Sunset Boulevard Part 2

He nodded. "I'll do it."

Gordon's eyes went from serious to alight, like a slot machine hitting diamond sevens. "I knew I could count on you," he said, patting Ash's shoulder once more before turning to head back into the dining room.

Ash closed his eyes, hating that his father's tiny gesture made him feel like a grateful, freshly trained puppy. Inhaling, he concentrated on sound: silverware chiming against plates. Wine being poured into gla.s.ses. Voices mingling in the air.

Just as he was convincing himself this was a good thing, that Gordon would appreciate him for a change, he heard it: Daisy's loud voice, somehow traveling from Spago's back room to the main floor. "Where's that dishy son of yours, Mr. Gilmour? We're gonna have a right time."

Ash sincerely doubted that.

RODS AND MONSTERS.

Jojo slunk into her American history cla.s.s and found her seat, three desks back in the center of Mr. Castorman's cla.s.sroom. She nodded a h.e.l.lo to Myla, who sat two rows away. Myla half-smiled, examining her freshly painted deep red nails. Jojo looked down at her own hands, her short, squared nails done in a similar color but chipping already. On Sunday Myla had taken her to Elle, one of the poshest manicure salons in the city, as a sort of peace offering after their rocky start. Ever since the Barnsley incident Myla had been really sweet, and seemed to have accepted the fact that Jojo was in her life for the fore-seeable future. But Jojo wasn't counting her chickens yet. As grateful as she was for a friend in her sister, Jojo still didn't trust Myla. Who knew when she would change her mind?

Rod Stegerson was holding court with a few of his buddies, talking about the San Diego Chargers' poor performance on Monday Night Football. Jojo flipped open her ma.s.sive textbook and pretended to read about the Lincoln-Douglas debates.

"Hey, dudes, look who's here." Rod leered in Jojo's direction, his ruddy face orange under the fluorescent bulbs. She shrank in her chair, dread colliding in her stomach with the roast-turkey-and-Brie wrap she'd downed for lunch in a little-trafficked corner of the BHH library, which had quieted down since the Cla.s.s Angel film crew had moved on to a different location on the grounds.

"She looks so sweet and innocent, right? But check this out." Rod pulled his iPhone from the pocket of his Abercrombie sweatshirt, flourishing it like he had something new to show them. Jojo felt queasy at the tinny sound of her digital hurling.

Just then, Lewis Buford strode in, his handsome face smiling widely to show off his deeply dimpled cheeks. His rugby shirt, emblazoned with his initials, L.B., in huge Old English type, was unb.u.t.toned, revealing a tanned, waxed chest. He immediately found Myla's desk, girlishly perching on the corner. "Myla, where've you been, baby?" he purred, seemingly oblivious to Myla's hateful expression.

"Everywhere you're not, Lewis," Myla said coolly, looking directly at him with her catlike green eyes. Since the party, Lewis had been calling her nonstop. After his billionth call, Myla had changed her outgoing message to, "This is Myla Everhart. Leave a message and I'll call you back. Unless this is Lewis Buford. Two and a half words for you: Not. F-in. Interested."

Lewis clucked lewdly, sliding off the desk. "I'll catch you after cla.s.s, babe. Trust me, you want me." He squeezed Myla's shoulder as he pa.s.sed.

Myla shrugged him off, rolling her eyes. Jojo watched as Lewis stopped next by Rod, watching the video play yet again. "Didn't that f.u.c.king kick a.s.s?" Lewis said. "Barnsley got, like, two hundred e-mails on the MTV website and the episode hasn't even aired yet."

Their teacher, Mr. Castorman, walked in, and Jojo felt relief wash over her. Once cla.s.s started she could at least listen and try to forget their teasing.

"Cla.s.s, give me ten minutes," he said instead. "I have to go finish an important phone call in the teachers' lounge." It was common knowledge that ancient Mr. Castorman, who had exactly seventeen hairs left on his liver-spotted head, did the New York Times crossword during lunch. Everyone in his sixth-period cla.s.s got lucky about once a week when Mr. Castorman couldn't finish the puzzle before the bell and left his students unattended as he got the last few words.

Jojo glared at him angrily as he left. How dare he leave her here with these vultures?

"Sweet," she heard Rod say, feeling her insides shrivel. "Let's go talk to our little BarfBarf."

