by Zoey Dean
lightly. "Mom and I went shopping. She thought they'd look good on me."
Myla breathed out through her clenched teeth, closing her eyes tightly and hoping that when
she opened them Jojo would be gone, Ash would be waiting for her in her room, and she'd be
wearing the ivory jeans. She opened her eyes. Jojo was smiling at her as though playing Wii in
her room with Ash Gilmour were the most natural thing in the world.
"Did you want to play?" she asked sweetly, holding out the steering wheel.
Myla absently shook her head, processing the direness of the last four days. First, she and Ash
had mutated from three-year golden couple to spiteful exes. Then her parents' bio-kid had
shown up like some perky nightmare. Now, the two forces that had utterly fucked up her life
were laughing together over a Wii game. Myla was not equipped to handle this kind of
mindfuck. Did Ash like her sister now? Had her parents decided their real kid was better than
her?
Myla marched back into her bedroom and grabbed the Rolling Stones T-shirt from its place on
her desk. She'd left it there so it wouldn't mix with her other clothes and erase Ash's scent.
Next to her laptop, she spotted a scissors. Impulsively, she snatched them up. Not even
bothering to look in the mirror, she snipped the green strand out of her hair.
Rolling the tendril of hair in the soft cotton of the shirt, Myla flew back to Jojo's room, where
Ash and Jojo had resumed their game. She flung the balled-up shirt at Ash, hitting him
squarely in the face. His kart careened wildly off the track as locks of Myla's hair fell onto the
arm of the couch.
"I don't need this anymore," she hissed, turning on her bare heels and vanishing as a confused
Ash pulled the shirt away from his face.
She slammed her door and cranked up Superbad to full volume. She needed a good laugh
tonight.
Jojo didn't think it was possible, but Myla Everhart's lower lip had trembled. Actually trembled.
She smiled slightly, barely paying attention as Ash knocked his kart into hers, sending her
Baby Mario flying off a cliff. He bumped his shoulder into hers as his Donkey Kong drifted
around a curve, shooting smoke from the kart's tailpipe.
"Aw, poor Baby Mario fall off a cliff?" he teased in a baby-talk voice.
Jojo laughed. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size?" A cloud character dropped
Baby Mario back onto the track and Jojo accelerated, only to send her kart flying back off the
cliff she'd just returned from.
Ash shook his head, grinning, as he shoulder-nudged her again.
For the first time since she'd landed at Burbank Airport, Jojo didn't feel like some random
cousin from the boonies who was staying at Barbar's house. Lailah had taken her shopping up
and down Robertson Boulevard after school today, telling Jojo she'd look "beautiful" in
whatever she picked out. It was different shopping with a mom than it had been with her dads,
who always looked uneasy hanging out outside the dressing room as Jojo tried things on. Jojo
had been so mesmerized by the amazing boutiques on Robertson that she'd missed her dads'
call from the tundra. She felt bad, since she didn't want to call them back after she and Lailah
got home--it was almost 4 a.m. in Greenland.
Not only had her plan worked, but Ash was totally fun to have around. He'd brought over
carryout sushi from Katsuya and his Wii, and it didn't seem to matter to either of them if Myla
even discovered them hanging out tonight. Of course, the fact that she had gave Jojo a rush like
she'd just scored the game-winning goal.
They wrapped up their race, Ash finishing in fifth and Jojo last, probably from driving on
autopilot. Ash turned to her, his eyes filled with energy. He held up his hand for a high-five,
and Jojo obliged.
"Nice work. I mean, not in that race, because that was the worst driving I've ever seen. Remind
me never to let you drive in Laurel Canyon." Ash tossed his steering wheel on the cushion next
to him, his dark brown eyes laughing. "But before. We really pissed her off. Although . . .
there's green hair all over your couch."
Jojo shrugged. "Whatever. Maybe she'll try to be a little nicer now. I'd feel bad if she kept
cutting off her hair. Though maybe then people would think she has head lice." Jojo smirked.
