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

by Zoey Dean

  oddly protective of Daisy all of a sudden.

  She hopped away from the bar, holding two bottles of Budweiser. "Sorry, they don't have

  anything fancy here," she said, handing one to Ash with an unstudied shrug. She was so

  unposed, so natural about everything, that he kind of got why guys stared. There was

  something about a girl who didn't announce to the world how hot she was. And yet when you

  looked at her, you wanted to keep looking.

  Daisy gestured with her beer bottle to the stage as a pretty girl, with red curls and a short

  flowered babydoll dress, strode out. "This is who I came to see," she whispered to Ash, her

  eyes scanning the singer.

  Ash relaxed as they got settled in a spot by the bar. If babysitting Daisy meant an evening of

  checking out some good live music, he could handle this. It was actually a pretty decent way to

  spend a school night, minus the bar's down-and-out décor.

  The girl picked up a guitar and started to strum a slow and somber medley. "I wrote this when I

  was feeling a little broken," she said. As she began to sing, the guys in the room shifted their

  stares from Daisy to the redhead.

  "You think I'm just a feather in your cap

  Just a pin upon your map

  That I'm just a number, in this urban jungle.

  But when... will... you... realize...

  I... will... cut... you... down... to... size

  You're a lowdown dirty shame

  Promised you'd be different...

  But you're a different kind of same

  Ain't no way you'll get me back

  Not this feather in your cap..."

  "Do you hear this bollocks?" Daisy said, grabbing Ash's forearm more tightly with each word.

  Ash knew the song was one of Daisy's, though her version was a faster rock number, and the

  girl was playing it in a bluesy way. It was a pretty good song. Not that he'd ever tell Daisy that.

  Or Gordon. Still, it was really shitty of the girl to try to claim it as her own.

  "You fucking bitchhole!" Daisy suddenly screamed, the anger morphing her face from stoned

  Raggedy Ann to American Gladiator.

  Before Ash realized what was happening, Daisy ran and lunged at the girl, instantly grabbing a

  fistful of her hair. "Hey," the redhead squealed. She reeled backward and then lashed back,

  grabbing for Daisy's T-shirt. The mic stand toppled, wailing feedback. The mostly male crowd

  watched the girls grab for each other, seeming to do nothing more than yank at each other's hair

  and clothing. A deep voice in back bellowed, "Catfight!" as an excited murmur floated through

  the crowd, like the five-dollar cover charge had just become a great deal.

  "Who do you think you are?" Daisy cried out. "You don't just play my fucking music, my

  fucking heartbreak, like it happened to you, you little, nothing phony!"

  Ash could barely hear the girl's terrified whimper of a reply. He jogged to the stage to break

  them apart just as a giant paw of a hand came down on his shoulder.

  A guy with a bald head and a jet-black goatee towered over Ash. His arms, bared in his

  sleeveless black muscle tee, were huge. "Get her back to whatever methadone clinic she came

  from," he bellowed coldly. "This is my place, and we don't tolerate low-class behavior here.

  These are good people."

  Ash looked at the lascivious stares of the crowd watching Daisy chase the girl around the

  stage, one shoulder of her T-shirt ripped, exposing her red bra strap. "I'm gonna sue you, you

  intellectual property-stealing whore!" shrieked Daisy. In response, the redhead spit at Daisy's

  slippers.

  "Yeah, good people," he said, sarcastically.

  "What did you say, sonny?" Huge Arms said.

  "Nothing. But that's Daisy Morton, and that's her song that girl was singing. She's just

  protecting herself." He sort of got where she was coming from. A cover was one thing.

  Claiming someone's song as your own was another.

  The owner grabbed Ash by the collar, yanked him to the stage, and, with his other giant arm,

  grabbed Daisy around the waist and pulled her down from the stage.

  He stomped, still dragging Ash and carrying Daisy, to the door. "Stay the fuck out," he said,

  kicking the door open with his combat boot. He dropped Daisy onto the sidewalk and shoved

  Ash so hard he almost landed in the middle of Highland.

