Sunset Boulevard Part 11

"What's up?" Jake said skeptically. Had Rod learned some new tactic? Act friendly but carry a big stick of pain?

"So, we've always been bros, right?"

Yeah, sure, Jake thought, if by bros you mean I felt a real bond every time every time you sent my head into my locker door. "Yeah, we're cool," he said, standing up to grab his shirt out of his locker. If he moved quickly enough, he could keep Rod's abuse to the verbal variety, at least until they got out on the gym floor. "We're"-he paused as he contemplated the word-"bros."

"Cool. Bros," Rod said monosyllabically, his jock army nodding emphatically behind him. "And I thought it was time to show you some respect. You landed Kady Parker, bro. It's only fair I congratulate you."

Jake looked over Rod's shoulder, catching his own surprised face in the mirror.

"So, how'd you do it, dude?" Rod's main sidekick, Dave Brandt, asked, c.o.c.king his square head. His neck was the width of Miles's torso.

"Kady?" Jake said, willing his voice not to squeak. Should he tell them that he had no idea, that he'd seemingly become Kady Parker's boyfriend through sheer dumb luck? That he'd spent nights pondering that same question?

What would Justin Klatch do?

He was a nice guy, but this was a locker room. And even Jake knew locker rooms were where guys made themselves sound like bigger studs than they were, even if he'd never had the opportunity. Imaginary Justin smiled c.o.c.kily in Jake's head.

"She was all over me from day one," Jake began, liking the way it sounded. "Like, bam! I tried to keep it professional, but she kept getting me alone."

Rod bobbed his head knowingly, like this sort of thing to him happened all the time. "And then you just had to go with it, right?"

Jake grinned. If anyone had told him he'd be talking girls with Rod Stegerson a month ago, he'd have asked what alternate universe they were living in. But alternate universes were for dorks.

Jake pictured Kady's pixielike face in his mind. Okay, so she hadn't exactly backed him in a corner and had her way with him, but she'd come close. "Well, I am a guy."

Rod clapped him again on the back. "No way, dude, you're the man!"

Rod's friends erupted in a chorus of "h.e.l.l, yeahs," just as Jake's phone beeped, signaling an incoming message.

Miles. He'd taken the day off school to hunt down the perfect Escalade. Wait till these jocks saw Jake pull up to school in a gleaming black bada.s.s-mobile. Jake clicked to the photo messages and pulled up four different pictures of fully loaded trucks in black, gunmetal, white, and navy. There's gotta be a winner here, read Miles's message.

Rod peered down at the phone. "Is that your ride?"

"One of them," Jake said, surveying the vehicles. "Which do you think?"

Rod shook his head solemnly. "If you're gonna go Caddy, do it right. Get the ESV. It's bigger, and the way you pull chicks, you'll want something that can fit all of them."

This sounded about right. He quickly pounded out a message to Miles. "Dude, show me the ESV."

"Sweet," hollered Dave, high-fiving Jake. Jake high-fived back, then collected similar hand slaps from Rod and the rest of the guys. It occurred to him that this was the first time Rod had laid a hand on him in a nonviolent way.

It paid to be the man.

FIERY REDHEADS.

Myla wove around the cafeteria's blond wood tables, past the organic-dessert vending machine. Cla.s.s Angel was starting to wrap its work at the school, and the cafeteria was finally reopened. Myla was relieved to have it back. She loved the maintenance of the social order here: nerds in the corners, Myla in the middle, everyone else fanned out around her. Besides, cafeteria time meant catching up on gossip, something she and her girlfriends hadn't done in weeks. While they'd been busy picnicking outside Grant's trailer with Amelie, or whatever the h.e.l.l they'd been doing, Myla had made off-campus lunch plans, but now it was time to reclaim her territory.

Talia, Fortune, and Billie had texted her during history to say they had a surprise for her. She was hoping that one of them had heard gossip about Ash kissing another girl. As bad as it sounded, even in her head, Myla couldn't help but hope that Ash was taking her suggestion seriously. She just needed some proof that he was willing to do anything to move forward. She certainly was.

Myla grabbed a fro-yo parfait and a chicken avocado wrap from the Healthy Options window, then carried her tray to the center table, a five-seater that was the most exclusive in the whole room. For most of high school, she Talia, Billie, and Fortune had sat there every day, with one empty chair reserved for Ash's drop-bys. Today Jojo had gone off campus for lunch with Tucker, so it would be just the four of them, just like old times.

She moved past a table overflowing with band kids and saw Billie, Talia, and Fortune at their table, with a redhead who had to be Amelie Adams. Maybe she hadn't been here in a few weeks, but who would have the audacity to sit there without her express permission? BHH's administration might have gone lax on some policies with the movie's arrival, but Myla hadn't.

