The A-List: Hollywood Royalty #2: Sunset Boulevard

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