  Daisy instantly sprang up, almost gleeful. Slinging an arm around Ash, she leaned her head on

  his shoulder and guided him across the street. "I bet you've never been treated like a common

  nobody before, eh, Mr. Bigshot?" She burst out laughing, her tiny frame quaking against his

  side. The vibrato of Daisy's giggle almost tickled, and soon Ash was cracking up, too. The

  tourists taking pictures along the Walk of Fame stopped and stared, whispering, "Is that Daisy

  Morton?"

  Before the crowd could descend on Daisy for autographs and photos, she took Ash's hand and

  broke into a run, zipping through the throngs to his Camaro. They finally caught their breath as

  he started the car.

  "I hope I didn't ruin your evening," Daisy said, smirking, her gray eyes still twinkling.

  Ash shook his head. It wasn't the night he'd planned, but Daisy Morton was definitely more

  interesting than pizza.

  CHECK, MATE

  "'We are the champions, my friend....'" Miles tried to mimic Freddie Mercury, as he swayed in

  the passenger seat of Jake's Corolla. "'We'll keep on fighting till the end....'"

  Jake lowered the volume on the Queen tape. The Corolla's stereo wasn't exactly modern, and he

  and Miles only had about three cassette tapes that they could play in the car without seeming

  like two guys in a musical time machine. Miles had unearthed Queen, Tom Petty, and Billy Idol

  from his dad's collection. Jake had hidden the shoe box his mom had given him of her old

  favorites: Duran Duran, Air Supply, and Flock of Seagulls.

  "Dude, why are you turning that off? We are the champions, my friend!" Miles hadn't stopped

  grinning from ear to ear the whole ride to school. "I'm not trying to ride on your coattails, but I

  am totally riding on your coattails. This is the best thing that ever happened to us."

  Jake drained his Starbucks cup as he made a sloppy left turn. He was exhausted after a long

  weekend of filming. This movie star-high school student dual role was taking its toll. His mom,

  Gigi, had treated the news of his Class Angel role with the same kind of horror she'd shown in

  fifth grade when Jake had come home with Twinkie, the classroom's pet rat, to take care of for

  the summer. She'd wanted him to quit immediately, and had only reluctantly come around when

  Jake had played the Don't you want me to be happy? card. But Jake could only stay Tommy

  Archer if he kept his grades up. So whenever he wasn't shooting, he was trying to cram in

  assignments for his classes, and it seemed like he was always shooting, or reciting and rereciting his lines in hopes of not making a total ass of himself. He hadn't slept for more than

  four hours a night, and his body felt leaden. And Miles, in hyper-enthusiasm mode, wasn't

  making it any easier.

  "Maybe," Jake finally answered, pulling into the BHH parking lot behind a pink Range Rover.

  "But I won't be a student here much longer if I don't finish my homework. I was up till three

  last night working on that Golden Gate Bridge case study for physics. My paper's a half-page

  short. And calc, I'm be
hind. English, I haven't started Crime and Punishment. Or that essay on

  health care as a right or a responsibility for civics."

  Jake parked in his usual spot, his whole body weak just from thinking about his to-do list.

  Miles grabbed his backpack and Jake's, hefting one on each shoulder. "I got it, dude."

  "Thanks, Miles," Jake muttered, not even remotely concerned about being teased for Miles

  carrying his bag. What, was Rod Stegerson gonna say they were gay lovers? Big deal.

  "So, okay," Miles said, his voice in battle-plan pitch. "You've got physic, calc, English, civics.

  I can help. I'll talk to your teachers for you. Get you extra time. I'll tell them I'll get them on the

  AV squad priority list for equipment." BHH teachers frequently fought over the school's flatscreens, to show their classes high-definition documentaries.

  Jake grimaced. "What priority list?"

  "Exactly," Miles said, nodding assuredly, like a politician selling a fiscal plan the public didn't

  understand. "AV has keys even teachers don't get; they'll believe whatever I tell them. Think of

  me as your personal manager. What else do you need?"

  Jake grinned. It was a goofy plan, pure Miles. No way would Jake make his best friend some

  servant/errand boy. But at least he could help with the homework situation. Priority list?