As she got closer, Myla gaped in surprise. Her friends were all wearing filmy white dresses of indeterminate designer origin. And Amelie Adams was sitting in her seat.

She counted to ten, staring at the swirl of pomegranate curving up her parfait cup. This is not real. This is not real. This is not real. When she looked again, Amelie would be gone. And her friends would not be dressed like members of a whorish cult.

But when she looked, the wh.o.r.e-or was still there.

Myla swished to the table, her baby blue Fendi stiletto sandals pounding out a dangerous rhythm. She ignored Amelie, looking from friend to friend. "What's up with the outfits?" she asked point-blank, mustering her best sour face.

"It's for Amelie," Talia said, tugging a fallen strap back up her tanned shoulder. "Like a tribute thing. It was this or angel wings." She giggled, and so did Fortune and Billie. Amelie laughed nervously, as if humbled-maybe even a little embarra.s.sed-by the gesture.

Myla rolled her eyes. "Oh, how sweet of you," she said sarcastically. She was still standing above the table, not really wanting to sit down until Amelie was gone, and noticed that people were starting to stare. A gaggle of cheerleaders whispered to each other, and a table packed with jocks looked over, their curiosity piqued by the strange scene: Myla Everhart giving up her lunch chair to Amelie Adams, interloper. Even the band nerds collectively shifted their gaze in her direction, not wanting to miss history being made. One of them was probably composing an original orchestral piece inspired by the event.

Myla wasn't about to get in a catfight with her former besties. That kind of low-rent behavior was fine for the Lohans and Hiltons of the world, but she was real Hollywood royalty. Subterfuge and mind games worked so much better. She slid into the empty seat. Even out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Amelie had one of those preternaturally perfect faces that looked gorgeous from any angle. Her Caribbean blue eyes were clear and innocent, like she hadn't just taken over another girl's lunch table, not to mention her social status and her friends.

Myla smiled sweetly at Amelie. "So, Amelie, which of the girls do you think has the best shot with Grant?" she asked. Really, she was asking, You know why they're hanging with you, right? From Amelie's taken aback expression, Myla knew she'd understood her meaning perfectly.

Talia shot an apologetic smile at Amelie, as if to say, Sorry Myla's being such a b.i.t.c.h.

Billie glared at Myla. "Why would you ask something like that?" she snapped. "Don't listen to her, Am. She's just PMS-y."

Amelie said nothing. She simply returned Myla's sweet smile, as calm and unflappable as an angel.

Myla tucked into her parfait, barely tasting the fresh-cut strawberries. She begrudgingly awarded a point to the princess.

Jojo was trying her best to see what other girls saw in Tucker. They were sitting shoulder to shoulder in one of Jacopo's red booths, sharing a pizza called the Don. The pie was cut into squares, the crust thin and crispy, the sauce an ideal blend of tangy and sweet, and the cheese warm and bubbly, just like at Sadie's, back home. It was perfect.

Tucker, on the other hand, was not. At least not for Jojo. Every time Jojo managed to turn the conversation to something new, Tucker brought it right back to his favorite subject: surfing. He knew more about Kelly Slater and Laird Hamilton than their own mothers did.

"So, who do you have for English?" she asked, watching as Tucker served himself another four squares of pizza. The second their order had arrived, he'd claimed all four triangle-shaped corner pieces for himself. Jojo and Willa had a pact to always share those pieces, two and two. Her best friend would be horrified to hear a guy had hogged them all. On a date.

"Uh," Tucker said through a mouthful of cheese. "Hot chick? Youngish? Miss b.u.t.terworth?"

"You mean Mrs. Ballman?" Jojo looked at Tucker skeptically. Could he really be so oblivious that he didn't even learn teachers' names? Or worse, did he confuse all of their names with ma.s.s-produced food brands? Mrs. Ballman, a thirtyish Megan Fox look-alike, was a favorite among the male students. Tucker tossed his arm lazily across the back of the booth, his fingertips tracing her shoulder blade. Smiling through gritted teeth, Jojo did her best to stay still. His grabby hands only served to remind her that they were hanging out again tonight. Last night's date had consisted of "movie night," except she'd only seen ten minutes of Lords of Dogtown as she fought to keep Tucker's hand from traveling up her shirt. Tucker was growing more irritating by the second, and she didn't think they'd be the new super couple much longer.

"Yeah," Tucker said, grinning appreciatively. "Who do you have?"

"Mr. Dietz," she said, wishing she could be in her honors English cla.s.s right now. Mostly to get away from Tucker. "Have you guys read Catcher in the Rye yet?" Every guy Jojo had ever known had loved, or at least claimed to love, Catcher in the Rye. From Justin Klatch, whom she'd seen reading a dog-eared copy on her summer stalking missions, to-she bet-Jake. She didn't care if Tucker liked the book or not. She just thought she would scream if she had to listen to him describe again the yearlong process behind the hand-carved surfboard he'd ordered from an Australian surf company.