He swaggered over, his jock buddies and Lewis close behind. Every face in the cla.s.s turned to look as Rod pulled up a chair, leaning against Jojo's desk. She could smell the garlic from his carb-loading lunch.

"So, what do you have against Barnsley Toole?" he started. "Is it him in particular? Or maybe all guys make you sick. Jojo's sort of a lezzie name, isn't it?"

Lewis guffawed, "Dude, she's a lezzie."

"It's short for Josephine," Jojo corrected him. Her heart thumped nervously at the cla.s.s's eyes turning toward her.

"So, Josephine, would you puke on me too? 'Cause I bet you couldn't handle this either." Rod stood to his full gargantuan height, displaying his bulk.

"You wish," Jojo muttered, her whole body shaking with anger. With one quick move, she could corner kick Rod's shin. Then again, all she needed was to be the barfing girl who also had an anger management problem.

"Yeah, right," Rod said. "Like I'd wish for that. Who do you think you are? You might be Barbar's kid but that don't mean s.h.i.t if you're a puke-filled lesbian."

Jojo dug her nails into the underside of her cherrywood desk. How long had this ignorant h.o.m.ophobe gone unchecked?

Before she could reply, Jojo's phone vibrated in her pocket. She slid it out, looking down at the screen under her desk. She silently prayed it wasn't a goofy message from Willa that Rod would see, or a picture of her dads on their sabbatical, arms around each other. If Rod knew the girl he was wrongly calling a lesbian had a set of adoptive gay fathers, he'd have ammunition to last the school year.

To Jojo's surprise, it was from Myla. Don't let that a.s.shole talk to you like that, it read.

"Hey, Rod," Myla cooed sweetly. "I was wondering something."

Rod turned, looking Myla up and down as he bit his lip. She was a picture of cool composure, looking model-perfect in her red and gray Phillip Lim cadet jacket over a short violet Marc Jacobs pleat dress. "Don't worry, I still think you're hot even if your sis is nasty."

Myla sighed heavily, every eye in the cla.s.sroom turning to her with interest. "No, I thought you should tell Jojo about last year's game with Malibu. You know, the one where you got so nervous, you wet yourself at halftime."

Rod's red face grew almost purple as he turned to his buddies in shock. "Dudes, you promised you'd never tell anyone," he yelped, his voice almost a whimper. He tore from the cla.s.s as it broke out in peals of laughter.

Jojo beamed. Someone had ammunition, and it wasn't Rod.

After cla.s.s, Jojo waited for Myla in the hall, leaning casually against the cool cinder-block wall. Her hood was down and she felt free, and a little less like she had to hide.

Myla was the last student to file out, thanks to the crowd that gathered around her desk, wanting to know all about Rod's nervous bladder.

Jojo hugged Myla hard, hoping the gesture wouldn't annoy her. "That was amazing. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Hitching her silver Balenciaga tote over her shoulder, Myla shrugged. "No big deal. He deserves it. Hey, want to go to tea?"

Jojo squinted at her, puzzled. "What about seventh and eighth?"

"You have to stop hiding in the library already. Those cla.s.ses are canceled today-they announced it at lunch. They're doing a montage of Kady Parker's character thinking she's going nuts seeing her angel everywhere. They need a bunch of cla.s.srooms and the hall. Too much disruption, I guess."

Jojo raised her eyebrows. So far, Cla.s.s Angel didn't seem like enough of a disruption. She'd been hoping the movie's arrival would take some of the interest off her, but so far kids at BHH seemed more annoyed than awed that the movie was being filmed at their school. Grant Isaacson was the only real distraction. His trailer was next to the tennis courts, and girls who'd been excused from PE all year had actually shown up today, preening as they waited for turns with the auto-serve machine. But they'd never be so decla.s.se as to actually ask for his autograph. Willa, Jojo's best friend back home, had texted her asking for it, but even if she was locked in a room with Grant-with a stack of his headshots, and a million working pens-she would never risk additional scorn by doing something so not BHH.

Jojo grinned. "Sounds good. But is this, like, going to be okay with Billie and Talia and everyone?" It wasn't that she was scared of them, but she was just getting comfortable with Myla and didn't know how the whole pack-leader thing worked.

Myla scoffed. "They're going to stay here, and hang around to see if Grant Isaacson will, who knows, make them his official groupies or something."

