. She'd hoped they'd finally ask her how Paris was, or praise her for her eloquent
interview with People during their aid trip. That she'd finally get to tell them that she was going
through the first romantic crisis of her young life--how could they not have noticed Ash was
missing, when he usually ate dinner with them every night? But then Jojo had appeared,
wearing the new Pucci and the silver sandals, and her parents positively beamed at their biokid. Myla had felt like one of her mom's Golden Globes, shoved in the china cabinet while
Jojo, t
he Oscar, stood proudly in the foyer.
Jojo stared out the window at the light on Sunset and Crescent. A lady with frizzy blond hair
wearing enormous sunglasses, an oversize Knocked Up T-shirt, and red Reebok high-tops
watched her pocket-size dog poop in the grass lining the sidewalk. Jojo would have taken her
for a hobo, had it not been for her glimmering gold Balenciaga bag.
Myla had been texting nonstop, brooding, the whole ride.
They pulled up to the majestic Beverly Hills Hotel. The building was a peachy shade of pink,
and on one painted green facade facing the street, curvy script spelled out Beverly Hills Hotel.
Jojo pictured Marilyn Monroe pulling up in a long white convertible. She'd bunked at the
hotel's famed bungalows before, and Elizabeth Taylor had honeymooned with six of her eight
husbands there.
Myla practically jumped onto the pavement, her skinny-heeled peep-toes clacking against the
ground. She raced to the entrance, an overhead canopy painted with green and white stripes
over a red carpet that led up to the hotel's main doors.
Jojo tried to savor the moment, the plush carpet cushioning every silver-wedged step. Her new
Hollywoulds were quickly becoming her favorite shoes.
Inside, a massive art deco light fixture that looked like an upside-down feather duster cast a
warm glow onto the thick palm leaf-print carpet. Low rose-hued armchairs formed a perfect
circle, each aligned beneath glossy peach pillars the size of tree trunks. A harried-looking
woman in a black business suit and reading glasses sat perusing the New York Times in one of
the armchairs, her Samsonite luggage stacked neatly on a bellhop cart at her side. She glared at
a snoring Eurotrash couple in tight black clothing sleeping in another chair.
Myla spun on her heels, facing Jojo. She reached into her bag and pulled out a champagne
cork.
"Do you have your invitation?" She waved the cork slowly, allowing Jojo to see that the date,
time, and BHH were inscribed in the cork's surface. Dropping it back in her bag, she sighed
with faux sympathy. "This is a private party. Invite only. Guess you're not invited."
"Well, can't you do something?" Jojo bit her lip, feeling like an idiot. "I mean, this party can't be
such a big deal that you couldn't at least get me through the door." She was trying to sound
cool, but her voice bore a twinge of whininess. She knew her BHH classmates wouldn't
exactly cheer at her arrival, but now that she was at the legendary hotel, Jojo felt desperate to
see the pool--and to witness the party--even if she had to sit in a sun chair while everyone else
went wild. Maybe while Myla wasn't looking, she'd even get the chance to talk to a few people
and show them she wasn't a meth-addicted, head lice carrying, Amish-raised freak.
Myla rolled her eyes. "This party is a big deal. And yes, I could get you through the door.
Easily. I just don't want to."
Jojo felt her face grow hot. "So what am I supposed to do?"
Myla grinned. "You can wait here in the lobby." She gestured to the empty armchairs. "Sit
anywhere you like."
With that, she walked off in the direction of the pool, leaving Jojo standing there alone. Again.
Jojo sank into the nearest chair, smiling weakly at the New York Times lady, who barely looked
up from her paper. She felt like Myla was burying her alive. Every time Jojo clawed her way
near the surface, Myla was there with a shovel, ready to throw more dirt on her.
She pulled out her camera phone and snapped photos of her beautiful surroundings. Then,
feeling ready to cry, she turned the lens on herself, taking a shot of her hangdog expression
against the luxe background.
She punched in Willa's number and wrote a quick text.
Here I am, at the Beverly Hills Hotel, where everything happens. And I'm not part of any of it.
Pretty glamorous, huh?
STALKERVILLE, POPULATION ONE
"God, all this time I thought a cosine was when two people agree to a contract." Amelie smiled
self-consciously.
To her surprise, Jake registered her joke and laughed heartily. They were in her trailer, sitting at
the tiny table.
"Wow, I need you around all the time to laugh at my bad jokes," Amelie said, flicking him
lightly on the arm. She thought of earlier today, on set with Kady and Hunter. Amelie had
asked how Hyde was the other night and tacked on, "Weird it's called Hyde, when everyone
there wants to be seen." She'd even winked. Kady and Hunter had barely managed a forced
half-chuckle between them. But being around Jake--it was nice. Easy. Sure they'd really only
talked about math, but already she felt comfortable around him, like maybe they could be
friends.
