The A-List: Hollywood Royalty #1

by Zoey Dean

took a step forward, planting air kisses on Myla's bronzed cheeks.

  "Thank God you're back," the brunette said. "We have so much catching up to do, Miss Savethe-World."

  "You look hot," the ponytailed girl put in, clearly comparing her pleated Nina Ricci skirt to

  Myla's plaid number. The long-legged blonde nodded enthusiastically, her sapphire earrings

  swinging.

  "Billie, Talia, Fortune. I missed you guys," Myla said blithely.

  The trio paused and looked toward Jojo, who suddenly felt like she was wearing sewn-together

  toilet seat covers.

  Then the brunette--Talia, it must have been--widened her eyes. "Oh my God," she said,

  understanding washing over her face. "I just got the TMZ blast. You're Myla's new--"

  "She's nobody," Myla snapped, checking her mile-long eyelashes in the mirror of her Chanel

  compact. She closed it with a click, and Jojo's stomach tightened. Huh?

  Talia leapt back as though Myla had just announced Jojo's battle with leprosy.

  Myla eyed Jojo's flats. "I hope those shoes are comfortable," she said coolly. "Because if you

  don't meet me out front at three sharp, you'll be walking home in them."

  At that, Myla, Billie, Talia, and Fortune turned toward the foyer of Beverly Hills High and

  walked away.

  Jojo stood there stupidly, feeling like she'd been punched in the gut. Myla wasn't excited to

  have a sister her age, and it was not going to be one big sleepover. She was faking it for the

  paparazzi and wanted nothing to do with Jojo.

  She watched as a set of caramel-haired twins--whom she recognized from the School of

  Scandal billboards--scuttled up to Myla. Myla muttered something to them, and the three girls

  looked in Jojo's direction and laughed.

  Jojo felt like she was having an out-of-body experience, watching herself look out on the green

  lawn that had seemed so promising minutes before. A group of girls clad in head-to-toe pink

  looked Jojo over, their glossy lips curled in haughty sneers. Guys in red-and-black BHH

  hoodies passed Jojo with curious stares. Even a trio of Babylon 5 T-shirt-wearing nerds looked

  down at their shoes as they dragged their bulging backpacks past her.

  Right now, Willa was probably with the rest of the girls' soccer team, trash-talking-slashflirting with the boys' team about the Battle of the Sexes game scheduled for Spirit Week. And

  Jojo . . . was completely alone.

  Not to mention wearing BHH's official REJECT stamp on her forehead. Courtesy of her dear

  sister.

  JANE DOE

  Jacob Porter-Goldsmith--no, Jake--fought back a sigh as he yanked open the door to the

  Beverly Hills High tutoring office after school.

  "Yo, PG," bellowed the familiar voice of Rod Stegerson, a senior football player, behind him.

  Jake turned and caught a balled-up piece of paper as it flew at his head. Good reflexes aside,

  today hadn't gone at all how he'd planned. Jake was, as Rod had just affirmed, still PG. Okay,

  so Molly Marcheesi from advanced calc had practically hyperventilated at the sight of his math

  camp folder. Unfortunately, girls who wore I Heart Parabolas T-shirts weren't the kind he

  was hoping to get all hot and bothered. He wanted the Mylas and Minas and girls with other

  sexy and impossible names to check out his hip, out-of-control hair, to notice the way his green

  athletic-cut tee brought out the flecks of green in his hazel eyes. What more bait did he need?

  Entering the tutoring office, he noticed the cute student aide manning the desk. She was tiny,

  with wavy dishwater blond hair.

  He mustered his coolest "what's up?" nod, and the cute girl half-smiled. All right. Better. He

  approached the counter, half leaning on it so that his biceps looked bigger.

  "Hi," he finally said, dismissing all the funny lines in his head as lame. "I'm Jake."

  The girl stood up. "Kate." She smiled, a full-on encouraging smile. Her eyes were brown and

  she wore a big heart medallion that dipped into the V of her thin white cotton T-shirt.

  "Jacob Porter-Goldsmith, as I live and breathe." The nasally voice of Phyllis Steinman, the

  ancient tutoring office secretary, cut in. She appeared beside Kate from the adjoining office.