"Really?" Jojo said, rolling her eyes. "How lame."

Lame was right. Myla was beyond annoyed with her girlfriends. They'd practically shrieked when Grant strolled by their table in the cafeteria today. The very last thing she wanted to do, besides ever see Lewis Buford's face again, was watch her friends burst into preteen giggles at some one-hit wonder who just got his Screen Actors Guild card.

If she hadn't been on the outs with Ash, Myla might have put up with it, maybe even played along. But as it was, her friends seemed to care a lot more about how Grant's copper hair hung over his topaz eyes than about how Myla needed them. Sure, she'd never been one to talk about her feelings ad nauseam, but her best girlfriends had always been there to plan shopping trips, spa visits, and evenings out whenever she and Ash had fought in the past. Now they were actually broken up, and her friends' best effort had been an offer to join them when they invited Amelie Adams and Kady Parker to lunch.

"Yeah, completely lame," Myla said, gesturing Jojo to follow. "The car's waiting. Let's go."

Myla and Jojo sat on the outdoor terrace of the Bel-Air Hotel's restaurant, which overlooked Swan Lake. Jojo couldn't believe it contained actual, majestic-looking swans and not the dingy gray ones she'd seen at the Sacramento community golf course. The hotel's famed bird-of-paradise plant loomed overhead, casting jagged shadows on their white linen tablecloth. Around her, the clink of silverware chimed daintily as well-dressed ladies nibbled on finger sandwiches.

Jojo breathed in, loving the smell of fresh apricots that wafted from a nearby tree. The hotel's glam pink stucco buildings, set deep off Sunset Boulevard, had made Jojo feel underdressed. Now she felt just right, wearing Myla's cadet jacket over her soft cotton T-shirt. At the table next to them, a set of blue-haired ladies who looked like identical twins in their pink Chanel suits squawked to one another about how "adorable" Myla and Jojo were.

Bel-Air tea was Myla's bad-day destination, a fact she hadn't wanted to share with Jojo. Her new sister had gone through enough today. Just the fact that Jojo had no interest in Grant had been a monumental lift to Myla's spirits. Myla laughed to herself. A week ago, the last person she'd have imagined bringing to tea was this intruder, who arrived and seemingly claimed all their parents' attention instantly. But then again, a week ago, Myla had still thought her breakup with Ash was just an extended bout of his stubbornness to give up in a fight. And a week ago, she'd have been here with her friends. Myla knew they'd be back... eventually. In the meantime, a little sisterly bonding couldn't hurt.

"Thanks again for your help in cla.s.s. I could never do that," Jojo said. "I just clam up. It's like you studied for that moment."

"No," Myla said, brushing off the compliment. "I was raised by Barkley Everhart and Lailah Barton is all."

Jojo rolled her eyes. "I wish that was it. Come on. I'm genetically tied to Barkley and Lailah. If you get that from them, shouldn't I too? Maybe they made a mistake."

The reminder that Jojo was her parents' flesh-and-blood true kid stung Myla, but the p.r.i.c.kle pa.s.sed quickly. There was no doubt in Myla's mind that Jojo was Barbar's real kid. Jojo's eyes were the same one-in-a-million violet as her mom's, and her grin was 100 percent pure Barkley. Jojo's problem was that she didn't know how to be their daughter.

"Nurture versus nature. You were raised by two men who, no offense, think hip is just a bone in your pelvis. Our parents taught me plenty about charity, but I grew up in Hollywood. I learned how to do cutthroat when the time is right. You didn't have that advantage." Myla looked into Jojo's eager violet eyes as they twinkled in the sun. With her easy smile, open face, and trusting gaze, Jojo seemed the perfect candidate for a Myla makeover. And if she was going to be part of the family, shouldn't she live up to the Everhart name? Myla leaned across the table, an idea forming. "I can change all that."

Jojo shrugged. "Thanks, but it's not like you can swoop in every time some jerkbag lays into me."

"Stop being dense. I'm not going to be your pit bull. I can do way better. Teach you everything you need to know to be part of America's most famous family."

Jojo laughed, several scone crumbs flying from her lips. She reddened, covering her mouth with her hand. From under her palm, she said, "It's not like I'm a simple twelve-step program away from ruling the school."