"Uh, I'm not really into baseball," Tucker said, slurping his Diet c.o.ke noisily. "It's so slow and boring."

Look who's talking, Jojo thought meanly. Out of ideas, she reached for the last slice of pizza, greedily biting into it. Giving her taste buds a little joy was the least she could do, since every other part of her was suffering.

"Dude, you took the last slice," Tucker said flirtily, pulling her to him for a kiss. "You owe me next time." Jojo clamped her lips tightly as she kissed him back. She really did need to speak to Myla about breakup protocol.

She was starting to craft a lie about needing to meet Myla before lunch ended when her cell buzzed with an incoming text. Willa's face popped up on the screen. Jojo scooted away from Tucker so she could check the message in private.

Family function, yeah right. Thanks for missing the invitational. Beneath the text was a forwarded TMZ article, accompanied by a photo of Jojo on the beach at Malibu, laughing with Myla and the rest of the girls. Barbar's Daughters Spotted at Malibu Bash, read the headline. Jojo tasted the acidic tomato sauce rise back up her throat, picturing Willa as she realized Jojo had lied to her.

She clicked away from the text message, not looking Tucker in the eye. "'Sup?" he asked, in his annoyingly casual way.

"I just want to go back now," Jojo said flatly. Back to school, or to her old way of life, she wasn't sure.

Fifteen minutes later, Jojo marched into the cafeteria with Tucker, holding hands. Jojo kept her grip limp.

Myla was sitting at her usual table, with Talia, Billie, and Fortune, who'd all dressed like s.l.u.tty angels. Jojo rolled her eyes when she saw why: Amelie Adams was sitting in Myla's seat.

Jojo led Tucker to the table. Every table turned to watch as they made their way past.

After the only awkward lunch period of her teenage life, Myla was relieved to see Jojo and Tucker walk through the cafeteria's double doors. Her friends really seemed to like Amelie. Maybe at first they'd just viewed her as an instrument to get closer to Grant, but their affection actually seemed genuine. None of them had even asked Myla what was going on with Ash. She really wanted to spill about telling him to kiss Crazy Daisy, to see if they thought she'd gone completely nuts. But apparently, none of her friends cared what was happening in her life anymore.

"Myla, did you hear me?" Talia, oblivious to Jojo's approach, cut into her thoughts. Myla swirled the melted remains of her parfait, looking into her friend's brown eyes. "Amelie invited us to a Cla.s.s Angel charity event tonight. Some of the cast are going to work at the Angel Food soup kitchen for publicity. Get it?" Talia smiled admiringly at Amelie.

Myla flipped her long ebony hair over one shoulder. "I go there all the time with my parents," she scoffed. "Only they don't do it for publicity." She shot Amelie a cutting look.

Amelie didn't blush, though. She flashed a megawatt grin that made Myla want to slap her. "You sure you don't want to come? Everyone who helps is going to get to visit the VIP tent at the Cla.s.s Angel wrap party this weekend."

Myla stared at Amelie in disbelief. How dare she imply Myla would need help getting VIP access? Especially to a lame school-sanctioned wrap party for a teen movie. The only reason Myla even planned on going to the wrap party was to talk to Ash.

Myla turned to Jojo and Tucker instead. "Hey, what are you guys doing tonight?" she asked, ignoring Jojo's don't go there look. She needed to get away from her friends, and from Amelie, but didn't want to give the impression that she was the one being pushed out.

"We were gonna hang at my place, but then I thought it might be fun to head out to Venice," Tucker said. "Get some eats on Abbott Kinney."

"That sounds cool," Myla said, standing up and throwing an arm around Jojo. She turned to face her friends. It was time to draw a line in the sand. "Sorry, guys, I don't really want to go with you. I think I'd rather hang out with my sister."

Jojo couldn't believe it. Myla hadn't seen her friends in weeks, and now she was blowing them off to hang out with her? Maybe she could deal with Tucker for one more night.

OOPS-A-DAISY.

Ash flipped through the channels on his LG flat-screen, annoyed that every station he tuned to seemed to feature kissing.

Turner Cla.s.sic Movies. Casablanca. "Kiss me. Kiss me as if it were the last time."

TNT. She's All That. That lame song, "Kiss Me," that Myla had played over and over for three weeks when the movie come out.

MTV. Barnsley's Babes. "Your lips, my lips, some tequila. Let's do this thing."