  "My God, when'd you grow so much? What on earth were they feeding you at that math

  camp?"

  Jake's stomach tightened. Phyllis attended his father's synagogue and therefore treated Jake like

  a long-lost nephew.

  "Kate, you should have seen him last year, all skin and bone and so awkward, let me tell you,"

  Phyllis continued, placing a knotted hand on Kate's shoulder. Kate instantly shifted her eyes

  away from him and nodded politely at Phyllis.

  "Now he's a--what do you kids say? A hunk." She beamed. "A hunk!"

  Jake prayed for an earthquake so he'd have an excuse to run.

  "And he's a real catch!" Phyllis skittered behind the counter, opening a file cabinet. "A math

  tutor. A real brain. And he's never had a girlfriend. I still need him to meet my niece Shana."

  Kate nodded again, and began restacking the file folders spread on her desk, lingering over a

  copy of the cafeteria menu like it contained must-read school gossip.

  Jake stood wordlessly as Phyllis continued her search. He read every motivational poster in the

  room, willing himself not to turn red with embarrassment, and to "hang in there," like the little

  white kitten suspended from a clothesline. Finally, Phyllis produced Jake's folder and slid it to

  him. "Here you go, bubbeleh, your tutoring assignment." She winked. "Go get 'em, tiger."

  "Thanks, Mrs. Steinman," he said, taking the file and backing out of the office. Kate didn't so

  much as look up.

  Jake waited until he was safely in the Corolla to open his file. He had to meet his tutee, Jane

  Doe, in Culver City in forty-five minutes. He looked again at the name printed in twelve-point

  Courier font. Jane Doe? Weird.

  When Jake approached the address on his tutor sheet, he almost called to see if there'd been a

  mistake. The only thing around for blocks on this stretch of Venice Boulevard was

  Transnational Pictures. He pulled into the main drive, stopping at the security hut. A grufflooking guy in his mid-forties turned on his stool, looking down at Jake. "Name and who

  you're here to see," he said boredly.

  "Sorry, man," Jake said, handing him his papers. "I'm a tutor and I'm wondering if maybe I'm

  reading this address wrong."

  "We get lots of tutors." The guard's name tag read ED. He checked Jake's paper and grabbed an

  adhesive badge off the desk. JACOB PORTER-GOLDSMITH was printed beneath the

  Transnational logo. "You're going to follow Jackson Sharpe Drive all the way to the end. Look

  for Soundstage 8 and park on the east end. One of the crew will take you to the trailer."

  Ah, Jake thought. Kid star, he should have known. That explained the "Jane Doe." It was

  probably Abigail Breslin, or one of the Fanning sisters, who sort of creeped Jake out. Kid

  actors were known to be tutoring nightmares--often they were too young to have personal

  assistants, so they treated their tutors like servants. His friend Miles had tutored an eleven-yearold actor from Hannah Montana in biology last year, and the kid had made Miles get him

  decaf, extra-foam lattes, pick up his dry cleaning, and plan dates for him and his twelve-yearold girlfriend.

  "Thanks." Jake took the badge and slowly steered the Corolla down the drive, abutted on both

  sides by Transnational soundstages
. Construction crews were packing up for the day, pulling

  the giant sliding doors closed. He caught a glimpse of a giant moon-rock formation, activating

  his Nerd Alert, but pushed curiosity from his mind.

  At Soundstage 8, he pulled in behind an old Thunderbird convertible. Five identical trailers

  were lined up in a parking lot across Ben Hur Boulevard. He got out of the car, looking around

  to see if the promised crew person would lead him to the right trailer. No one was in sight.

  He sighed, reaching in for his worksheets, flash cards, and Sum of Us guide. From the

  cupholder, he grabbed the half-empty Starbucks he'd drunk on the way to school that morning.

  Hands now full, Jake turned and crashed directly into something. Someone. A guy about a

  head taller than him. The cold latte exploded all over the front of his shirt.

  "Oh, man, I'm sorry," the big guy said, grabbing Jacob's stack of papers and producing a grimy

  rag from his back pocket.