Myla let go of Jojo's wrist, sinking back into her chair like a queen evaluating a gift of jewels from one of her subjects. "Maybe not overnight, but I'm Myla Everhart. My program doesn't need twelve steps. Just follow my lead, and you won't feel a thing."

Myla folded her arms neatly over her chest, c.o.c.king her head in that powerful half-grin. The mere tilt of her chin seemed to pull the waiter back, almost magnetically, and he asked, "Can I get you anything else?" His eyes spoke differently. They said, Please let me get you something else, Miss Everhart. I live to serve a girl like you.

As Myla sent him away with a sweet "No, thank you," she turned back to Jojo, eyebrows raised. "So, you in?"

"In." Jojo nodded.

As if she had a choice.

AMERICA'S NEXT TOP MYLA "Okay, so, you're getting ready for school the day after someone b.i.t.c.hy-let's say the female Rod Stegerson-trashes your Prada shoes for being last season. What do you wear?" Myla swung open both sets of double doors to her ma.s.sive closet. "Show me."

Jojo felt her jaw drop in awe. She pushed a strand of her thick, almond-hued hair out of her violet eyes to get the full view. Myla's closet qualified as the Eighth Wonder of the World. Each type of clothing had about twelve feet of rack s.p.a.ce in the double-decker closet, which stretched all the way up to the twelve-foot-high ceiling and across the longest wall of Myla's sprawling room. Fabrics of every texture, organized by color, loomed overhead like a rainbow. Myla even had one of those library ladders that slid across the top so she could reach things on the highest racks. At the center of all this was a twelve-foot-tall shrine to Myla's shoes, lit from above and below with small recessed bulbs. The lights cast each pair of shoes in a glow, giving every designer stiletto, sandal, wedge, and boot an aura of divine magnificence.

"Holy s.h.i.t," Jojo croaked. She'd already been impressed with Myla's four-poster bed with its pristine black-and-white duvet of vintage fashion magazine covers, the white dresser painted with brightly hued Pop Artstyle daisies, the hulking wide-screen TV and velvety purple couch, identical to Jojo's burgundy one. But the closet was intimidating, like some significant artwork that you'd go see on a field trip and not know how to describe in your essay afterward.

"Do you have an answer? Or are you just going to stare?" Myla was sitting across from the closet in one of three low fuchsia armchairs cl.u.s.tered around a black cube table. She tapped the toe of her Christian Louboutin T-strap sandal against the wood floor, the shoe's fiery orange b.u.t.terfly design appearing to flutter as she did. Her eyes were a jade mystery as she coolly regarded Jojo, with her familiar half-smile.

Jojo frowned. "So you're giving me word problems? If Jojo wears last season's Prada shoes, and female Rod makes fun of her, what does Jojo wear tomorrow to show that b.i.t.c.h who's boss?" Jojo still wasn't sold on the whole makeover project-mega-makeovers were for the movies, or at least reality show contestants. Jojo was just... Jojo. And no quant.i.ty of designer clothes or Myla maxims could change that. But if going along with the scheme was a means to hanging out with Myla, Jojo would take it. She stared down at her feet, thinking. Her favorite new shoes, a pair of silver Hollywould wedges that her mom had given her last week, seemed to wink back up at her.

"It's a trick question," Jojo finally said, feeling triumphant. "I wouldn't wear last season's shoes!"

Myla pursed her lips dispa.s.sionately. "It is a trick question. But you're wrong." She popped up from her chair with a swish of silk, pacing in front of her wardrobe like a general checking the barracks. She began to toss items of clothing onto her bed.

"You could wear this." She threw out a low-cut red Vivienne Westwood sweater. "You could wear this." A pair of black sequined leggings flew past Jojo's nose. "You could wear this, this, or this." She plucked out a green Juicy Couture minidress, a brown Burberry safari dress, and a black Fendi cashmere sweaterdress and tossed them on the bed like she was dealing cards.

"I don't get it," Jojo said, her violet eyes scanning the items. "You picked that stuff at random."

Myla shook her head. "Random is exactly right. The outfits are immaterial. The key is, those shoes are the only thing you absolutely must wear the next day. Show girl-Rod that-last season or not-if they look good, and you rock them like a pair of Pradas should be rocked, no one gives you s.h.i.t about where they came from, or when they came from."