  Classic.

  "Dude, just talk to the teachers, that would be awesome," Jake said. "I have to hurry if I'm

  going to make physics between scenes. First, let's stop by the production trailer for my check."

  Miles's eyes widened. "Sweet. The inner sanctum."

  Class Angel's production trailer was at the edge of the school's courtyard, a site long ago

  claimed by the coolest kids at BHH. Jake and Miles normally had no occasion to walk through

  it. The courtyard, a sunny, red-bricked area surrounded by benches, a low stone wall, and an

  array of rosebushes in the school colors, red and white, was like a micro-paradise where Jake

  wouldn't have been shocked to see Greek gods lounging as loincloth-clad women fed them

  grapes.

  Today, it thrummed with people who were not BHH students. It was payday, and the hundreds

  of workers it took to film even a midlevel-budget movie had come out of the woodwork. Jake

  knew he'd be getting something for his part, but he wasn't exactly sure what.

  The trailer was long and white, like the actors' trailers, but instead of being a metal box, it had a

  long row of windows along one side. He could see Kady Parker inside, talking to the line

  producer, as the woman handed her an envelope. Jake felt a nervous tingle rush through his

  body. He hadn't talked to Kady since before yesterday's scene, when he'd told her about his

  fake ACL injury. Miles knew about his What Would Justin Klatch Do? mantra, but not the lie,

  and now he prayed silently that Miles wouldn't blow his cover.

  Jake clattered up the steps and into the trailer. Kady stood near the Arrowhead water cooler,

  chatting with a PA about the new David Fincher movie.

  Jake cleared his throat. "I'm here to pick up my check, um, Lorraine."

  Miles extended his hand. "Lorraine, it's a pleasure. Miles Abelson, Jake's manager."

  Lorraine eyed Miles, who was straining under the weight of two filled-to-brimming backpacks,

  but didn't laugh. "Nice to meet you," She pulled an envelope from her stack. "Should I give this

  to you, or to your manager?" she said, looking back at Jake.

  Jake was about to say she could hand it to him, since the Miles-as-assistant thing was just a

  joke. But Miles spoke first. "I'll take care of it," he said, all business, politely taking the check

  and nodding to Lorraine. He turned and tore it open, and Jake could read it over Miles's

  shoulder.

  Ten thousand dollars?

  Ten. Thousand. Dollars!

  "Holy crap," Miles said with hushed reverence as they moved to an empty corner of the trailer.

  "This is a lot of money. This is lease-an-Escalade money."

  Jake chuckled. Yeah, right. If most of that money didn't go directly into his college savings

  account, his mom would have a fit. He didn't want to say that here, though. And he couldn't

  stay much longer. He had to get to physics in five minutes. There was a break in filming as the

  crew erected a pep rally set, so he was going to try to squeeze in a class. It would help his case

  when Miles went to speak to the teachers.

  Jake was about to grab Miles to leave when a petite hand tapped him on the shoulder. Jake

  turned and saw Kady behind him, wearing a silky blue tank top that brought out her

  otherworldly eyes.

  "Nice pass last night, Jake," she said, her hand still on Jake's arm. "Or should I call you Tom

  Brady?"

  "He's good, right?" Miles said, introducing himself to Kady. Jake wanted to leave the trailer

  immediately, before Miles revealed something embarrassing, like the fact that Jake previously

  couldn't even get a spot as a water boy on BHH's team.

  "I'll say," Kady said, her eyes never leaving Jake. "Were you and Miles just talking about

  leasing an Escalade?" She was regarding Jake like he was captain of the football team,

  Hollywood heartthrob, and all-around stud combined into one wild-haired-but-muscular

  Jewish package.

  "Well, yeah," Jake said, the words barely controlled by his brain. "Fully loaded, right?" He

  grinned at Miles, Justin Klatch style.

  Miles took the bait. "You got it."

  Kady raised one eyebrow sexily at Jake, nodding goodbye to Miles. "Can't wait to see it." She

  headed to the exit. As she unlatched the metal door, she turned back, winking at Jake. "Maybe

  you could give me a ride sometime."