Ash laughed, and Jojo felt warmth spread through her chest.
"By the way," she added, raising a teasing eyebrow, "way to steal my gossip thunder. I thought
I had it locked with Mormon cults and meth addictions, but then you sweep on in and make it
the Ash show." That Jake guy had totally called it. She'd have to tell him when she bumped
into him again.
Ash cleared his throat and stared at her very seriously. "Yeah, I can't believe you even let me sit
on your couch. You better watch out--next I might get in your bed."
Jojo blushed. She looked away, unable to meet his eyes.
"Holy shit, that sounded dirty." Ash threw his shaggy blond head against the cushion and
laughed.
Jojo giggled too, admiring the way Ash's eyes crinkled when he smiled. He didn't even seem to
care that the whole school was talking about him and saying things that weren't true. How
could he be so cool about everything?
He patted Jojo's arm, leaving his hand resting near her elbow. "Don't worry, though. Myla
deserves this. She's so used to getting her way all the time." Ash shifted on the couch so that he
faced Jojo. "She pretty much has all of our high school on red alert, wrapped around her little
finger, you know?'
Jojo plucked a few long, silken strands of green hair off Ash's shoulder. "Well, it makes
sense."
Ash nodded. "Yeah, she can be pretty scary."
Jojo slapped his arm. "No, I mean, look at her. It's ridiculous how pretty she is. Even
surrounded by other pretty people, she's still the Queen of Hotness." She pursed her lips.
"Sometimes, I wonder if I'm lucky she doesn't like me. If we were friends, I'd always be
comparing myself to her," she said honestly. She'd never felt competitive around Willa, the way
she did around Myla. As much as she resented Myla's bitchiness, in truth, she was just
intimidated. And a little jealous.
Ash leaned back again, turning his head so that he was looking up at Jojo. "Yeah, she's
gorgeous, I'm not going to argue with that. But don't sell yourself short."
"You don't have to lie." Jojo felt herself blush. "I'm cool with it. Some people are just average-they won't make you vomit, but they won't make you faint, either. They're Sacramento. And
some people have so much perfection in one package that it makes sense for the world to
revolve around them. They're L.A. It's just how it is." She shrugged. After five days here,
judging everything L.A. against its Sacramento equivalent, she'd decided it was no use even to
compare them--they were worlds apart.
"Did you actually get knocked in the head with one of those turtle shells?" Ash shot back. He
scooted closer to Jojo on the couch, playfully pulling one of the chopsticks from her hair,
watching it tumble to her shoulders. "Look, you're as cool as any girl at BHH, maybe cooler,
since you beat me at Wii bowling. And you're definitely L.A. Not Sacramento. You're pretty.
Beautiful. Et cetera. Try chanting it in the mirror once in a while. It works for Myla."
Ash's tone was serio
us as he locked eyes with Jojo. Jojo didn't look away. She felt like she
was swimming in his amazing brown-eyed gaze.
As he flipped the chopstick around in his hand, Jojo caught a glimpse of her reflection in the
now-blank television screen. In her lips and eyes, she saw a trace of her mind-blowingly
beautiful mother. And she was good at Wii bowling.
The heat in Jojo's chest expanded and spread throughout her body. Ash Gilmour was her
sister's ex, and the cutest guy at Beverly Hills High.
And he liked Jojo Milford.
CUT HIM SOME SLACKS
Jake took another sip of his second Spanish latte. Urth Caffé was crammed with Angelenos
looking for a late-day caffeine fix. Young mothers fresh out of evening yoga classes queued
together, aligned like disciples behind an alpha mom who bragged about the unstructured play
camp her kids had attended over the summer. A couple near Jake was having a vicious fight in
fakely melodic tones. "I hate your face," the petite brunette girlfriend said, though her inflection
said, I made cookies for you.