  Jake dabbed fruitlessly at his soaked shirt. "It's no big deal," he said. "I have another shirt."

  He did have another shirt. A shirt from math camp. Complete with a Star of David and the

  words Everyone Loves a Math Mensch. It wasn't exactly stylish, but it was better than a huge

  coffee stain.

  Jake took the shirt from his trunk and pulled off the soaked green tee. "You're the tutor, right?"

  the guy asked. Jake nodded as he pulled the fresh shirt over his head. At least it smelled clean.

  "Second trailer from the left. She's expecting you."

  Jake sighed, making his way to the door of the trailer. He knocked and stood there for a few

  seconds, feeling like a creepy stalker, even though he didn't know who he was stalking.

  Finally, the door opened. It took him a second to realize he was face-to-face with Fairy

  Princess.

  Make that Amelie Adams, wearing skimpy red cotton gym shorts that clung to her curves and a

  tight white tank top. She blew back a strand of fiery hair that fell from a loose ponytail at the

  nape of her neck. As Fairy Princess she was cute, like a girl next door who really liked playing

  dress-up. But as regular Amelie, in the door of her trailer, wearing very little . . . she was just

  plain hot.

  He held a hand out for Amelie to shake, holding his folders and study materials over the Star of

  David on his T-shirt. "I'm Jake Porter-Goldsmith, with Sum of Us," he said, deciding to be all

  business. It was better than trying to be funny and failing.

  "I'm Amelie Adams," she said, her small hand folding around his. She stepped back from the

  door into her minimalist trailer. In the center of the floor was a daisy-print yoga mat, and near

  the other end, two chairs were tucked into a small round table piled high with novels and

  scripts. "Sorry about the mess," she said sheepishly. "I was just going through some stuff my

  agent sent over." She hefted the pile of books and papers from the table to the floor, gesturing

  for Jake to sit.

  He had no choice but to put his tutoring materials on the table, revealing the full nerd quotient

  of his outfit. Amelie retrieved bottles of Fiji water from a Styrofoam cooler and placed them in

  the center of the table. "The fridge conked out today," she explained, gesturing to the small

  kitchenette. She sat across from him, her blue eyes falling on his shirt. She giggled. Great,

  Jacob thought, nervously twisting open his water. She's laughing at me already.

  "Cool shirt," she said, reaching across the table to read the Math Mensch slogan in full. "I

  haven't seen that one yet."

  "It's, um, I got it this summer." Jake didn't think he'd ever been this close to a girl before. At

  least not one this beautiful. Amelie could easily play Red Sonja--a crappy comic, but it featured

  a hot chick. Jake hid it between his copies of Hellboy and Sandman.

  She let go, her face forming a frown. "I guess it's been a while since I hit Fred Segal."

  Fred Segal? That was where all the kids with black Amex cards bought their two-hundreddollar jeans and ninety-dollar ... T-shirts. Ohhh. Amelie Adams thought the shirt was ironic.

  And that he was cool enough to shop there. Jake felt relief wash over him.

  "I guess so," he managed, flipping open his binder of geometry exercises. "Why don't we get

  started?" he said coolly--like sitting across from a superstarlet was just another day in the life of

  Jacob, make that Jake, Porter-Goldsmith.

  WHAT'S MINE IS MINE

  "So you're really, truly over?" Talia Montgomery looked sideways at Myla from her perch on

  the wall surrounding the Beverly Hills High courtyard. Magnolia trees cast shady relief from

  the warm late afternoon sun, and a breeze off the Pacific wafted through the open area,

  spreading the scent of red-and-white Double Delight roses from a garden planted as a gift from

  the class of '02. Talia cocked her head expectantly, her dark Katie Holmes-circa '07 bob fanning

  over her lightly freckled skin.

  Myla paced in front of her, the heels of her soft cream boots clicking against the courtyard's

  brick paving stones. It was Monday after school, and their entire clique of girlfriends was

  eyeing her expectantly. Finally she nodded, clutching her Moleskine primly to her chest.

  "Does this mean I won't be your maid of honor anymore?" Talia's glossy lips turned

  downwards in a practiced frown. She'd been planning Myla's wedding for a year.