Jojo processed this information with greater concentration than she'd paid to the Pythagorean theorem in geometry cla.s.s at JFK. "So I can do whatever I want? Then why do I need these lessons?" She flopped into one of the chairs, already exhausted. As far as she might have come from her Aeropostale sweatshirts and Forever21 jeans, she sincerely doubted she could ever achieve Myla's poise and flawless style.

Myla pulled Jojo up by the arms. "Because you don't get what it means to do whatever you want. In the back of your head, you're always wondering what people think of you and you get so caught up wondering that you paralyze yourself. Take your whole Barnsley incident. Let's role-play. I'm you, you're Barnsley."

Jojo rolled her eyes, even though she was intrigued. She didn't exactly care what people thought but she did overa.n.a.lyze every little thing. It had taken Jojo sixteen years to figure that out about herself, and Myla had done in it a few weeks. "Do we have to?"

Myla ignored the question. She tottered on her heels until she was an inch away from Jojo. Pretending to be drunk, she cuddled up to Jojo. "Sure, Barnsley, I'll kiss you." She lolled her head onto Jojo's neck, and Jojo cracked up at the impersonation. Myla shot her a don't laugh look. Jojo squashed her lips.

Myla leaned into Jojo, moved her head back and forth like a deranged puppet, and then fake-hurled with a dramatic heaving noise.

Jojo jumped back, just like Barnsley had. The words she couldn't forget came easily. "That f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h puked in my mouth!"

Myla-as-Jojo c.o.c.ked her head to one side, fake-scanning her outfit for wayward puke. Then, she looked into Jojo-Barnsley's eyes, and said, loudly and slowly, like each word was a well-aimed arrow, "Barnsley Toole, you disgusting pig. Your mouth tastes like"-she pondered the bouquet, like she was at a wine tasting-"dead fish. Old blue cheese. And... is that Zima? Thank G.o.d I did everyone the service of putting you out of commission."

Jojo cracked up, falling onto the bed, as Myla prissily dabbed the corners of her mouth with a Kleenex. Then Myla was giggling, flopping down beside Jojo.

"'And... is that Zima?'" Jojo repeated as they caught their breath. Jojo had heard Myla's infectious laugh before. But she'd never expected to see someone as poised as Myla roll around in a fit of giggles with her. It was just like hanging with Willa, her best friend in Sacramento, but Myla was more than that-they were sisters. Jojo suddenly didn't care that the video of her and Barnsley was featured on YouTube. So she'd hurled on a guy. At least she wasn't Barnsley Toole, who would wake up one day and realize how pathetic he actually was.

Jojo sat up on the bed, staring in awe and wonder at Myla, who was dabbing the corners of her eyes. "That was amazing. But do you really think I could pull that off?"

Myla refluffed her hair in the mirror, catching Jojo's eye in the reflection. "You wouldn't be here if I didn't. When you embarra.s.s yourself, think of a way to make it more embarra.s.sing for whoever is messing with you." She slung an arm over Jojo's shoulders, sort of nudging her up. "Remember, it's never you, it's them."

Jojo thought the mantra sounded a little absolute. But now wasn't the time for asking questions. If a magician was revealing how she did her tricks, you just enjoyed the show.

Two hours later, Jojo was ready for a nap. But Myla wasn't finished. "Let's review what you've learned, okay?" Myla sat on her bed, holding up a hand so Jojo would remain standing. "You're at a social function and you've been dancing. It's time for a touch-up. Show me what you do in the bathroom." She held up her iPhone's video camera and turned it on Jojo.

"Um, pee?" Jojo said, waving off Myla's frown. "I'm kidding!" She went to Myla's vanity, sitting in the swiveling plum leather chair in front of the round golden mirror. She fluffed her hair, which Myla had expertly straightened and then tamed into loose curls. She applied a fresh coat of Myla's favorite lip gloss, Philosophy Red Licorice, blotted her nose and cheeks with a piece of rice paper, and pressed the side of her index finger to each of her eyelashes, curling them up slightly. She c.o.c.ked her head over her shoulder to check her backside in the mirror.

Myla nodded enthusiastically. "Good, exactly what I would have done. You don't want to come out with a completely remade face. Now, demonstrate your walk to, say, history cla.s.s."

