by Zoey Dean
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-ofparadise 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 class. 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 prickle
passed 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, cocking 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 bitchy--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 massive 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 space 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 shit," 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 Art-style 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 clustered 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
butterfly 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 bitch 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 quantity 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
sho
es!"
Myla pursed her lips dispassionately. "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 shit 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 class 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 Aéropostale 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 overanalyze 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 fakehurled with a dramatic heaving noise.
Jojo jumped back, just like Barnsley had. The words she couldn't forget came easily. "That
fucking bitch puked in my mouth!"
Myla-as-Jojo cocked 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 wellaimed 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
God 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 embarrass yourself, think of a way to make it more embarrassing 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 cocked 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 class."
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 class, 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 passed 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 blasé 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 Rouge-polished 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 attitude 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 Japanese 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 café, when you give a little kid extra whipped cream on his cocoa