  Myla scowled at her best friend. Talia's dark hair had picked up some brassiness from the

  summer sun, Myla noticed. She needed some lowlights, and maybe a trim. Myla would tell her

  later on, in private. "Just because there's no Ash doesn't mean I'll never get married."

  "You never know--new guy, new friends," piped up Fortune Weathers. She flicked her

  ponytail, which was curled like she was headed for a '50s sock hop. She was Talia's next-door

  neighbor and competed with Talia for everything, most of all Myla's friendship. Fortune's

  parents traveled a lot, to find unique clothing and houseware lines for their five international

  boutiques, Weathers or Not. They rarely minded if Fortune had friends over while they were

  away, even if "friends" meant half of BHH's student body. The good half.

  "Are you sure you guys won't make up?" squeaked Billie Bollman, an all-legs blond with a

  perfect GPA but no common sense. Billie shook her long, shiny locks, the champagne waves

  tumbling over her last-season Theory jumper. Her father's company was responsible for one of

  downtown's only successful condominium developments, and Billie had inherited some of her

  dad's cautiousness when it came to money.

  "Not a chance," Myla said, even though she knew it was only a matter of time before Ash came

  to his senses.

  Now if only she could do something about Jojo. This morning, her parents had practically

  spoon-fed Jojo breakfast while Myla barely got a "good morning." Faking a stomach bug,

  she'd even gone to bed early the night before. Barkley and Lailah had only checked on her

  once. And then there was Jojo herself. Myla had seen the hopeful glint in Jojo's eye when she

  thought she was about to be introduced to Talia, Billie, and Fortune this morning. Wasn't it

  enough that she was the shiny new apple of their parents' eye? Myla didn't feel like sharing her

  friends, too. And she didn't have time to make nice with Jojo. She had, however, taken a few

  minutes to begin several choice rumors about her new sister. Everyone else had
to deal with

  Advanced Gossip as a BHH graduation requirement, so why not Jojo? Hopefully she'd go

  Sacramental and leave.

  With her work done on the Jojo front, Myla was now concentrating on more important affairs:

  pushing forward with her and Ash's "breakup" so he'd eventually see how serious this was,

  and ask for her forgiveness. Earlier today, she'd told him they needed to divide their assets:

  their friends. For their first two years at BHH, Myla and Ash's reign as golden couple had

  meant that they'd collected a circle of friends best described as "anyone who was anyone."

  Their group included children of top-tier actors, actresses, directors; the sons and daughters of

  the West Side's best agents, talent managers, producers, and executives; and basically anyone

  else with a good gene pool and the financial wherewithal to run up an all-night bottle service

  tab at Bar Marmont.

  Now it was time to split them down the middle. Myla was nothing if not fair.

  Of course, Ash was late. And Myla was getting annoyed. Their pseudo-breakup arrangement

  wasn't going according to her plan. She'd expected new groups to form with mixes of guys and

  girls. But instead, she just saw the makings of a classic boys-versus-girls battle, like

  kindergartners at recess. On her side of the courtyard were Talia, Fortune, Billie, and the Lacey

  twins, Moira and Deven--whose egos alone could have filled the Hollywood Bowl since they'd

  landed parts on School of Scandal. On the other side of the courtyard, lazing around like a

  photo spread for Men's Vogue, a cluster of BHH guys awaited Ash's arrival, hunched and

  posed in expensive nonchalance.

  In her Moleskine, she'd listed some of the male student body she wanted to claim in her and

  Ash's "divorce." But Dirk Sommerfeld, Julius Grand, and Simon Todd were all huddled on

  Ash's side, not even paying her any attention.

  Myla cat-stretched sexily in her short plaid skirt and tall boots. She hoped Ash's lame burnout

  buddies, like that horndog Geoff Schaffer and girl-crazy Tucker Swanson, would take a good

  long look and inform Ash of all he was missing.

  She started to reach for her gold chain, the Green Lantern ring hidden beneath her blouse,

  before she caught herself. She didn't want Ash to know she still had it on, and she couldn't let