Jacob had chosen a table in the corner farthest from the register that overlooked Beverly
Boulevard. Amelie Adams still hadn't shown for their--was it a date? An appointment? A
meeting? Whatever it was, she was half an hour late. He hadn't really wanted a second latte, but
had ordered just so he could keep the table.
Stay cool, he told himself, looking onto Beverly at a trio of Loyola-Marymount girls walking
by in oversize LMU sweatshirts and eating cones from Cold Stone Creamery. His Corolla,
which he'd washed and waxed right after school, was sandwiched between a Mercedes and a
Jaguar, looking as hopeless and awkward as Jake felt.
Jake's phone let out its electronic trill. Agitated by the noise, three miniature poodles wearing
matching polka-dot sweaters started yapping, straining against their leashes. The woman
holding the leash, her diamond white hair in a short pageboy, shot Jacob a dirty look. She
could only muster a half-frown, thanks to brows lifted so much they seemed to float at the
lower edge of her forehead.
Jake's phone issued its standard-issue ringtone once more. He'd wanted to pick a song for his
ringtone, but had feared picking something lame. He grabbed his cell, a no-frills Motorola with
iffy caller ID, off the table before it rang again and permanently destroyed Urth's Zen vibe. The
number came up unavailable. Maybe it was Amelie, calling from down the street to explain
why she was late. He tried to lower his voice as he answered. "Hello?"
"She there yet?" Miles practically screamed into the phone. Jake could hear the sounds of Halo
3 in the background.
"No, Miles." Jake sighed and hung up. It was Miles's second call in five minutes. Last night,
Jake had gone to Miles's house to start working on their honors chemistry project. Jake had
bragged about his date with Amelie, and Miles, who poured himself into every project--he'd
camped out overnight for tickets to the new Batman movie, even though they were available on
Fandango--had been determined to help Jake strategize for his date. Neither he nor Jake had
ever nabbed a yes from the opposite sex, so Miles had taken up the mantle of Jake's dating
coach. He'd even checked out twelve back issues of Details from the Beverly Hills Public
Library. Thanks to his reading, Miles had already commended Jake on inviting Amelie to Urth
Caffé instead of somewhere more generic, like Coffee Bean. He also suggested that Jake scout
the area for good places to go afterward, in case the date went well and she wanted to keep
hanging out. "You need to put a lot of thought into it in advance, but make the suggestion
casually, so that you never seem like you're trying too hard," he'd lectured. Jake was regretting
telling Miles about the date in the first place.
Jake's phone rang again. This time, Miles's number showed on the screen. Jake answered.
"Stop calling!" he hissed into the phone. The barista, a wiry guy with dreadlocks, scowled at
him. Jake had a feeling the guy never gave that kind of dirty look to the CAA agents who
frequented this place with their Bluetooths firmly embedded in their skulls.
Jake hung up. She was forty minutes late now. How much longer should he wait?
An hour later, the coffee shop was mostly empty. The dreadlocked barista wiped down the
counter with cucumber-scented organic cleaner, the fresh smell mingling with the aroma of
ground coffee beans. The romance gods were not smiling on the couple in the corner, either.
Their argument was still taking place in singsongy tones that seemed even more menacing now,
with no sound system or coffee shop din to absorb them.
"I've never respected your work," chirped the girlfriend, cutely twirling a pigtail around her
finger.
"I only liked you for your body," the guy slung back, in a tone reserved for adorable toddlers.
Jake stared at the leaf painted in foam on his latest latte's surface. The douche-y barista had felt
bad for him and had given him a drink on the house. Jake had had three coffees, though, and
now just wished he could use a restroom. He worried if he did, Amelie would arrive while he
was peeing and think he'd left.
What if she'd only looked for him outside? Or thought he told her to meet him at Coffee Bean,
a few blocks away? Jake sighed, rubbing his curly hair in agony.