Ugh. Ash dropped the remote and shifted his recliner to its 180-degree position. Myla seriously was not backing down on her whole kiss-someone-else plan. And now it felt like she'd paid the cable company to remind him. Which he wouldn't put past her.

He rolled onto his stomach. Did other guys go through stuff like this? Or had choosing Myla meant he got the best and worst of both worlds-amazing girlfriend, terrifying ex?

He closed his eyes, hoping to wake up with selective amnesia, something to make him remember only the good Myla stuff. His phone broke out in its new ringtone, "Don't Let It Get You Down," by Spoon.

"'Lo?" He was too spent to roll off his stomach.

"Ash? Are you in a tunnel or something?" Daisy's English accent bubbled over the line.

He surprised himself by not only rolling over but sitting straight up.

"Daisy? What's going on?" He instantly felt worried. Last time he saw her, he had to pick her up from jail. Even if he knew now she wasn't really crazy, he still didn't feel good about her getting into the kinds of situations she got herself in.

"I'm just bored is all," she murmured. He could hear television chatter in the background. "There's c.r.a.p on the telly, and I feel like I've been trapped in this room since my tenth birthday. I was thinking about going out... if you'd join me."

Ash grinned. "Do you mean bail you out? Because we have this three-strikes rule in California. Maybe it doesn't apply to English rock stars, though."

Daisy's laugh rang over the line. "No, I promise. I'll go incognito, blend in. L.A. Weekly wrote up this place Largo. Maybe you could meet me there?"

He'd always wanted to go to the old Largo in Silver Lake before it had moved to its new spot on La Cienega. Myla had always refused, saying that the place was full of old hipsters with superiority complexes.

"Yeah, that would be cool," Ash finally said. "Half hour?"

"I'll see you there, by the main stage, not the little room," Daisy said. "I bought tickets already, so get yours at the door. But remember, I'm incognito. So this time, don't look for the girl who's flashing her knickers."

The second he set foot inside, Ash knew he was going to like Largo. With its pewlike rows of seats, and hushed, reverent crowd, it felt almost like a church, minus all the talk about your mortal soul. Everything was bathed in a burgundy light, except the stage, where blue lights shone as bright as a full moon on a rare smogless night. A couple who looked like twin emo lumberjacks in faded black-and-white checked shirts strummed guitars onstage. The song wafted through the club hauntingly.

Scanning the rows in front of the stage, Ash couldn't see Daisy. Myla was right about the crowd being older hipsters; the youngest people here had to be in their late twenties, but most were closer to forty, the men in slim blazers and the women in dark sweaterdresses over tights and slouchy boots.

The duo on stage slipped out of their mournful dirge into a cover of Albert Hammond's "It Never Rains in Southern California." The spotlights moved over the crowd, and Ash laid eyes on Daisy, alone in the back row, her toffee-colored hair up in a messy bun. She wore a filmy dress with tiny roses printed on it, a tiny gold locket draped around her neck. She was incognito, but that didn't mean she blended in. Her skin glowed beneath the flickering yellow bulb near the exit, and her eyes were silver in the dimness. She reminded Ash of Zooey Deschanel, but even more beautiful.

"Hey," Ash said, slipping into the seat next to her. "Thanks for inviting me."

"It's the least I could do." Daisy tilted her head so that a soft curl fell from her bun. "Though the police station does add a certain level of excitement to our relationship."

Ash grinned, signaling a waitress to bring him a beer. "Do you want anything?"

Daisy shrugged. "I guess a club soda."

"A Stella and a club soda," he said, as the waitress nodded and flitted off. He turned back to Daisy. "Not drinking tonight?"

Daisy pulled nervously on her earlobe. "I don't really drink all that much. Unless I have to work to be... you know."

Ash nodded. "I get it." The guitarists announced a set break, and the club's sound system took over. The Rolling Stones' "Beast of Burden" sauntered through the club. A couple near the stage wandered out to the tiny dance floor, clinging to each other in a tight embrace.

"I love this song," Daisy said. "You wanna dance?"

Ash stood, offering his hand to Daisy. "Why not?"

They made their way to the front, Ash spinning Daisy out onto the floor. Her dress twirled under the blue lights, and she looked like an indie rock angel. She spun herself back, curling herself neatly under his arms, careful to leave a foot of s.p.a.ce between them.

"You can come closer," Ash said. "I do bite, but never in public."

Daisy inched closer and leaned her head on Ash's shoulders in an exaggerated manner. "So, do you want me to see if I can get us kicked out of here?"

"Maybe not tonight," he said. Her wrist felt light against his neck. "You're kind of cool when you're not in handcuffs." He blushed as soon as he said it, and was glad she couldn't see his red face under the lights.

"Kind of cool? I'm beyond cool," Daisy said, raising one freshly plucked eyebrow at him.