  Miles let out a long, low breath as he watched her hop down the trailer steps in her rhinestone

  flip-flops and purple pleated miniskirt. "Jake, that was badass. She got any friends?"

  "I'll let you know." Jake grinned, feeling more victorious than he ever had as a champion

  Mathlete. So, fine, he hadn't had much experience with "badass" anything up until now. But if

  he wasn't mistaken, right now he was the definition of the word.

  And badasses didn't worry about being late for physics.

  YOU SAY IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY?

  Ash rolled his Camaro into the driveway of his house on Bedford Drive, just as KROQ started

  to play Cracker's "Happy Birthday to Me."

  Fucking mockery.

  It was Ash's birthday, not that anyone would know it. He was completely pathetic. Fine, so his

  mom had remembered, calling him this morning. Her present had arrived last week--an openended ticket to Austin so he could come down whenever he wanted and get a new amp for his

  guitar. His sister had mailed him her usual gift, books, including a she-hoped-it-was-subtlebut-it-wasn't self-help book titled Damn the Man: A Four-Step Conflict Resolution Guide for

  Fathers and Sons.

  Damn the man was right. Gordon hadn't called to wish him a good birthday, or uttered so much

  as a thank-you, even though Ash had been tossed on his ass out of a shitty dive bar. If he knew

  about it--Daisy's ejection from Powerhouse hadn't made any blogs--Gordon would probably

  revel in it. It would be a great story to tell at cocktail parties; he'd cap it with, "That's just life in

  the music business." Admittedly, it was kind of funny, and Ash had recounted it several times

  over the weekend to Tucker and Geoff.

  Ash stepped onto the driveway, pulling his iPhone from his pocket as he did. Myla had sent a

>   text. Happy Birthday, Ash. I wish a lot of things for you. Love, M. P.S. Remember, you're

  always invited for dinner.

  That Myla had remembered--and bothered to do something about it--only added to the sting.

  Even his best friends had forgotten. Tucker and Geoff had invited him to Zuma today to hit the

  surf, but it wasn't a birthday thing, it was a we do this every day thing. In years past, they'd

  remembered--as had everyone else he hung with at BHH--because Myla had made them

  remember. For his sixteenth birthday last year, Myla had rented out four cabins at Big Bear,

  and paid for two days of skiing for Ash and all their friends. And she always made him a card,

  complete with glitter and stickers, which sounded cheesy, but wasn't. Myla had a crafty side

  she rarely showed. More than any gift or party, the fact that she risked her manicure to glue

  hundreds of sparkly hearts to construction paper always made his birthday a reminder of how

  much she loved him.

  Ash heard the squeak of brakes in the Porter-Goldsmiths' driveway next door and he looked up

  to see Jake pulling up in his Corolla. He'd been meaning to congratulate Jake on his part in

  Class Angel, and say something to his childhood best friend about his awesome "game."

  Jake emerged from his pastel blue Corolla looking a lot different than the scrawny, bruiseprone kid Ash had traded Pokémon cards with. He looked like someone Ash would hang out

  with now. Even his crazy mop of curls resembled a style Geoff had tried and failed to achieve.

  Ash nodded across the driveway, stepping onto the swath of grass that separated their yards.

  "Hey, Jake," he said, feeling awkward. "Congrats on the movie."

  Jake grinned widely, making Ash glad he'd paid the compliment. He'd never intended for his

  best-friend status with Jake to morph to them not talking at all, but the more they drifted, the

  less they spoke.

  "Thanks, Ash," Jake said, grabbing his backpack from the passenger seat. He took a few steps

  toward his house, then raised his eyebrows. "Oh, and hey, it's your birthday, right?"

  Ash squinted at him. "Yeah, it is. How'd you remember?"

  Jake looked down at his Converse. Just when his old friend might start to think he was unlame,

  Jake had to do something as girly as remember Ash's birthday. "Just good with numbers, you

  know? But happy birthday." He shrugged nonchalantly and looked up to see Ash grinning in