Then the door chimed, and Jake perked up--it sounded just like Fairy Princess's magical wand
wave. Amelie was finally here. Jake pretended to be fixing his hair, not hanging his head in
sorrow. He looked up at the door, hoping his face didn't betray how excited and eager he was.
Miles stood by the door, wearing his favorite Not a Cylon shirt, shaking his head at Jake. He
looked around the small café, where there were no spots Amelie could have hidden, except
maybe behind a display of free-trade coffee for sale.
"Dude, she's not here," Miles said, pushing his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose. He'd just
ordered a new pair of Giorgio Armani hipster frames after seeing them in Details on some guy
who was dating Natalie Portman.
"I know," Jake said, irritated.
"She in the bathroom?" Miles again craned his neck to look down the hallway, as though he
had X-ray vision and could see through the bathroom doors. Miles was the kind of guy who
wouldn't even think to use X-ray glasses for pornographic purposes--he'd want them just
because they were cool.
Miles scanned Jake from head to toe. "Man, what are you doing?" he said, pulling out a chair
to sit. He pointed at Jake's khakis. "My dad wears pants like those to do taxes in." Jake looked
down, offended. He'd chosen the Dockers because he thought they made his upper body
appear more defined. He'd paired them with Nike running shoes that were a little worn in, and a
bright green polo shirt.
"They're just pants," he protested, as Miles laid claim to the untouched latte. He took a sip that
left a foam mustache.
"According to Details, pants are never just pants, and those are slacks," Miles said, throwing
up his hands. "Chicks like Amelie Adams don't date guys who wear slacks."
Jake narrowed his eyes. "She's not here, remember? How would she have seen what I'm
wearing?"
Miles shook his head. "Maybe she came, saw you standing there in your Midwestern Dad
outfit, and left. What were you wearing when you first met her?"
Jake thought back. "Um, my math camp shirt and jeans. But she thought the shirt was from
Fred Segal."
Miles took a deep, contemplative breath, like he was about to tell a ten-year-old there was no
Santa Claus. "Jake, this is a disaster. All your jeans are sky blue."
Jake was beyond annoyed. What did sky blue jeans have to do with anything? Amelie had
stood him up. Now he wanted to get home before he was locked in the shop overnight. "What
color are jeans supposed to be?"
Miles gestured with his head at the still-arguing couple behind him. "Look at that guy," he said.
"He's in Rogan distressed denim. Fashion jeans. Notice that they are dark, not light, blue,"
Miles lectured. "His girlfriend may hate him, but she can't argue that he's got no style."
Jake looked at the guy's jeans. He guessed they did look cool, especially the way the minutely
frayed bottoms fell over the guy's shoes, a pair of vintage-looking burgundy Pumas.
"See? You need some new clothes," Miles said, looking like he was composing Jake's beforeand-after photo spread for Details. "Fred Segal, Kitson, American Rag. How much do you
have saved from math camp?"
Jake quickly did a mental calculation. Enough to fill up the Corolla forty times over. Or enough
for a wardrobe worthy of Amelie Adams's boyfriend.
The choice was simple.
NIGHT OF THE HUNTER
"Hey, it's Fairy Princess! Can I take my picture with you?" A guy in a white jacket and dark
jeans whose breath reeked of Stella Artois threw an arm over Amelie's shoulder. He'd snapped
a camera phone photo of the two of them before Amelie even knew what was going on.
Kady leaned back in her wide armchair and giggled at the overwhelmed look on Amelie's face.
White, mod-'60s décor was the motif at Area, a nightclub in West Hollywood that was
surprisingly still hot even after being open for a few years. On a dance floor the size of a threecar garage, dancers fought for room to demonstrate their sex appeal to the tune of Duffy's
"Mercy." Sequins and skin were on equal display beneath a ceiling of recessed lights in
rainbow hues.
Kady, Amelie, and their crowd sat in a banquette along the dance floor's outer edge. Similar
seating surrounded the dance area, and every booth was packed. Along the outskirts of the