Jojo picked up the red Balenciaga hobo they'd been practicing with. It was much lighter than the backpack that made her lean to one side like a hunchback. The trick was to only take what she needed for each cla.s.s, instead of carrying everything around all day. She slung the bag easily over her left shoulder, then grabbed Myla's textbook from the desk, carrying it neatly in the crook of her right arm.

Jojo usually walked without thinking about it. Now she put one foot in front of the other, heel to toe, her head up high and her eyes straight ahead. It was a nothing to see here walk, which Myla said showed people they should be more interested in her than she was in them. She didn't even look to Myla for approval as she pa.s.sed at a clip, the bag gracefully swinging at her elbow. For good measure, she strode across the room twice more, only making direct eye contact with the iPhone's video lens at the very end of her strut. She wanted a memento of the cool look on her face.

"Very nice," Myla said. "Now you see why we stop at our lockers before each period. Carrying all your books may be efficient, but efficiency can be the enemy of grace and beauty."

Jojo shook her head, astonished. "How do you know all this stuff?" She wondered if Myla locked herself in the room to practice her walk and her blase expressions. There was no way she'd keep track of all these rules and maneuvers.

Myla made a who, me? face. "Years of practice. But you're a very fast learner. Of course, you're the first one I ever gave lessons to."

Jojo felt herself beam goofily, and then quickly corrected her smile into a Myla-patented satisfied half-smirk. She dropped the bag onto the bed and neatly sat down in one of the chairs. She smoothed down the fluffy full skirt of the red Alexander McQueen cashmere flannel dress Myla had lent her, admiring her Chanel Lotus Rougepolished toenails as they peeked out the top of Myla's Miu Miu open-toe black bow pumps-at least her pedicure had lasted.

Jojo looked at their reflection, sitting in their matching chairs, both with their legs neatly crossed at the ankle. Myla looked exotic, with her tanned gold skin, her gleaming pinup-girl hair, and her candy-heart lips. But it was her own reflection that made Jojo stare. She caught Myla's eye in the mirror. "Can I tell you something? I didn't think this would work." Myla's face remained open, so Jojo pressed on. "But I can't believe it. I didn't think I could look like this... be like this."

Myla shook her head as if to say, "Silly Jojo!" She shrugged. "I knew you could. We're sisters."

Jojo let herself grin in full, looking once more at her polished and perfect self in the mirror. At the modelesque way she posed, hand on hip, one tan leg slightly bent at the knee. At her shoulders, thrown back as if to say, I'm wearing this dress. It is not wearing me. Even her shoulder-length hair had a look at me sheen. The violet eyes staring back at her belonged to a different person. A person just as fabulous, just as L.A., as Myla. Who knew some smoky eye makeup, a quarter-sized dollop of Fekkai glosssing cream, and a little att.i.tude could make her into a whole new person? A person who-though she shared no DNA with her-clearly was Myla Everhart's sister.

DUDE, YOU'RE MY ONLY HOPE Jake stared furtively around Meltdown Comics on Sunset, at the wall of j.a.panese capsule toys, new graphic novels shimmering under the lights, and the posters of buxom superheroines with faces that were simultaneously sneering and seductive. It was an hour before closing on Wednesday night, and even though Jake had vowed to shed all traces of geekdom, Miles had insisted. Besides, he wouldn't exactly run into any other BHH people here.

Eyeing his reflection in a collectibles case, Jake took a deep breath and rattled off one of Tommy Archer's speeches, the one in act two where Kady started to see him as more than a jock. "I know you're not as tough as you look, Lizzie. I've seen you at your softest, when you think no one's around. At the cafe, when you give a little kid extra whipped cream on his cocoa or you share half your sandwich with a homeless woman. I know you, Lizzie Barnett. I know you hide how kind you are under sarcastic comments." He narrowed his eyes in what he hoped was a penetrating stare, picturing Kady-as-Lizzie's face. But in the case's mirrored back wall, his own bug-eyed reflection stared back at him, like Wall-E with a Jewfro.

"Hey, bro! Look what I found! A variant cover of Secret Invasion number one! Sue Storm looks hot!" Miles waved the floppy comic in the air for Jake to see, breaking Jake's concentration.

Jake sighed and picked up a stuffed animal from a half-off bin. He tried to hold the yellow doll like a football. Tommy Archer was a quarterback, and Jake needed the practice.