True, she didn't have a lot of friendship experiences to go by. Growing up in the business had
earned her plenty of "friends" on her official Facebook and MySpace pages (with status
updates and blogs carefully crafted by a thirty-something Kidz Network publicist). But real
friends? She figured being part of an actual friendship had to feel something like she did right
now: Like she could be silly or make a bad joke and her friend would either laugh hysterically
or be honest and tease her about how lame the attempt was.
"So, um, what'd you get for problem ten?" Jake asked, trying to be professional. Amelie rolled
her eyes, as if to say, where's the fun in that? , but obediently went back to her worksheet. As
they talked through the next few problems, Jake had to force himself to focus. All he really
wanted to do was gaze at Amelie's smiling blue eyes. He was still so amazed that she was
smiling at him. Since they'd started their session an hour ago, Jake felt like every humiliation
he'd suffered throughout high school for being a math whiz was entirely worth it. The time that
Rod Stegerson had given him a wedgie in front of the junior high cheerleading squad? Check.
That time Fortune Weathers had perched flirtatiously on his desk, just to copy off his
trigonometry quiz? That too. Because here he was with Amelie Adams, a gift from the mathgenius gods, and she was ...
Amazing.
He wasn't starstruck. Jake's mom had plenty of high-profile clients. That chick from
Transformers had even been at his bar mitzvah. Amelie was different. Totally down-to-earth,
funny, and sweet, all in one super-hot package. A package that didn't treat him like he was as
undesirable as an outdated Texas Instruments graphing calculator.
Today Amelie wore beat-up jeans that hit the top of her slim hips and a fitted old-school
American Apparel baseball shirt, white in the center, with royal blue sleeves and neck. Her red
hair was pulled up in a ponytail, her flawless face makeup-free. Her skin was creamy against
the flush of her cheeks and the pink of her lips.
Amelie rapped her pencil against the tabletop. "Yoo-hoo, Jake?"
Her knee brushed his, and Jake drew a sharp breath to stop himself from saying, I love you. He
felt his heart thudding beneath his burgundy Abercrombie polo shirt.
"Huh? Sorry, long day," Jake smiled sheepishly. "What were you saying?"
"You hungry? I was going to call for some takeout, if that's cool."
Jacob nodded. He hadn't realized until now that he was starving. He hadn't eaten since lunch,
and his mom's meager attempt at pastrami on rye was not nearly as filling as the Canter's
version she
tried to imitate. "Definitely. I know a place that has great carne asada tacos." The
words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.
"Oh my God," Amelie said, her shell pink lips forming an O of surprise. "You totally Googled
me."
Jake stared at a word problem in his textbook, feeling like a creepy perv. What kind of freak
Internet-stalked his tutee? He could practically hear his chances with Amelie drop with a thud
to the floor.
"I did," he confessed. "I'm--it wasn't like a creepy thing or something like that. I just . . ."
Amelie play-slapped him on the wrist. "I'm teasing. It's so cute that you did that."
Jacob felt instantly recharged, like someone had put a fresh set of batteries in him. For the first
time in his life, a girl was calling him cute. And the girl was Amelie Adams.
"Oh, well, yeah, I have my moments." He fought the corners of his mouth as they tried to form
a goofy grin. "So, Mexican, then?"
Amelie got up, padding over to a table next to an overstuffed armchair. She lifted the top of the
table and pulled out a pile of menus. "Actually, I'm thinking Greek." She tossed him a menu
from Mediterranean Delight. "And then we can watch Meryl Streep movies and maybe have a
Harry Potter reading."
Jake laughed, relieved. "Actually, if you like Harry Potter, I bet you'd like the Golden Compass
books," he said, hoping she wouldn't think his recommendation was lame.
Amelie grabbed his arm excitedly. "I love that series! When I was younger I carried my stuffed
teddy bear around, pretending it was my own personal daemon. I was so sad that I was too old
to play Lyra when they finally got around to making the movie." She sat back down across
from Jake, her blue eyes animated and bright. "Have you read Automated Alice?"
Jake shook his head. "No, what's it about?"
"It's this retelling of Alice in Wonderland that sort of has a sci-fi twist," Amelie said, getting up
to put the stack of menus back. "I think you'd like it."
"You read sci-fi books?" Jake said, eyeing Amelie skeptically.
Amelie shrugged. "A good book is a good book, I don't discriminate. I'm going to bring it for
you to borrow next time we have a stalker appointment."
Jacob laughed at her teasing. Was talking to girls always this easy, and he just hadn't known?